The Fallen: Genesis (Deadly Virtues 0.5)

Joseph thrashed on the bed, fighting the binds James must have placed him in while he slept. “James, listen to me,” Joseph said as he helplessly watched his brother slowly push his blade into Luke’s shoulder. Luke’s chair almost fell as he screamed into the washcloth, the fabric absorbing his cry. But James didn’t even flinch. Joseph’s stomach clenched when the blood started to pour from Luke’s shoulder as James carefully extracted the blade.

Eleven. That’s all James was. Eleven years old, yet thought only of blood . . . worse, even . . . thought only about the consumption of blood.

James held the blade before his face, the lamp highlighting the blood that kissed the steel. Joseph stilled, knowing what would happen next. He flicked a glance to Luke, only to see the boy’s terrified brown eyes set on his brother. Luke was fixated on James as he brought the knife to his mouth and gently licked at the blood. James’s eyes closed as he savored the taste. Like the Eucharist, like red wine is the blood of Christ, his very substance, Joseph thought. Only this blood was not freely given. It was not for the salvation of mankind, but born from sin, viciously stolen from another to sate a wicked, abnormal need.

“James, put down the knife.” Joseph tried again. His voice was calm and steady but held the authority Joseph had had to administer to James since his soul began to darken years ago. This time, James turned his head in his brother’s direction. Joseph held his breath as James’s ice-blue eyes met his. “Untie me, James. Now. Untie me and we can make this go away.” But Joseph recognized that vacant stare. He recognized the cold curl of James’s upper lip, the smirk that told him there was no appeal to be made.

When James turned back to Luke and slashed a cut across his stomach, Joseph yanked on the rope, dread and fear lancing away any shred of hope that James could be stopped by words alone. Ignoring the pain that his thrashes inflicted, Joseph pulled and pulled until the skin on his wrist was raw . . . but, miraculously, the rope slackened.

Casting his attention back to James and Luke, Joseph fought back nausea. James was lacerating Luke’s skin, slashing him so badly that barely any unmarked flesh was visible beneath the open wounds and stains of blood on his naked body.

With a final yank, the rope came loose. Joseph jumped from the bed. He didn’t spare a glance at his torn wrist, not when Luke was slumped so brokenly on the chair, James’s blade pushing into the flesh of his right bicep.

Joseph slipped. He quickly righted himself and looked down. His bare feet were coated in blood . . . Luke’s blood, which now pooled at his feet. Hands held out, Joseph faced James. “James, listen to me.” James pulled the blade from Luke’s arm, licking at the warm blood. “James,” Joseph said, more firmly. “Stop. You’ve hurt him enough. It’s time to stop. You’ve had your revenge. This level of payback goes way beyond Luke’s verbal assaults.”

James froze, then turned his eyes on his older brother. Joseph kept his hands held out, emphasizing that he meant no harm. James’s pupils were dilated, the blackness chasing the light of the ice-blue irises. The sound of rushed footsteps came barreling down the hallway. Fireworks of panic burst in Joseph’s chest. The priests were coming. They knew something was happening in this room. They must have heard Luke’s cries. “James,” he whispered urgently, seeing no sign of remorse in his brother’s eyes. In fact, the hunger that Joseph had seen earlier had only intensified. Reaching out, James ran his hand over Luke’s shredded torso and coated his hand in the other boy’s blood. James brought it to his own naked chest, smothering his skin in crimson, then to his neck and face, wearing the evidence of his revenge like a second skin. James’s eyelids fluttered in pleasure.

A pained moan slipped from Luke, and he shifted on the seat, his bound wrists and ankles staying his movements. James’s head snapped in his direction, a feral expression morphing his handsome face. Joseph had always thought it was the greatest of mockeries. Beauty disguising the evil that crawled beneath.

When Luke moaned again, James gripped his knife harder. Instinctively, Joseph stepped into James’s path. He swallowed when he saw anger flare in James’s eyes. He knew it didn’t matter that Joseph was James’s brother. He was interfering with the letting of blood. With his prey. With a fantasy he had been harboring for so long.

James launched forward and wrapped his hand around Joseph’s neck—a warning. Joseph stood his ground—a challenge. With a vicious snarl, James slammed Joseph to the hard stone ground. Cold spread across Joseph’s back, and he knew it was from the spilled blood on the floor. He didn’t fight back. As James’s iron grip cut off his breath, Joseph stared into his brother’s blue eyes and searched for any sign of humanity he could endeavor to reach. His heart broke when he found none. James’s teeth were gritted, and Joseph knew he would soon lose consciousness. Then James’s hands tightened even more, and Joseph knew what James was now looking at: the bulging veins in his neck. James’s thumbnail dug into the protruding vein. But Joseph wouldn’t look away from his brother. Like his mother had told him on her deathbed, he had to protect James. Joseph had intercepted James every time he had been close to taking someone captive, to hurting them in any way—one of their classmates, their priests, someone from the congregation at church. Joseph had always dragged James away, kept him from hurting an innocent . . . from purging the remainder of the light that lay buried somewhere, lost, inside him.