Once the realization struck, Jules felt something shatter inside him. The witches were talking about where Annabelle might be, but he couldn’t hear them—their voices had turned into background noise, buzzing in his ears. Right now, he could only think of his sister. The cute toothy smile she had thrown at him this morning was still so vivid in his mind, just as was the sensation of her tiny hands gripping his pants and the weight of her body pressing against his leg.
Where was she, and what happened to her? Not knowing was suffocating, and he could not help but fear the worst. Was he going to lose her just as he had lost his father? The thought in itself was excruciating.
His mind was soon plunged into a chaotic mess, and his eyes started to sting. Waves of pain pricked at his temples while his eyesight grew blurry. Spots of white flashed before his eyes before everything turned pitch black. It lasted for an instant, but when Jules regained his ability to see, the world around him had changed; threads of lights floated about, some so pale they were barely noticeable, and some so bright they were blinding. Among the lot, one thread stood out. It was silvery pink and shone brighter than the others, maybe even brighter than the moon on a cloudless, starless night.
Jules could not take his eyes off it; somehow, he knew this thread was connected to his sister. He stretched a trembling hand to touch it but only grasped air. It parted around his fingers like mist and lingered near his hand. No matter how fast he moved, he couldn’t get a hold of it. Yet, the hazy thread seemed to be trying to wrap itself around his fingers. It was unable to, however.
“Jules?” Cains worriedly called. “Are you alright?”
Hearing his name, Jules instinctively shifted his gaze to Cains, who then gasped and jolted a few steps back. The sudden movement drew his parents’ attention, and both glanced at Jules. Like their son, they tensed at the sight of the teenager’s dazzling silver eyes and expressionless face.
“Jules, calm down!” Greg screamed as he bolted toward the teenager, but it was already too late. By the time he reached him, he had already vanished, leaving a pale afterimage behind. “Goddammit!”
.
.
The rushed footsteps echoed within the empty cathedral. The moonlight shone through the stained-glass windows, casting pale bluish-purplish lights upon the benches and gray statues. The cathedral was plunged into a solemn atmosphere, but Jules didn’t pay it any heed. He had his eyes only on the pinkish thread hovering to the altar, diving under the white tablecloth.
When the teenager lifted the said tablecloth, a trapdoor was revealed. He crawled under the altar to open it and went down the narrow stairs. It led to catacombs illuminated by blue flames drifting about, the walls pilled up with dirt and bones. Some skulls were from humans; others appeared to be from supernatural beings—the horns and fangs were good indicators of their respective species. Either way, Jules barely spared them a glance and ventured further inside. It didn’t matter what the walls were made of; they could have been made of living humans, and he wouldn’t have cared.
Jules ran forward until, eventually, faint noises reverberated throughout the maze-like corridors. Hearing the murmurs, he broke into a full sprint and dashed toward the muffled sound, which led to a sturdy door. As soon as he opened it, shrill, heart-wrenching screams filled the catacombs, freezing his blood.
And as the scene came into view, Jules felt his world shatter.
A girl, not even five years of age, lay on her stomach on an altar, her nightgown torn on her back. The tiny wings sprouting from her blade shoulders were being half-cut off, half-ripped apart by a tall woman. Her flesh had been mangled so badly that the white bones were exposed to the air. Meanwhile, two lamias stood on each side of the altar and held the little girl’s wrists and ankles. Tears streamed down her cheeks, even after fainting. Her breathing was shallow, and each breath was shorter than the last.
“Oh?” one of the twins said. “I can’t believe you came to us on your own.”
“It’ll save us the trouble of searching for you,” his brother added with a kind smile. “Thanks to your little stunt, we couldn’t eat anything these past few weeks, and we’re famished. Your sister’s blood just isn’t as nourishing and delightful as yours.”
“Kids, don’t forget your end of the bargain,” the woman interrupted, shaking off the blood sullying her blade. It splattered on Jules’s cheek, and he unconsciously lifted a hand to touch it. It was oh so warm. “I want his wings. Hers are a bit too underdeveloped, and I can’t do much with them.”
“Alright, alright.”
“Can you wait a bit,” the lamia holding the girl’s wrists started, “we’re almost done here. Don’t worry, we won’t be as rough with you—” He could not finish his sentence, for Jules had lost it. The spiritual energy he usually had so much difficulty gathering flocked to him on its own and wreaked havoc.
***
When Greg entered the room, the heavy smell of blood assaulted his nose. He frowned and scanned the area, his stomach churning at the sight. Pieces of lamia corpses littered the floor; the five-meter tails had been torn into chunks, whereas the torsos had been crushed, the organs and ribs spilling from the sides. Meanwhile, the heads had been smashed into lumps of flesh, the skulls reduced to dust. Among the two lamia corpses, another was mixed in. The limbs had been separated from the body and thrown haphazardly; the head was also a mess, and bits of brain matter clung to locks of brown hair. A shattered dadao was forsaken in a corner, leaving no doubt about the corpse’s identity. Wings were abandoned on the altar, and red-stained feathers were scattered throughout the room.
Jules sat in the middle of this carnage. The teenager was holding his lifeless sister against his chest, a soulless look on his face—there were no tears, no screams, nothing. Still, the air surrounding Jules was unstable, rippling in waves. The space itself seemed about to be distorted.
The sound of someone retching snapped Greg back to his senses. He glanced over his shoulder at his son—who had insisted on following him—only to see the teenager emptying his stomach by the door. Although he and Veronica had groomed Cains as their heir, he’d never seen something as gruesome as this. Even veteran hunters would find it hard to keep a cool head, so how could a kid still wet behind the ears not feel sick at the sight?
Greg patted his son’s shoulder, then walked to Jules. Every step he took made squishy sounds that reverberated within the silent room, yet the teenager didn’t move an inch. He didn’t even peer at the witch when he knelt beside him or put his hand on his chest. A warm feeling spread throughout Jules’s body as Greg mended the damaged seal on his soul. The strong desire to save his sister and the rage of failing had thrown his spiritual energy into disarray, and the seal repressing his angel lineage had grown brittle. As a result, the holy essence making up his soul had started to pour out, rampaging and destroying his body from the inside. His veins were about to explode when Greg clogged the breaches cracking the seal. He wasn’t as skilled as Zadkiel, but it did the trick.
“Calm down, Jules,” Greg said softly. “Your sister will be fine.”
The teenager cast an empty gaze at the witch, holding Annabelle tighter. How could she be fine when she was dead? It was bullshit. However, Cains understood the underlying meaning behind his father’s words. Unlike Jules, he knew every possible spell witches could use, including those that were taboo. It was as clear as day what Greg wanted to do.
“DAD!” Cains screamed, leaning against the door frame to stand up—his legs were still too feeble to support his body weight. “Please, no!”
“Now you know how to call me dad?” Greg chuckled, lowering his eyes to the bracelet of jade wrapped around his wrist. He stared at it an instant before taking it off and tossing it at his son. “Kid, I had a long life and have no regrets. I cannot let this child pay the price of our messed-up hunt, and I know Veronica will understand. Thanks to Annabelle’s lineage, it’s not too late yet. But if I delay any longer, there will be permanent sequelae.”
Cains, who had clumsily caught the bracelet, brought it to his chest. Tears started to well in his eyes, for he knew he couldn’t talk his father out of it. He had always been like this, doing whatever he wanted for the sake of others. It was selfish, oh so darn selfish.
“Take care of your mother for me, will you?”
“Yeah,” Cains nodded, crashing down to his knees. The tears he held back fell, flooding his cheeks like a waterfall. “Of course I will.”
“Thank you,” Greg smiled. “I love you, son.”
“I love you, too,” Cains sobbed. “I love you so much, dad.”
Witches were incredible beings, but they weren’t all-powerful. Reviving the dead went against the natural order and brought forth hatred from the universe. However, Annabelle was half-angel, the darling species of Heaven, and reapers tended to turn a blind eye to anything involving holy beings. They wouldn’t make things difficult as long as something of the same worth of her life was offered in exchange. And Cains knew all too well what were the offerings his father had in mind.
Edited by Clozed! ♥
