Heart and Soul

Three rules. I glanced at my arm. Three simple rules. Only slightly raised pink skin marked my indiscretion. Never take more than the allotted five minutes with the victim. The strength of her soul pulling back—fighting me—felt more like it was happening now rather than forty-five minutes and twelve seconds ago.

Never speak to the victim. I spoke to her. My lips moved while she strained. How did she manage to pull against me? I spoke again, not directly to her, but later…when my legs gave way. I shouldn’t have.

Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave DNA at the scene. Shimmering glass floated through my memory. My blood stained the broken window frame because of one shard. Why did that happen? How did I lose control? I never lost control!

The scar on my arm faded. Darkness washed over me. My blood raced through my veins. No one would find out. An accident occurred, that’s all. That woman was just an average witch. She won’t remember. I am safe.

My stomach churned. A bout of nerves overtook me. ‘What’s wrong with you, Nick?’ I thought while stealing glances at the others. No one looked at me. My elbow collided with something solid as fingers wrapped around my shoulder. Someone let out a loud grunt before my nearly bare stomach boiled. The bile tried to rise; I pushed it down. ‘Don’t, Nick. Not yet.’

“What did I do to you,” Tyson hissed. My scorching eyes narrowed. He lowered his head. “He’s waiting.”

We walked through the dark corridors listing to my gurgling stomach. Tyson grimaced every time he glanced back at me. The hall began to spin just as we reached the door. He nodded while digging his nails into his palms before knocking.

“Enter!”

Pale light flooded my eyes. A spark filled his normally emotionless eyes. He reached toward the chair in front of his desk. I sat.

“How do you feel?” I’d never heard his voice so soft. So nurturing. It frightened me. ‘Does he know?’

I stared at his sharp features; white rows of razors, paper thin lips, straight edged noes, pointed arrow cheek bones, and lastly those sparking midnight pits he called eyes. Everything about him seemed to have color radiating from their pores; he’d never looked more horrific.

“Like there’s a war going on in my stomach,” I answered truthfully as another gurgle echoed through my ears.

He nodded before handing me a square glass. This is different from the others. All the soul cages were always clear, reflective, and oval. This one reflected—it had to be in order to be given the soul—but it was square and looked more like the stained glass windows of a cathedral. “Let it out.” He overlapped his razors and tilted the corners of his cheeks upward. How could a man like this have dimples?

“Sir…”

“Hush, Nicholai.” His smile, if you could call it that, faltered. “Put my treasure in its chest.”

I stared into his eyes for a moment. There never seemed to be any light to them. Most of us had light, but not him. I gave a curt nod before I stared into the clearest section of the stained cage, focused on the silvery green light that floated in me and shoved. But it shoved back.