Page 56 of Black Castle

She knew it was bad. Just not this horrific to look at.

Following the same procedure she did for her lip, she covers the now cleaned and treated inflammation with a bandaid.

In five days, the wound will heal. Both of them. It will become nothing but a faint scar. Or it may not even scar at all.

That’s the good thing about her physical scars—except for most of the ones on her back. The whips the exorcists used on her were truly brought from hell itself. The scars never healed. But Isadora’s horse whip doesn’t usually scar for long. Just a few weeks and it will be gone. They always erase with time.

But the other scars? The one buried deep? The one no one sees?

They don’t heal. Instead, they are rotting inside her at the moment, feeding on whatever is left of her soul.

And she knows, deep down she knows.

They will never go away. Even if she successfully escapes from Isadora’s clutches. The scars will follow her, even to the grave.

“Are you preparing the chicken or are you reflecting on your pathetic life in front of the mirror you foolish girl?!”

Vivienne takes in a sharp breath.

Her entire body is sore. All she wants to do is lay down a bit. But she won’t be doing that. Because if she does, Isadora will come back.

With a horse whip.

The Mirror

Zev/Lucan

“You look like shit,” Zev muses, flicking open his zippo and igniting the cigarette fixed between his lips. The flame casts a flickering shadow against his face, carving out the edges of his grin.

He exhales a slow plume of smoke, watching his brother, Luan through the curling tendrils.

Lucan doesn’t respond right away. His eyes—dark, rimmed with exhaustion—remain fixed on Zev from across the dimly lit room whose only light comes from the guard tower outside, its glow barely seeping through the glass balcony doors.

Shadows pull in the corners, thick like oil, pressing in.

“I know,” Lucan finally murmurs, voice raw, drained.

Zev shifts against the leather couch, stretching his limbs with lazy amusement, the cigarette still clenched between his lips. “Give me control.” Another exhale of smoke, deliberate, taunting. He knows how much Lucan hates the scent, the way it seeps into everything, suffocating.

“No.” Lucan’s answer is curt and clipped.

Zev’s jaw tenses. “At this rate, you’re going to work yourself to death.”

Lucan drags a hand down his face, the weight of exhaustion clinging to him like wet clothes. “Wouldn’t be such a bad idea to die.”

Zev stills at the careless way his brother is throwing around the idea of dying. The smile on his face fades, but only slightly.

“Well, I do not desire to die.” Something bitter and curdled festers beneath Zev’s voice. “Because of you, I’ve barely even lived.”

Lucan doesn’t argue. Because it’s true. He’s the reason Zev exists only in the periphery, a phantom caged inside his mind. If not for him, Zev would have been born whole—with his own flesh, his own body, his own will. Instead, he is trapped, a parasite without a host, a shadow without a shape of its own.

“What are you afraid of, brother?” Zev asks. “That you’d rather work yourself to the brink than let me out for a moment?”

Lucan lifts his gaze to his brother, something cold flickering in it. “You.” A pause. Then, quieter, but heavy with meaning. “Because the moment you sensed her, you saw a prey. And she’s no prey, Zev. She’s not a game for you to hunt, not another body for you to carve into. I won’t let you touch her. She’s not yours.”

Zev’s smile vanishes entirely, his jaw pulled taut.

Her.

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