Chapter 7

Resolve

Scented soap with a hint of spice and sweat drifted through Echo’s sleep. Sometimes Axel used soap like that—the higher-ups were always given first pick of supply drops. Echo breathed deeply, then frowned before he ventured to open his eyes. This wasn’t Axel’s scent, and it wasn’t his pillow or bed.

Echo shot up, the soft blanket falling away, exposing his bare torso to chilly air. Echo scanned his surroundings as memories played vividly in his head. He touched his neck: the thrall mark, two small wounds under his fingertips.

He was in the bed of Lord Dante Vittori. And he was his thrall. A slave.

“—Oh,” came a stranger’s voice.

Echo darted off the bed and crouched below the side. He eyed the person who had just spoken. A vampire, Echo guessed from the looks of him. He stood in the doorway. The bed was between them, but the vampire made no moves toward Echo.

“There’s, uh, food for you in the kitchen. Boss said you might be hungry.”

Echo narrowed his eyes. He had no weapon, and based on the view from the huge windows, he was high up in the infamous Sky Castle. Attacking the vampire would be futile and foolish. Echo slowly stood.

“I work for Dante,” the vampire continued. “I guess he’s your master. You can call me Jimmy.”

Echo blinked. He’d bristled at the mention of “master,” but this vamp—Jimmy—wasn’t acting like a vamp at all.

“Are you going to feed from me? Have sex with me?”

“What? No!” Jimmy sputtered, waving his hands. “Boss would probably kill me! I was just supposed to get you food and keep an eye on you. He left you a note.”

Jimmy pointed to the bedside table where a folded piece of paper lay. Echo could make out the words Little Rebel.

“Look. I’ll, ah, give you some privacy. You can come out when you’re ready… If you want to. Ollie’s supposed to be here soon. He’s a thrall too.”

Thrall. The word hit like a punch in the gut. And Echo wasn’t sure he wanted to meet some mindless, sex-starved human slave. The vampire closed the door but did not lock it, leaving Echo alone in Dante’s room.

Echo walked around the bed and snatched the note. Scrawled in thin but tidy script was:

Shower’s off the bedroom. Help yourself to my clothes. Eat. And be a good boy while I’m gone. —Master

Echo slammed the paper back on the little table, the lamp wobbling just slightly.

All at once, his reality crushed over him. His legs buckled, and he landed on the bed. No—Echo slid to the floor, hating the idea of Dante Vittori’s bed. His breaths came out quick and shallow as he pulled his knees into his chest.

There was no time for this. Panic would accomplish nothing. Think. Think what to do next. Echo dug his nails into his arms. Nothing was more grounding than pain. He stayed like that until his breathing slowed—it could have been ten minutes or an hour, Echo didn’t know.

His body was stiff and sore from tension, but his mind had calmed and he could think. Dante hadn’t killed him. He didn’t even really torture him. There were no demands for rebel secrets. Dante hadn’t asked him any question at all, not even his name—not that a vampire would care about a human’s name.

Did Dante just want Echo as some fuck toy? Was his blood that good?

Echo shivered, remembering how he’d come as Dante drank his blood and marked him. He realized he still wore those pants, and they were suddenly unbearable.

Echo got up slowly, his legs frustratingly weak. He found the door to the attached bathroom and went in. Turning on the light, Echo saw all sleek white and chrome. Having grown up in movable campsites in the woods, Echo had never seen a bathroom like this. A tub that was nearly as big as Dante’s bed was raised on steps and looked as deep as a small lake. No galvanized metal wash basin or tepid river water here.

The shower was surrounded by all crystalline glass, and it looked like it could fit several people at once. Echo eyed the handles, unsure about them. But he stripped off his pants and underwear and stepped onto the smooth tile.

It took a minute, but Echo managed to get hot water to come from the showerhead. And the feeling was more blissful than he wanted it to be. He found various soaps and started washing away the filth of all that had happened to him.

He touched the thrall mark again and imagined their faces looking at him with disgust, his team members. Even Cross would be disappointed. And Axel… if he knew how utterly Echo had failed…

Echo slammed down the lever, turning the water off. No, failure wasn’t an option—how many times had Axel told him this? While Dante Vittori lived, Echo still had a mission to carry out.

Echo stepped onto a soft rug outside the shower. The cool air raised his flesh as Echo found a towel, dried himself, then wrapped it around his waist. That was when he noticed his arms and the thin pinkish lines of the scratches he’d made earlier. They were fading—right before his eyes. A sinking feeling landed in his gut as he watched the scratches heal.

Across the bathroom was a large mirror above a long vanity. Echo took measured steps as his face came into view. He hadn’t paid attention in the shower. When he’d cleaned the dirt and grime away, his face should have been swollen and tender from his encounter with that first vampire. It wasn’t. Looking back at him with haunted gray eyes was all pale and undamaged skin. His long black hair wetly clung to him, and Echo moved it forward over his shoulder. Then he turned.

His back was just as smooth and unmarred as the rest of his skin. They were gone. His scars. Where Axel had laid each lash into him as the deep reminder of Echo’s failings and improvements, a display of Axel’s attentive tutelage—there was now nothing.

Echo steeled himself inside as his resolve to complete his mission consumed him. Dante would come to regret making Echo his thrall.