Angel Blood

43- Rage in a Hollow Shell

Sinclair

The man comes inside of my den again. He eyes me cautiously, keeping the bowl of brown liquid he keeps routinely bringing me close to his chest.

I keep my back slouched against the wall, my eyes closed aside from the slight crack that allows me to watch his movements. He creeps closer to me, and instead of sliding the bowl across the floor as he normally does, he approaches and stands close enough that he can set it on the ground beside my legs.

I move, reaching out to grab his ankle and pull him to the ground. To wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he quiets underneath my grip.

The chains at my wrist make me slow and clumsy. He stumbles back from my reach, wincing as the hot liquid spills on chest and the floor.

A snarl rises to my lips, the need to destroy pumping so furiously through my veins that I clench my fists mindlessly at my sides. I need to beat these chains into tatters. To feel his blood coat my palms.

"Morning to you too, sunshine," he says, shaking the excess liquid from his hands and staring hard at me. "You seem less stupid today."

Stupid? I bare my teeth at him. I am an ancient force of nature. I will carve him open and watch him suffer as the red that keeps him babbling slowly seeps from his veins.

"Are you in there, Sin?" He crouches down until he can properly gaze into my eyes, still too far away from my reach. "It's me—it's Sam."

I do not know any Sam. I do not know anything. I only know fury and suffering and destruction and—

I shudder as visions of a small boy filter through my mind. A small round face with shaggy dark hair, grinning at me as he tackles me to the ground. I do not know who he is and I have no time to place the thought before it dissipates just as quickly as it came.

I throw the weight of my body against the chains, tugging uselessly at them as the noisily rattle in my ears. The noise coming from the man's mouth is useless. He needs to be silenced and I'd be more than happy to do him the honor.

He sighs, gazing at me for another long moment before rising back to his feet. The empty bowl swings defeatedly at his side as he makes his way back to the steel exit.

...

"Jesus." A voice cuts through the darkness in my mind. "What's wrong with him?"

I frown, not understanding why there is such a thick shroud of it clouding my thoughts. I am standing in front of two men that study me with cautious eyes. I do not know where they came from, nor do I remember standing. My hands are wrapped around the steel that keep my body tethered to the wall, pulling at them until a dull throb forms around my wrist.

"I'm not entirely sure," the other man says. I think I remember this one: he brings me the salty brown liquid. I also remember how I want to snap his neck. "I've heard of other incubi going a little crazy once they wake up, but never to this degree or for this long. I think it has something to do with the fact that he was dead for such a long time."

"It's like he's a wild animal," the other one murmurs. "Is he always like this?"

My arms throb with the strain of trying to snap the metal. I grunt, sagging against the wall. My head aches at the sound of their voices. I need to silence them. I need to rip the tongues from their mouths.

"Sometimes he's almost lucid," the one with the short dark hair says. "But I don't know. Other times I think I'm just imagining things."

My head aches. My body feels weighted and useless and the fact sets loose a fresh wave of fury in my mind. I need to destroy—to kill.