The Seven Sinners Book 2

Zanthus sat still, painstakingly so, as the council enjoyed their time together. He was always on the periphery, never the one in the middle enjoying the entertainment.

He used to enjoy such things like friends, family, TV, but now?

Now he was nothing. Nothing but a shell of a vampyre hoping that the next fight would be the one to take his life. At times, he’d think about the tranquility of ending it all.

No, he didn’t just think about it, actually. Sometimes he imagined himself ending his existence here on this plane.

He wouldn’t, though.

Sometimes he wondered why the hell not.

As he sat at the bar, he watched as his brothers casually reminisced about this and that. Quillian was beating someone at some game. He envied their happiness—their ability to be happy.

Suddenly, Lycidas stood up, reaching for his beloved’s hand. Adrasteia smiled at her male, pulling him out of the room. It didn’t take a genius to know what they would be doing.

Those two weren’t just happy, they were in love. They were beloveds.

Zanthus stood abruptly, making his way out of the game room. He hightailed it up the stairs and to his room, slamming the door behind him. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark, unruly hair.

Above all else, he envied Lycidas and Adrasteia. They had the world within their reach. They had each other.

It felt like a fucking insult to him that his beloved died. What fucking bullshit! This was how life for him would be from now on.

All his brothers would find their matches and perhaps have children. All his brothers would get to be happy, reveling in the soft skin of their beloveds.

Him? He only had her things to revel in.

His room here was bare. There were no decorations, no books, no sources of entertainment. This wasn’t his home, and it hadn’t been for a long time.

He grabbed his car keys from the dresser and rushed back downstairs. He didn’t say goodbye as he walked outside into the moonlight and started up his Rover.

His brothers had told him to let go of her, but they didn’t understand. No one could understand the sheer pain he felt every moment of every day. His beloved, his Camila, was gone.

His heart was ripped from his chest. When she died, she took everything with him: his heart, his head, even his physicality.

No one would say it, but since her death, his form had lacked the muscle it once had. He looked sickly. He looked like a man who’d lost his world.

He didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. The only thing that kept him going were the seekers he’d kill in the streets.

He wanted a drink, but he wouldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t bring that filth into their home. He pulled up in front of their quaint cottage on the east side. He turned the engine off. He didn’t move.

He felt like he was in a never-ending nightmare.

He shook his head, stepping out of his car, and walking to the other side. He leaned against the black vehicle, staring at the flowers in the window boxes, and then the swept porch.

His eyes took in the sight of the home he’d been so proud to walk into every day. This was his home—

No, he scoffed. The house wasn’t what made it his home. He forced himself up the pathway into the home and stopped once he was inside, inhaling deeply. Her scent was everywhere.

He paid a company to look after the outside, but the inside was his. It was untouched, left exactly as it was the day she died. This was his shrine to her. To them. To him.

Yeah, fuck fate.

He’d give anything to see her smile, to touch her skin, to kiss her, to bury himself within her.

She had decorated the entire house. She said he lacked artistic vision. She was right. She was far more inclined to decorate than he was. The living room was inviting with its white furniture and fixtures.

They had never had fledglings, nor did they have pets, so they thought they would be able to keep white furniture white.

He smiled sadly at that thought. How wrong they were. The day they had brought the furniture in, they’d drowned themselves in the pleasure of each other.

She had spilled red wine by accident while she was climaxing. It went all over the arm of the couch and into her hair. She laughed it off and put a red blanket on the mess to cover it.

Walking over, he gently pushed the blanket away. There it was. Here she wasn’t. He missed her. He missed her so much.

He continued through the house. He stopped for a moment in his man cave. He didn’t experience happiness there anymore. He didn’t experience happiness anywhere. The man cave was a present for his birthday years ago.

He had told her that he didn’t need a spot that was just his because she was everything he’d ever wanted. They’d made love on the floor, and she complained of a rug rash on her ass afterward. He’d apologized.

Then there was her sewing room. It was the only room in the house that was a complete mess. As he pushed the door open, her scent hit him like a truck.

He had to grab the doorframe to keep himself from falling over. He could practically see her cutting her fabric with the pins in her mouth.

She said one day she’d have to give this room up, and when he asked why, she said because it would be the nursery. They fought that day. He didn’t want kids.

No, it wasn’t that. He didn’t want her to die on the birthing bed. Vampyric births were challenging to say the least. He didn’t want to lose her; he didn’t want to take the chance.

She had been angry at him. They had screamed at each other. He had stopped dead in his tracks when she whispered, so very softly, that she had to endure his fighting, his council membership, never knowing if he’d return home.

She told him she wanted something that was…of them. He shook his head and left. He continued down the hallway and paused at their bedroom. He pushed the door open.

Her scent was the heaviest here. His heart was in his stomach as he walked in. The bed was made, by Camila. Everything was pristine. She had been an avid organizer. It calmed her when he was away for hours.

He went and sat on his side of the bed. He pulled his feet up and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He grabbed the photo of them on their beloved ceremony day. She was breathtaking.

He cried. He couldn’t help himself. He’d cried a lot since her death. “I miss you. I miss you so much.”

He brought the picture to his chest and rolled to his side. After the initial sobs slowed down, soft, silent tears rolled down his cheeks, staining the white pillows.

When he could bear to leave, he went to the liquor store. He walked in, ignoring the greeting from the clerk. He grabbed whatever was on the highest shelf.

He wanted the strongest liquor he could find. It was hard to get drunk, but if he drank enough, he was sure he could manage.

He threw a hundred on the counter and then left with the bottles in hand. He opened one as he got into his car again. He took a swig. He threw the unopened bottle in the passenger seat and then drove back to the house.

He walked in, and the commotion stopped. He climbed the stairs again and entered his empty room, drowning his sorrows in…ah, vodka.

Downstairs, Adrasteia felt her beloved grab her hand, kissing it softly.

“He’s getting worse,” Quillian stated, putting down his playing cards. “He’s unstable.”

“Yeah,” Demedicus said. “You’d be too if you lost your soulmate.”

“He’s getting…messy, Demedicus,” Athanasius remarked. “He can’t be in the field if he’s incapable of making logical decisions. He will get himself killed.”

“You want me to put him on probation,” Demedicus challenged. “And take away the only thing he gives the slightest fuck about? Smart.”

“He will die,” Quillian agreed.

“Yeah, I’m starting to think that would be merciful,” Lycidas interjected. “The thought of losing—” he glanced at Adrasteia and then shuddered. “The thought is enough to make me kill someone.”

“There’s nothing more painful or more crippling than losing your beloved.”

Everyone looked at Demedicus. He stood, straightening his suit jacket. “So give the guy a damn break.”

“It’s been three years. It won’t be long until…” Caine didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Zanthus woke up suddenly from the fucking door being banged on. He sat up from his spot on the floor. He must have passed out drunk judging by the headache he was feeling. God, he had finished both bottles he’d bought.

“Information about some seekers down by the quarry.”

“Fine,” he responded.

Athanasius left, leaving Zanthus to stand up and clean the mess on his floor. He must have been really fucked up because he couldn’t remember what happened once he got here.

Judging by the stains on the floor and the vomit on his shirt, he must have drunk until he forgot his feelings.

When he got outside, everyone was already in the Rovers, ready to go. No one remarked about his appearance. Once they got to the location, all the members got out. Everyone focused on their senses for any evidence of seekers.

There was a noise to their left, and as they saw the seeker run away, they followed. More came into view. The group split up.

Four of them went in the direction of the other seeker, and the rest, including Zanthus, continued in pursuit of the one before them.

Zanthus jumped over the car in his way and under the quarry’s construction equipment. He was going so fast, he lost his brothers, but he didn’t realize. He didn’t care.

He grabbed the seeker by his neck, forcing him down on the ground. The seeker thrashed beneath him, but Zanthus lived for the kill now. It made him…almost happy.

His hand ripped through the seeker’s sternum, grabbing his heart and ripping it out. The seeker was dead, yet he wasn’t finished.

He grabbed the seeker’s jaw, one hand on his maxilla, and the other on his mandible. Slowly, he started to separate his jaw until someone forced him off.

“He’s dead,” Quillian screamed. “Enough!” Quillian’s eyes looked behind Zanthus. His chest rose as he yelled again. “Get down!”

Zanthus didn’t listen. He turned toward what Quillian saw. Seekers, pointing guns at them. He smiled.

Finally, he thought with his hands spread out beside him, except before the seeker could fire, Demedicus unarmed the man and killed him.