Other Lost Souls: YA Urban/Dark Fantasy (Thin-blooded Children Book 1), page 1
Other Lost Souls
Lindie Dagenhart
Thin-Blooded Children Book 1
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Lindie Dagenhart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For more information: lindie.dagenhart@gmail.com
First edition July 2022
ISBN: 978-0-6397-1483-7
http://www.lindiedagenhart.com
Dedication
For all the other anxiety riddled goblins who doubt they can do the thing. Yes! You absolutely can do the thing. It might take you 10 years, but it can be done.
Also for my Mammie en Pappie, who let me watch horror movies when I was way too young, and started taking me to the library while books were still just pictures on a page. You don’t like watching musicals, but I love you anyway.
1
A BONE CRACKS; wet, yet brittle. Agony bursts.
I don’t gasp. Can’t gasp. No air to beg or scream.
My fingers crawl up the side of my chest, sinking into tissue where solid structure should be. My vision grows dim, threatening to pull me under.
Another crack, more ribs snapping. Salt and metal fill my mouth. That one pierced a lung. I grit my teeth and blink rapidly. No passing out. Give in now and I’m never coming back from the dark. Gotta ride it out, that’s the only way.
I swallow the blood and suck in a bit of oxygen.
There is a moment of stillness in the torment. My body remembers we are alive. I know what comes next and try not to tense up. I fail.
An earthquake rips through me. Then shattered bone pieces realign and snap back into place. I jerk so hard the bed knocks into the wall. Had I any breath left, I would have howled.
Then it’s over.
I fumble blindly for the bucket next to my bed and empty the meager contents of my stomach. My next inhale is thick and sticky. My lungs try to process it. It’ll take a few moments; organ damage is always the slowest to repair.
Someone calls my name, but I can’t give three shits right now. I have a pounding headache and licks of fire dancing along my side. That would be the skin knitting together.
With effort, I turn on my side, back towards the room. I press my wet face into the pillow and feel along my ribs. Rough, bumpy scar tissue greets my fingertips. Beneath that, the solid press of bone.
I run through all the swear words I know, mouthing them silently. English first, then Romanian when that runs out.
“Baen!” my brother calls again.
I ignore him for a little while longer. Soon I’ll get up, put on my mask, and pretend I have everything under control. Pretend my body isn’t constantly trying to fall apart around me, and that some days I’m tempted to let it. It would be easy; all I’d need to do is sleep through the bone-breaking and skin-rending. Blood loss would take care of the rest. Or maybe my lung would just collapse and I’d drown. Hemothorax. My old friend.
I can’t do it to my parents.
I rub my face against the pillow one last time and spit out the lingering taste of copper. Gotta get up and keep living. My arms shake, but I push myself up anyway. “I’m okay,” I mumble.
“This is not what okay looks like!” His voice is high and squeaky. “You can’t keep reliving this.”
“I’m okay,” I repeat, a lot firmer. It always amazes me how fast things return to what passes for normal in my life, once these episodes are over.
My pillowcase is a mess of tears, snot, and blood. Guess I’m doing laundry today. I’ve gotten so good at getting blood out of linen.
Quinn is perched on the edge of the window seat, where he’s likely been all night. Once it might have bothered me to have someone watch me sleep, but we’re so far beyond that now.
He looks as tired as I feel. The yellow warmth of the night-light gives him a sickly tinge. I need to buy a different globe. Cool whites.
“Third time this week. You can’t keep going like this. You have to call her.”
My stomach twists again, but there’s nothing left to bring up.
“Baen—”
“I know!” My voice is far too loud in the predawn. I grimace and repeat it in a whisper. “I know.”
Up the hall a floorboard creaks. I hold my breath and listen. Silence at first. Another creak. I crane to hear the cadence of the footsteps. It gets louder as it comes down the hall. Steady tread. Heavy footfalls. No sound of hesitation or drag.
My father. It’s both a relief and a new reason to worry.
I flip the pillow to hide the stains and pull the blanket up to my chin.
The door glides on silent, well-oiled hinges. The night-light casts gold glints in my father’s hair, reflecting off the areas at his temples and short beard that are normally gray. His feet are bare, so much paler than the rest of him.
“Again?” he asks, making no effort to keep his voice down. His eyes track to the bucket that’s clearly seen some use.
I prefer no one knowing when I have one of my little episodes, but it’s hardly a secret. It took me a few years to learn how to keep the screams in.
“Yeah.”
“Any chance it’s first-day-of-school jitters or a migraine?”
“No.”
He sighs, long and pained. “I’ll call the Kinship.”
“No, I’ll contact her directly.” I break eye contact, unable to stand the directness of his gaze. He shouldn’t have anything to do with them. None of us should, really. “She doesn’t like the others asking questions.”
For a moment I think he’ll argue. He has that stubborn set to his jaw, the same one Quinn gets. They look eerily alike, Quinn and my father. The same gray eyes. Same square jaw and reddish-blond hair. For the most part they also carry the same pinched and worried expressions, like all the world’s troubles are their own.
My father’s shoulder falls, the bad one he’s been having trouble with lately. “Okay. I’ll get the twins out of the house, but your ma is going to insist on sticking around.”
I grimace. “Really wish she wouldn’t.”
“Tough luck. It would take a stronger man than me to drag her away.”
I smile weakly at the joke. My father is tall as a red oak and worked construction most of his life. They don’t come much stronger, recent pains notwithstanding.
He doesn’t say anything when he leaves. Not much of a talker, my father. I appreciate that. I listen to his retreating footsteps, timing his long tread so I can brace myself.
The hammering of his fist on the twins’ door echoes through the house, followed by a bellow. “Get yer lazy butts up. I leave in forty minutes and you better be ready to go.”
Yelps and protests sound from the room next to mine. Underneath that, my father’s strained chuckle.
“It’s better this way,” Quinn says.
I snort and reach for my phone. It will take a minute or two to work up the courage to dial. Stuck between two shitty outcomes, I’m not sure she’s the lesser evil.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Quinn whines.
“You don’t feel anything. Even if you had the capability, physically speaking, you are not psychic. No Balcrome has ever had the sight. It’s not in our bloodline.”
“I don’t need a lesson in family history from you.” He crosses his arms and glares at me. Good, it might distract him.
I make the call before I can talk myself out of it. It goes straight to voice mail, as it always does. She’s too important to take her own calls. I leave a message. She won’t call back, but she’ll be here before the day is through. What a lucky boy I am, to be such a high priority.
Shuddering, I get up and move to the closet to get dressed. Quinn is a cool, disapproving presence somewhere behind me while I lay out the four layers of clothing I’ll need to feel vaguely human.
It’s a useless effort; no amount of armor will save me. I’ll have to take most of it off later anyway. Still, it gives me something to think about instead of how much I want to climb out the window and hobble, screaming, into the woods.
I’m still in my room when the doorbell rings. My father and the twins haven’t been gone an hour yet. I spent that time listening to my mother fretting about in the kitchen. I wish I was a good enough son to wait with her, instead of cowering upstairs like a nervous rat.
There’s another impatient ring, long and insistent. My stomach twists for the nth time today, but I choke it back. No point in vomiting now. There will be better reasons for it later.
I make it halfway down the stairs when the inevitable happens: a single, sharp creak.
I hold my breath. When there’s no immediate response to the noise, I gingerly lift my foot. The stair creaks again.
The conversation in the kitchen stops.
“Bae? That you, honey?”
No point in being stealthy now. Not like I could’ve escaped out the front door anyway.
I clomp down the rest of the stairs and attempt to smile when I enter the kitchen. It’s awkward and strained and makes me feel like a badly designed stop-motion puppet whose head is about to come off.
Sitting at the table is a woman so old that crone is the only applicable word for her. Her skin is paper-thin and just as dry, likely to crack and peel at the slightest movement. Eyes that had once been blue peer up at me, oddly sharp despite their filmed-over appearance. Her mouth opens, revealing a lifetime of too much smoking and too little flossing.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
“Mrs. Nicolae is here,” Mama says. Like I can’t see her right there.
She moves around the kitchen island to stand next to me, half in solidarity and half to block the exit. At 5’8”, she’s taller than me, but willowy, and wouldn’t be an effective roadblock if I decided to make a run for it.
I wouldn’t, of course. As much as I hate what’s about to happen, it’s a necessary evil.
Mrs. Nicolae stands, her joints popping. She takes a step forward and holds out her hand. She’s a little old lady, barely half my size, but that doesn’t stop my skin from crawling at her touch.
“Good morning, Mrs. Nicolae.” I take the offered hand. Her skin is chilly, which is always an unpleasant surprise; she’s the only person I’ve ever met with hands colder than mine. “Thank you for coming.”
Despite how frail she looks, her grip is strong. She holds onto me longer than necessary. “We all jump when duty calls. You are not sticking to the schedule. Perhaps you were eager to see me?”
She laughs. At least, I think it’s a laugh. The sound whistles through her throat like wind around the house. It’s the sort of laugh that has things living in it. Things with talons, shrill voices, and a hunger for human eyeballs.
I hate her so much. If I came across her walking in the street, I would hit her with a car. No second thoughts or regrets. Run right over her. Perhaps back up and repeat it.
Of course, they would send someone else. I’m the Kinship’s dirty little secret and they can’t risk me uncontained.
Mama’s hand presses between my shoulder blades. I lean back, accepting the small gesture of support. Her touch is too hot, almost a burn. I don’t pull away. Never from her.
I kiss her cheek to reassure her and then nod towards the back door. Mrs. Nicolae doesn’t say anything as she follows me out.
2
The lock on the shed is busted. Has been for months. I keep meaning to replace it.
Moving fast for someone with arthritis, Mrs. Nicolae pushes past me into the gloom. I flick the light on. It won’t help much where we are going, but I’ll take even a second less of darkness.
At the back of the shed, behind some shelving, is a nondescript metal door that leans at a slight backward angle. It has no handle, only an indentation at hip height.
Mrs. Nicolae puts her hand in the hollow. She doesn’t flinch when the sharp bit nicks her. Blood, thin and dark, seeps between her fingers. The door shudders and with a screech of metal on stone, it swings inwards.
I try to lick my lips, but it’s no use; my mouth is too dry. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat.
Behind the door, a pitch-black corridor leads into the earth. The place probably has an official name, but no one has been willing to tell me. I call it the Hidden. Families like mine all have one, a leftover from the days our ancestors practiced their arts in the dark. Before they found ways to turn their abilities into multi-million-dollar corporations. Now we are practically big pharma, our secrets kept by the richest world leaders, CEOs, and celebrities.
We didn’t really have to come all the way out here; the kitchen would have been fine. Mrs. Nicolae enjoys the drama of it, and I am more than happy to keep her away from my family as much as possible. I don’t need my mother to hold my hand, or hold me down, anymore.
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves—also because it’ll be the last clean air for a while—and follow Mrs. Nicolae in.
The corridor is narrow and cold. I keep my arms close to my body, not wanting to brush against the walls. I’ve never seen the walls in the light, and I never want to. There is a weird, muffled softness to them. In the darkness it’s easy to imagine the tunnel moving and pulsing.
Every time I come down here, I feel like I’m passing through some giant reptile’s rectum.
The corridor dips sharply before evening out. Our footsteps go from nearly silent to loud scrapes against stone that signal we are in the main chamber.
There’s a snick, a sulfuric smell, and then flickering torchlight because we are apparently archaic AF and no one has ever thought to install some light bulbs down here. I would do it myself, but I don’t have access to the Hidden without Mrs. Nicolae. And frankly, my comfort is the last thing on her mind.
As secret lairs go, the Hidden is highly anticlimactic. It’s mostly rat droppings, spider webs, and twelve years of dust buildup. The air is stale and sour. Things crunch beneath my feet when I walk. One wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves where books used to live before the Kinship came and removed everything interesting. I’ve always felt like there should be more than just this one room, but I’ve never had free reign to explore every nook and cranny.
There’s a dilapidated sofa in the center of the room, stripped of its original color and with bits of yellowed stuffing peeking out of its saggy, flat cushions. It has patches of rust-colored stains.
Blood.
Mostly mine.
Welcome to the most depressing place I’ve ever been.
I take my jacket and sweater off, leaving me in a long-sleeved shirt, which I roll up to above my elbows.
Grimacing, I sit. The sofa puffs up a plume of powdered dead things. The smell is vile and sears its way through my sinuses. It’s going to linger in my hair and on my skin for days to come.
Instead of getting on with it, Mrs. Nicolae stands there looking at me strangely, with far too much interest for my liking.
“What?” I ask.
“Your time is coming to an end, as mine is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am retiring soon,” she says.
“They’ll send a replacement, though?”
She snorts. “There is no replacement worthy of me, boy. All they have are thin-blooded children that have no hope of maintaining order of the experiment.”
“I am not an experiment.”
“You are a crime against nature. Subhuman. Abhorrent.”
I don’t visibly cringe at the insult; it’s hardly the worst thing she’s ever called me, but something small inside me still shrivels.
She produces a curved knife from her handbag. “Some days I think they were right; you should have been destroyed at creation. I saved you, and every time I return here, I ensure your continued existence.”
“Why?” I ask the same question just about every time I see her, in hopes that maybe someday she’ll let something slip. She’s never hidden the fact that she’d rather crawl through a snake pit than deal with me, but she keeps coming back. There has to be more to it than just doing her job. “Why not let me die?”
She doesn’t answer, just holds out the knife. I take it and make a shallow incision on my forearm, where the wound is easy to hide under long sleeves, and the scar will blend into the extensive net already there.
Mrs. Nicolae could have made the cut herself, but supposedly the blood has to be freely given. I think she enjoys watching me inflict pain on myself. Joke’s on her; the nick of the blade barely registers in comparison to everything else.
She waits until there’s a nice trickle of blood running down my forearm before taking the knife and slicing down the outside of her own thumb. Stupid place to cut, if you ask me. Hand wounds are a pain in the ass while healing. I learned that the hard way.
Her cupped palm presses against my skin and slides up, gathering my blood. I grit my teeth and suppress the urge to shudder. She reaches the cut and presses the open side of her thumb into it, forcing her blood into me.
