Angel Blood

20- I Haven't Forgotten Who You Are

I wake up to screams.

I don't realize I've fallen back asleep until I startle upward, my ears ringing with the cries of pain. It's so stark to the dreamy, warm embrace I'd dozed off in that my first thought is that I'm stuck in a nightmare.

The voice is deep and bellowing—definitely a male. I rub the chill off my skin as I pull the blankets from my body, hesitantly padding into the center of the room.

"Sin?" I call out, gooseflesh raising on my arms at the eerie silence that fills the room between howls.

The quiet doesn't last for long. It sounds again, muffled by the door but somehow as sharp and loud as if the man were just a few feet away.

I creep over to Sin's dresser, opening the drawer that usually holds his shirts and staring at the array of fabrics in astonishment. His shirts are pushed off to the side, the majority of the space filled with women's T-shirts and sweaters. I rip open the drawer underneath, picking through the new pairs of jeans folded next to Sin's collection of black pants.

I poke through the linen until I find a dark pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. Both are a little big but otherwise fit well enough that I can't complain. It's better than wearing oversized T-shirts and borrowed boxer briefs, not to mention they're comfortable as hell.

I walk over to the door that leads to the stairway downstairs, hesitantly testing the doorknob and frowning when it refuses to turn. I grip it tighter, jerking it as if it'll make it somehow unlock. The noise falls silent for a few beats and makes me question if it'll pick up again.

A chill runs down my spine. Are they dead?

There's only one way to find out and there's no way I'm going to sit here idly until someone comes up to tell me what's going on.

I take a few steps back. This is a terrible idea and I know Sinclair is going to have my head, but I proceed to charge forward and aim my foot at the locked wood nonetheless.

My foot twinges at the force I put behind it but the pain is immediately forgotten as the door swings open. The frame is pretty splintered but not beyond repair. It gives me hope that Sin won't be angry with me...at least, not as much.

Quiet chatter comes from downstairs. I frown, tilting my head to catch their words. To my annoyance, nothing is comprehendible, mostly due to the fact that the baritone voices overlap each other.

I slowly tiptoe downstairs, wary to even breathe until I make it down to the last step and step out of the doorway. Several sets of eyes turn upon me, the hushed conversations drawing to a close as they stare at me in grim surprise.

I vaguely recognize some of the men from the night they brought Sinclair back when he was barely hanging onto life. Others are new, the only identifiable person I nearly miss out of being overwhelmed by so many unfamiliar faces.

Sinclair steps forward and my chest lightens with relief. I start to smile unsurely until I notice the crimson on his fingers, a blade gripped in his hand.

Another flash of red catches my attention behind him. I almost don't recognize the salt and pepper hair, the square face and cruel-set mouth. Capponi's head lays limply against his shoulder, his body unnaturally still in the chair he slumps in. Both of his wrists and ankles are tied with rope to the bloodied wood, nearly a dozen knives sticking jaggedly from his flesh. Where steel doesn't meet skin are wounds so raw and deep and festering it makes bile rise in my throat.

Sinclair curses then turns his eyes upon the stoic forms around him. "Out," he orders, turning his gaze back upon me as his men file out of the door obediently.