Chapter 7

For a military academy, there were sure a lot of whiny bitches.

Berga kept his expression blank as he stopped at the side of the top of the landing with the others, peering down at the mess at the bottom of the long set of stairs. He’d be able to tell if he looked closely enough if the female cadet was still breathing, but honestly, it didn’t really make much of a difference to him either way.

He didn’t know her.

Her life or death didn’t matter.

Even if it ended in the same way as—

“What happened?” Madden’s strong voice next to him caught Berga’s attention, and he tipped his head, curiously inspecting the Mad King’s expression. He didn’t appear to be concerned, per se, but he was certainly more invested in the event than Berga was.

Interesting. Was it an act, perhaps? They didn’t know each other very well, but Berga had always just assumed Madden and Kelevra were as close as they were because they were similar. After the other night, he’d admittedly begun to question that assumption, but there was still no way of knowing if Madden truly cared about a random life or if he was simply an impeccable actor.

The Retinue wasn’t like the Satellite. Their duty was to protect the Imperial Prince, nothing else. As part of the mafia, an intrinsic part, the Satellite was different. Still, Kelevra wasn’t a normal prince either, and like Baikal, sometimes he got his hands dirty. Everyone knew about their Cleaners, an entire team put together just to help cover Kel’s ass—or another member of his group—if they killed someone.

Madden wasn’t clean. He’d murdered before, Berga was positive. Had seen it a time or two himself even. So if killing came easy to him, why did he seem sad about the potential death of a random cadet?

“Do you know her?” he found himself asking quietly, voice low enough there was a chance he wouldn’t be heard over the crying and shouts still taking place below them.

Zane was already down there with the head nurse, taking control of the situation, and it was clear an ambulance had been called, but that didn’t cause the crowd to scatter or give them space to work.

“No,” Madden shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“She tripped,” a male cadet, different from the one who’d retrieved them, was explaining to the head nurse. “We were talking and she just missed a step. Is she all right?!”

Berga shifted on his feet and glanced back the way they’d come, considering heading back to the nurse’s wing since he wasn’t needed here. Movement caught his eye at the end, a quick flash of red and pink that had the air catching in his lungs even as his heart skipped a beat.

As a scientist and a doctor, it’d been simple enough for Berga to comprehend his diagnosis when he’d first been given it. At age six, it’d been fairly clear-cut to him. But even now, at the age of twenty-two, knowing what he shouldn’t do didn’t make it any easier to actually prevent himself from doing it.

Which was why he left the chaotic nightmare on the stairs to trail after the actual nightmare that had just turned the corner. He kept his steps even and unhurried, past experience having taught him she would wait no matter how long he took to reach her. Drawing attention would only cause a scene, and those …

Berga didn’t much like those.

It was the one thing about himself he despised, in fact. Everything else, the whole grocery list of many things wrong with him, he could accept, but not that. The fear of it, of being exposed and judged and found wanting, was half the reason he’d developed his aversion to bodily fluids on his person in the first place.

Like he’d anticipated, there was another flash of pink at the end of the hall when he turned the corner, the girl in the pink dress not bothering to meet his gaze before darting off to the right. He followed, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest it was like a million and one drum beats echoing in his skull.

There’d been a time when seeing her had annoyed him.

Berga couldn’t recall that though. Couldn’t really picture how things had been before she’d started haunting him. Before—

He found her in the medical wing, in the room he’d been assigned and in only moments ago. It was empty now, save the two of them, and she was standing in the center, her head downcast. The pink tulle of her skirts was torn in places, and her pastel hair, like sea foam on a sunny summer day, unkempt around her cherub face. When she slowly lifted her gaze, eyes the same shade as his own peered at him from beneath crooked bangs, the hatred and disgust she felt for him visceral.

It was strong enough that he could practically taste it when he inhaled. Could smell the blood in the air when spots of deep red started to stain her baby pink dress. He watched as it spread, taking over the color, seeping through the thin material until there wasn’t enough fabric left to contain it and liquid started dripping from the tops of her shoulders, rolling down her arms. The hem of her skirts stuck to her thighs, blood trickling down her knees to pool at her feet.

A white sandal was attached to the right, but her left was bare, and Berga stared as the shoe soaked up the blood, turning ruby red before his eyes.

He was already too far gone when he lifted his hand toward her, as though there was anything he could do to stop what had already been done, but he froze when he saw she wasn’t the only one stained.

The blood all over his hands, streaked up his arms, was already partially dried, and he started to rub at it desperately. However, as soon as he managed to get rid of some of it, more would appear, wet and fresh, instantly spreading as he scrubbed.

Berga sucked in a sharp breath when he realized his shirt was sticky, the material damp. He tore at it, popping buttons as he raced toward the cabinet where the paper towels were kept. It was all over his chest, and he wiped at it, growling when that did nothing. He tossed the used wad of towel to the floor with a sickening plop, then tore off more from the roll to try again.

There was too much blood. Too much. If anyone saw him—

Someone laughed, a sharp, grating sound that had his head snapping up. His sister was still standing there watching him, only now there was fear in her eyes. She took a step toward him and opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, the laughter came again and the curtain in the far corner of the room was flung open.

They hadn’t been alone after all.

Each of the three cots had privacy curtains that could be closed to help conceal patients, and apparently the one in the corner had been in use. A male cadet stepped out, still grinning ear to ear, giving one last passing comment to the female who was seated at his back.

Neither of them appeared to be injured, though their lips were puffy and their uniforms slightly off-kilter.

Berga barely registered these details, unable to do anything but watch as the careless male took three steps forward and walked directly into the younger girl in the pink dress.

She came apart instantly, bursting into a million tiny pieces, like the delicate petals of an uda blossom tree. They scattered and dissipated, gone before Berga could so much as blink.

Gone, like she’d never been there in the first place.

Like she had never existed at all.

A sound tore out of him, something strange and wounded and livid all at once. It was enough to finally catch the attention of the cadets, the male practically missing a step as he looked at Berga.

The rest was a blur.

There was motion and sounds, sometimes the annoyance of pain, but Berga barely registered a thing, his mind too far gone to be rooted in reality. Instead, he thought about tulle and cliché picnics in the park.

About stolen crayons and mixed-up lunches.

About morning cartoons and wrestling for the remote.

About losing.

And losing.

And losing some more.

He hadn’t been strong enough then. Or tall enough. Or articulate enough. He’d been the shadow to her already too bright light, and what happened to a shadow when the source of that illumination was taken away?

They didn’t disappear as well. No.

The shadows grew.

The shadows expanded and became something black and twisted.

Only monsters thrived in the places eyes couldn’t reach.

He wasn’t a Devil, not really. Devils had autonomy. Devils had form and consistency. Berga was a thing . A mass of darkness that couldn’t be contained. That couldn’t find root. He was a shadow without a light source. Abandoned and abhorred.

He —

“There’s blood on your shoes, Butcher,” a voice cut through his thoughts, strong and clear. Clearer than even the ramblings in his own head, vibrant enough to strike him at the core.

He was covered in blood?

Yes.

No.

No, he couldn’t allow that.

Berga blinked, vision still foggy at best, but when he glanced down at himself, it was there, the familiar stains, fresh and red. He started scrubbing, the panic rising once more, until it felt like he was drowning.

Someone tried to stop him, strong hands on his wrists that he fought off. He swung, pain exploding in his left hand, barely noticeable as he went back to cleaning.

“Not there,” that voice came again, giving Berga pause even though it made absolutely no logical sense why it should. “There isn’t any blood there, Butcher. Can’t you tell? Use your eyes.”

His eyes? He was, damn it. He was looking at it right—

Berga stared down at his chest, at the rapid rise and fall as he breathed as if having just run a marathon. When he risked smoothing a palm down his center, it was to find the speaker was right. There wasn’t any blood on him there.

But his knuckles were bruised.

He frowned at it, turning his hand back and forth. It hurt, but he didn’t think he’d broken anything. Slowly, his surroundings seeped back into reality, the room forming from the outer corners in.

Berga was in the nurse’s room, and there were several bodies.

Five, he counted. All alive, though broken in various ways.

“Did you touch me?” he asked hoarsely, staring down at the nearest man who was clutching his arm protectively against his chest. The way he looked up at Berga was nothing short of horrified. It almost dragged him back to that abyss, but someone spoke up for him, dashing that darkness away.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” the voice said, and it took Berga far longer than it should have to register it was Madden’s, “and say you probably did most of the touching.”

Berga tipped his head. Had he? If the cadets currently groaning on the ground were any indication, that was most likely true. At least he hadn’t killed anyone this time. That was a plus. Though he was a bit concerned about how his grade for the day would be affected now that he’d gone and done the opposite of what he’d been sent here to do.

They’d have a good doctor, in any case, with Zane here. They were going to need it. Berga was positive he’d broken more than a few bones, all clean breaks that left the skin mostly intact to avoid any actual bloodshed.

At some point, he must have slipped up, however, because the statement made to pull him out of that abyss hadn’t been false .

There was blood on his shoe.

A single, affronting drop.

Berga wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or inject someone with bowel-eating parasites.