Page 32 of Traithorn

To my fate in hell, I’m sure.

Chapter 13

MORBID DEATH

The Hunter

Psychopathy is characterized bya lack of empathy, conscience, guilt, or refusal to accept responsibility for one’s actions. I’ve long been told that word fits me, but I don’t believe that is the case.

I do feel empathy, just not the kind that a normal human would expect. I was empathic when we killed our parents, slit their throats right in front of Isolde. It was the only choice we had. They neglected and abused us all, not physically but rather emotionally. Our foster dad never cared enough for us, always staying distant. As if we were a burden to them. Didn’t they know?

Celine and I are not forces to be reckoned with. We are not meant to be controlled to the point of suffocation, and neither is Isolde.

Yes. Killing them was our only chance to finally claim her as ours when they forbade us from seeing each other again.

They had her, and they wasted her by not complying with her every need. They never helped her when she had no friends, so we became her only friends. They gave her food and a roof to sleep under, like they did us, but they were both so busy with their work that they never paid much more attention than that. Our parents weren’t the picture-perfect humans they pretended to be. They attended charity events in town, but beneath their polished reputation, they were corrupt. Something Isolde refused to see.

One day, she will thank us for saving her life, even if she cannot see it that way right now.

I still remember the blood oozing from our parents’ throats, bodies slumped to the floor while slipping in the crimson liquid. I remember the blood coating our clothes, splattered on our faces. That triumph was the most of all—the relief at seeing their deaths.

Knowing nothing could ever prevent us from being with Isolde again.

Yet, the empathy I felt came from seeing her heartbroken face, the tears trailing down her cheeks, something irreparable. The scream of horror is etched on my mind. I tried to reach her, to hold her and make her feel better, but she stared at me as if I were something evil.

A goddamn monster.

That empathy hit me hard in the chest, almost like a shotgun.

The word psychopathy doesn’t fit me: I do feel responsibility for my actions, particularly for our foster parents’ deaths. Never once did I regret killing them. They were an obstacle that needed to get out of the way; her love for them was a weakness that blinded her to all their faults, and we had to break it out of her somehow.

I didn’t expect that she would call the fucking cops though. Oh, the pure rage when she sent us to jail.

Didn’t she know? We killed them forher. Even today, I know she blames herself for their death. Well, yeah. We wouldn’t have killed them if it weren’t for her stupid love for them.

The warehouse behind us looms like a corpse with its rusted beams, shattered windows, and façade cracking here and there. Apparently, it used to be Vexglade’s pride and joy back in the day, until the owner died. No one took over it, believing it to be haunted or something like that.

“Here he comes,” Celine muses, pushing away from the wallshe leaned on. Her eyes are like knives as she watches the figure approaching.

Casper. Isolde’s ‘boyfriend.’ The man who stole her when we were locked away. He who dared touch what was never his.

He’s clad in a casual outfit of dark jeans and a hoodie, with the hood covering half his face, hands in pockets. Taking discretion to a new level. The way he looks around, shoulders tense, reveals he’s afraid we’ll disappear before the deal is gone.

He doesn’t truly trust us after all. And he shouldn’t.

“You’re late,” I say, crossing my arms as I let my arms roam over him.

For being a cop, he sure as hell ain’t brave.

“You’ve made quite the fucking mess,” he says, turning to me with a voice that tries to sound authoritative. “Do you know how hard it was to cover for your asses? Bodies are piling up again. Same signature kill. You think no one is going to connect the dots to you?”

“Well, they won’t,” I say, not bothered. “You’re handling it.”

His lips press into a thin line, clearly not happy. “You’re lucky I’ve redirected their attention from you. I pinned it all on her.”

I instantly understand who he’s talking about. “You blamed Isolde?”

“It was her or you! I want her to go down either way, and I need you free so you can take care of her,” he snaps, poison littering his words. “After everything I’ve done for her, saving her depressed little ass after her parents’ were murdered, she still tried to leave me. Said our relationship was too toxic. She wasn’t allowed to leave, and since then, we’ve fallen into a monochromic relationship where there’s no joy anymore. She doesn’t even trust me any longer!”

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