Page 45 of Blood Bond

“And Lucius?” Donovan asks.

Amy shakes her head again. “Nothing on him yet. But the aide will know something, I’m sure.”

“There you go, Amelia,” Donovan says with a hint of satisfaction. “I’ve got you a new toy to play with already.”

“You’re delegating the dirty work to me?” Amelia says. “Getting the information, you can’t?”

“I’m assigning you a task you excel in. Do you want it, or should I send in Marcus?”

Her wicked grin says it all. “I’ll do it. Do you want him alive?”

Donovan pauses, then shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s not important.”

“You’re such a narcissist, Donovan Hayden,” Amelia almost purrs.

“And that’s precisely why you’re here. Now go. Play. Have some fun. Show our other guests at the camp what happens if they don't start cooperating with me. And in the meantime, find out what that useless human is doing.”

“I saw Jonathon on my way in. He’s got some kind of meeting.”

Amelia hasn’t gone yet. She’s at Nico again. “I don’t know why you keep that fool around. If you just ended him …”

“It’s more fun this way.”

ChapterThirty-Five

The night stretches on endlessly, each minute lingering longer than the last. I sit on the floor in the lounge, keeping the fire lit. Elena taught me the art of fire-making, a task less daunting than I expected. With a supply of kindling at my side, I feed the flames, maintaining their comforting warmth. The fire's glow brings back memories of Christmas trips with my parents to a cabin in the Lake District, a time when the world was untouched by current turmoil.

Back then, we imagined this decade would bring advancements. For some, it has, but humanity faces a starkly different reality—a world battered and bruised.

In that cabin, we had a coal fire. My mother and I would lug in sacks of coal.We’d curl up in front of it, the TV's flickering light dancing across our faces as we sang along to familiar tunes. Those memories are bittersweet; my mother's absence leaves a void, and thoughts of my father stir emotions I'm not ready to confront.

Elena keeps me occupied, guiding me through the process of grinding herbs, meticulously filling small bags and jars. Each one gets a label and a precise weighing. She's in the kitchen, engaged in a concoction of her own, something beyond ordinary cuisine. Tasha lounges on the sofa, her hand rhythmically moving over a pad, the strokes suggesting she's sketching rather than writing.

Elena has chosen to keep Layla separate from me, perhaps intentionally. Our glances inadvertently meet, reigniting the haunting memory of that alley scene—Layla's transformation by Seth and the horrors that followed.

Tasha's voice slices through the room's quietude. "So, are you a freak or what?" Her tone is casual, her focus unbroken on her drawing, not even glancing up at me.

I halt and fix Tasha with a stare. "I'm not a freak."

"Layla said you saw her transformation. That you read her mind."

"It's not like that." Or is it? Doubt creeps in. I'm unsure. I see things, yes, but what does that mean? I try to focus on the herbs, grinding them more intently and ignoring Tasha. It doesn’t matter so much.

The soundof the mortar and pestle fills the room, a welcome distraction from my spiralling thoughts and Tasha's unsettling question. Am I a freak? The thought troubles me, echoing a fear deep inside. Did my father see something in me that he despised?

"Why don't you like me?" I blurt out. It's not just her; it's been others too, in the death bringers' compound.

"I do like you," Tasha replies, her tone casual, almost indifferent.

"No, you don't. You've been against me since we first met."

Tasha's pencil halts, and she finally looks at me, her expression briefly revealing something enigmatic before she hides it behind a guarded facade. "And what makes you think that, Payton?"

I try to steady my trembling hands, still grinding herbs. "It's in the way you look at me, how you avoid me. It feels like jealousy." I regret the words as soon as they're out, but it's too late.

"Jealous? Don't flatter yourself," Tasha retorts sharply, leaning back and folding her arms defensively. "I'm not jealous of anything."

I lower my head, seeking refuge in silence. Picking another pot of herbs, I begin stripping the dried leaves, dropping them into the mortar. But Tasha's gaze burns into me, unsettling and intense.

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