dripping was a beautiful thing when heard by the right person. In Roryâs case, it only pleased her when the blood belonged to those with black souls. Souls had colors of all different shades, and being a meant she could see them if her skin touched theirs.
It was her favorite thing about being a because it allowed her to actually colors. She and her fraternal twin sister, Cora, were born with grey-scale sight, and everything around them was in black, white, and greys. It was a rare condition, but not unheard of.
When Rory started seeing souls as a child, her soul would whisper the names of the colors in her mind until she learned them all. It didnât help with the rest of the realm, of course, but the burst of colors from those with good souls was a reprieve from her normal day to day.
She watched the blood drip from the man hanging upside down as she mindlessly touched the top of her ear. It was a nervous habit, stemming from her self-consciousness of looking differently from her parents and sister, who were different types of mystics.
had pointed ears, and even though the point was so slight that if you werenât paying attention you wouldnât notice it, she still hated it.
She looked down at her enforcer boots with a groan. Blood covered the black leather and laces, and she knew she would scrub them all night. Lifting her boot, she peered at the soles.
Stepping back, she made sure everything was perfect. The manâs feet were held up by chains connected to a meat hook, his arms were crossed over his chest and sewn in place with fishing line, and his throat was slashed deeply enough for most of the blood to drain from his body into a nice pool on the floor.
She hoped the woman he tried to assault was okay. There was no telling what he would have done had Rory not been following them. She surveyed the man one last time, gave a nod of approval, and picked up her backpack to head home.
As Rory trudged down the sidewalk in the early morning hours, she felt the guilt settle in. It always did after one of her kills, and even though she knew she did the right thing, taking a life was never easy. She willed herself to remember why she did it.
Shifter Fey Rory shook herself from the memory and whispered to herself, âFor Cora.â
Ten years ago Rory watched through a window as her sister was brutally murdered, setting in motion Roryâs path to becoming one of the most prolific serial killers in all of Erdikoa.
Her guilt disappeared, and she continued home to sleep like a baby.
Rory toed off her boots and snuck into the apartment she shared with her mother, Lenora. Most people thought it odd that a twenty-five-year-old still lived with their parents, but once they learned her mother was a , they understood.
saw every potential future around them, and it caused them to go insane. Fortunately, their abilities didnât begin to manifest until they were around forty-five years old, giving them time to enjoy some of their life.
Every mystic was born with a mark behind their left ear, identifying their abilities, and to be born with the mark of a was to be given a finite timestamp on life. Because of this, her mother had lived her life to the fullest, but now she spent her days staring out the window, speaking in riddles no one understood.
After easing open the door, Rory slipped inside, holding her boots, and crept to the bathroom.
had the gift of being light on their toes, and she could usually walk around without waking her mother.
She stared at herself in the mirror and sighed. Her straight dark hair was still in a tight bun, but flyaway strands stuck up in every direction around her face. The mascara sheâd put on before her lunch with Kordie, one of her best friends, was smudged across her skin, and she looked like a drowned rat.
She wished she could see herself in color, but having grey-scale sight meant she couldnât even see the color of her own hair. Her mother said she had brunette hair and an olive skin tone, whatever that meant.
She peeled off her black hoodie, black leggings, and undergarments before turning on the shower to scalding hot. It would be more fitting if she wore a badass leather outfit like the actors in the supermystic movies, but leather was too hard to move in; it didnât have the same range of motion good old-fashioned cotton possessed.
Most of her clothes were black, white, or grey, because they matched each other no matter what, and because of that, it made owning a dozen black hoodies and leggings seem normal. She either had Kordie shop with her to confirm her selections were in black, white, or grey, or she shopped on the Then she labeled the tags and put them away according to color. It was a pain in the ass.
The hot water melted away the knots in her shoulders, and she let out a long moan. A good fuck would ease her tension better than the water pelting her muscles, but showing up at a bar covered in blood was frowned upon. After scrubbing herself clean, she padded to her room and threw on a pair of sweatpants and an old, ratty t-shirt.
Gathering her clothes from the bathroom floor, she threw them into the laundering machine, dumped an insane amount of detergent into the barrel, and pressed start. With a scrub brush, cleaning spray, and her boots in hand, she stepped onto the balcony. Even though the boots were black, she never left evidence behind.
Cleaning was tedious, but it was also soothing. It was familiar, which she liked. Sheâd hated change since the day her realm was tilted on its axis, and as it always did on nights like these, her mind replayed the worst day of her life.
Seraphim Merrow Merrows Fey Rory scrubbed harder, clenching her jaw to fight down the tears. From that day on, she became obsessed with hunting down her sisterâs killer and the who stole Coraâs soul.
s used souls to heal themselves if they were hurt or to extend their lives as they aged. She could only hope she found the two men in time before Coraâs soul was gone forever.
When Rory was twenty-two, she took justice into her own hands, because too many times, innocent people were found dead in the streets with no one to blame.
She needed the practice for when she finally found Bane, anyway. If only she knew something, , about him.
Her sister only mentioned him once and showed Rory a picture sheâd snuck across the room of the café where theyâd met. Cora asked Rory to skip first period with her that day to get coffee, but Rory refused, too afraid to get in trouble. The picture was blurry, but still clear enough to recognize him in the alley.
When she asked Cora why sheâd taken the picture in the first place, her sister replied, She and her twin shared everything, and when Cora didnât voluntarily offer information, Rory peppered her with questions. Her sister gave vague answers, saying they only spoke for a few minutes, and despite the uneasy feeling in Roryâs stomach, she afforded her sister privacy.
Cora never said she liked him in way, just that they were going to meet up for lunch later that week. He was older than her, and it seemed weird, but again, Rory didnât want to step on her sisterâs toes.
That was the extent of knowledge Rory had of the man who killed her sister, and she knew absolutely nothing of the man who captured her soul.
For years, she asked around about Bane and any known unbound and while she had a few leads, they were all dead ends.
When she finally found Bane, she would watch him swing as his blood played the sweetest melody she would ever hear.