Chapter 8 "Blood for Blood"
EMBER
Tuesday passed like any other day.
Ember woke up, showered, dressed. She and Maya grabbed breakfast at the dining hall rubbery eggs and burnt toast, standard cafeteria fare. They went to their morning lecture, then to the library to work on their respective papers.
Everything was normal.
Except Maya kept staring at her.
"What?" Ember asked finally, looking up from her laptop.
"Nothing," Maya said quickly, looking away.
"You've been weird all day. Are you mad at me about something?"
"No! God, no. I'm just tired."
But that wasn't it. Ember could tell. Maya's eyes kept darting toward her, then away, like she was watching for something. Waiting for something.
"Is this about Friday?" Ember asked quietly. "About the party? Because I know I was a mess, and I'm sorry"
"It's not about that," Maya interrupted. "I told you, I'm just tired. Jordan kept me out late last night and I didn't sleep well."
Ember wanted to push, but she knew Maya well enough to know when to back off. If something was really wrong, Maya would tell her eventually.
They worked in silence for another hour before Maya suddenly stood up.
"I need to go," she said, shoving her laptop into her bag.
"We were supposed to study until three"
"I know, but I forgot I have a thing. I'll see you back at the room later, okay?"
And she was gone before Ember could respond.
Ember stared after her, confusion and hurt warring in her chest. What had she done? Why was Maya acting so strange?
She tried to focus on her essay a comparative analysis of Gothic heroines in nineteenth-century literature but the words kept blurring together. Finally, she gave up and headed back to Sterling Hall.
The afternoon was unseasonably warm, students sprawled on the quad in t-shirts despite it being November. Ember walked slowly, letting the sun warm her face, trying to shake the unease that had settled over her.
Everything was fine. She was fine. Maya was just tired, stressed about classes or something with Jordan.
There was no reason to feel like something terrible was coming.
No reason at all.
MAYA
Maya practically ran from the library, her heart pounding.
She'd been watching Ember all day, looking for signs! signs of what, she wasn't even sure. Possession? Demonic influence? It sounded insane even in her own head.
But she'd seen what she'd seen this morning.
The black eyes. The impossible language. The way Ember had sat up like a puppet on strings.
Maya ducked into an empty study room and pulled out her phone, opening a private browser window. She couldn't risk this appearing in her search history where Ember might see it.
Speaking unknown language while sleeping
The results were a mix of medical sites and paranormal blogs. Sleep talking was normal. Speaking gibberish was normal. But speaking in a coherent language you didn't know?
Xenoglossy, one site called it. A paranormal phenomenon.
Maya's hands shook as she clicked through. Most of the information was clearly nonsense alien abductions, past life regression, obvious hoaxes. But buried in the ridiculous claims were a few that made her stomach turn.
Demonic possession often manifests as speaking in unknown tongues...
The possessed may have no memory of speaking or acting under influence...
Physical signs include: black or completely dilated eyes, unnatural strength, knowledge of hidden things...
Maya closed the browser and tried to steady her breathing. This was crazy. Ember wasn't possessed. Ember was her best friend, her roommate, the sweetest person she knew.
But those eyes. God, those eyes.
Maya tried to remember the exact words Ember had spoken. They'd sounded old, formal, like something from a Shakespeare play but darker. Angrier.
She opened her browser again and typed in the only phrase she could clearly remember: sanguis pro sanguine
The translation appeared immediately: Blood for blood.
Maya's phone slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the desk.
JORDAN
Jordan Hayes had noticed his girlfriend acting strange all day.
They'd had a great time last night dinner at that new Italian place, a movie, then back to his apartment where they'd stayed up talking until past two AM. Maya had seemed happy, relaxed.
But today? Today she was jumpy, distracted, constantly checking her phone.
"Babe," he said, catching her hand as they walked across campus. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," Maya said automatically.
"Maya. Come on. You've been weird since this morning."
She stopped walking, and for a moment, Jordan thought she was going to tell him. But then she just shook her head.
"It's just stress. Finals coming up, and everything with that student dying it's got me freaked out."
"Tyler Brett? Did you know him?"
"Not really. But it's just... scary, you know? Someone our age just dying suddenly." Maya's eyes were distant. "Makes you think about how fragile everything is."
Jordan pulled her into a hug. "Hey. You're okay. I'm okay. We're all okay."
But Maya didn't relax into his embrace like she usually did. She felt tense, rigid, like she was waiting for something bad to happen.
"Want to grab dinner tonight?" Jordan asked. "We could go to that Thai place you like."
"I can't. I need to, I have to be at the dorm tonight. Ember needs me."
"Is she okay?"
"Yeah. No. I don't know." Maya pulled away, running her hands through her hair. "I just need to be there. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Jordan said, though he felt a flicker of concern. "But Maya, if something's wrong if you need to talk about anything I'm here, okay?"
"I know. Thank you." She kissed him quickly. "I'll text you later."
And then she was gone, practically jogging toward Sterling Hall.
Jordan watched her go, frowning. Something was definitely wrong.
DETECTIVE SARAH MONROE
The apartment on Maple Street was a crime scene nightmare.
Ratan Walsh, the coincidence had caused some initial confusion had been dead for approximately three days. The landlord had noticed the smell and called it in. By the time Sarah arrived, the medical examiner was already on scene, and the stench of decomposition was making her eyes water.
Rayan Walsh, twenty-eight, worked as a software developer for a tech startup downtown. According to his coworkers, he'd called in sick Friday, said he wasn't feeling well. No one had heard from him since.
And there, on his forehead, was the mark.
The scarlet rose, identical to the one on Tyler Brett. Still faintly warm, even after three days.
"This is officially a pattern," Officer Chen said, standing beside Sarah in the hallway while the ME worked. "Two victims, same cause, same mark. What the hell are we dealing with?"
"I don't know," Sarah admitted. "But we need to find a connection. Did they know each other? Frequent the same places? Have mutual friends?"
"I'll start digging into Rayans background. See if there's any overlap with Brett."
Sarah nodded, but something told her they wouldn't find one. Tyler was a twenty-year-old college student. Rayan was a twenty-eight-year-old professional. Different worlds, different social circles.
But the same death.
The same mark.
Dr. Waters emerged from the apartment, pulling off her gloves. Her face was grim.
"Same as Brett," she said without preamble. "Massive internal hemorrhaging. Every organ shut down simultaneously. And that mark"
She shook her head. "I've sent samples to the lab, but I'm telling you, Detective, it's not a burn. It's not a brand. It's like the tissue died from the inside out, leaving that pattern behind."
"Is that medically possible?"
"No. Which is why I'm at a loss." Dr. Waters' usually professional demeanor cracked slightly. "In twenty years of forensic pathology, I've never seen anything like this. Whatever killed these men it's not in any textbook I've read."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. "Keep me updated on the lab results. And Doctor let's keep the details about the mark quiet. I don't want this turning into a media circus."
"Agreed."
Sarah left the apartment and sat in her car, pulling up everything she had on both victims.
Tyler Brett: 20, college student, athlete, social, well-liked. Died early Saturday morning.
Rayan Walsh 28, software developer, quiet, kept to himself according to neighbors. Died sometime Friday.
Friday.
Both had died on Friday.
Sarah's mind raced. What had Rayan Walsh been doing Friday? Where had he been? Had he been at a bar? A party? Somewhere he might have crossed paths with someone from Ravencrest?
She needed to canvas his apartment building, talk to neighbors, check security footage from nearby businesses.
And she needed to figure out what the hell that mark meant.
Sarah pulled out her notes from her earlier research. The Scarlet Woman. A folk tale about a cursed woman whose lover died with a mark on his forehead.
It was insane. Curses weren't real. Supernatural forces didn't kill people.
But what if the story was based on something real? What if, a hundred years ago, there really had been a series of mysterious deaths? What if someone was recreating them?
A copycat killer with access to historical records?
Sarah made a decision. She'd visit the Ashcroft Historical Society tomorrow. Talk to Margaret Crane. See if there were any actual records of similar deaths in the early 1900s.
It was a long shot. But right now, long shots were all she had.