Blood Prize {Bloody Dance Series #1} BoyxBoy

ONE

The scent of death lingered in the air like a cheap perfume. It's intoxicating smell awoken desire in man and beast alike. The honey nectar that was known as a person's life force painted the walls of this home. It surrounded me like a familiar blanket my mother once wrapped me in.

Walking through this house it was evident that we were too late. That was the M.O. after all. Always a day late, always a dollar short. Outstretching our hands and never able to reach the objects that dangled just a hair's breath out of our reach.

The demon my team and I have been hunting was taunting us. For the last forty years, he has taunted this team I called family. How many times have I walked into a house just as this one? Where the sweet scent of death hung heavily in the air. When the blood of the family painted the walls of their home. All but one room.

The room of the youngest child was always left untouched. The body always was found. The child appeared to just be sleeping. When you touched them, they were stiff and cold. I almost wanted to think there was some kind of mercy that was showed to the youngest child. Demons didn't know mercy.

Walking to the bed I could see the child better. Her blonde hair was resting on the pillow around her head. It looked posed as if someone was trying to create a halo around her. Her eyes were closed; her hands were folded as they rested on her stomach. The pink bunny pajamas she had on looked faded from washes.

Sitting down beside the child I didn't peg her for older than twelve. Younger than this body of mine. Seeing things like this should upset me. It should anger me. It should make me want to scream. My soul didn't stir though.

Within the two hundred years I've been alive this wasn't the worse thing I've saw. Looking at me no one would guess I was older than sixteen, seventeen. I've lived so long though. I've been through so much. At least she died. Sometimes I think death is better than . . . me.

Digging in my pocket I took out a pack of cigarette. Placing the stick between my lips a flame lit at the edge of my finger. There would be no cops to come to this home. There would be no justice for this family. Someone would clean up the mess made inside then a new family much like this girl's would live here.

I exhaled the smoke that filled my lungs. It relaxed me as I touched the soft blonde hair of the young child. If I was a praying man, I might have prayed for her soul. I might have wished she was with her family. I just wasn't that kind of man.

Death had a way of lingering in your memories. On the average day, I didn't even know what month we were in. If you asked me to tell you about the final moments, I could. Closing my eyes, I could picture the day I lost everything in perfect details. The day I died was the only human memory I possessed.

When I woke this particular morning, I went downstairs towards the kitchen. My feet paused on the last step before entering the kitchen. I could hear my parents talking. If I looked around the corner, I could see the red hair of my mother. I could remember her green eyes. She had always been a tall, pretty woman. She was the trophy wife.

"What would you like me to say to your children? How am I suppose to explain to them why their father is never around?" It was my mother's voice that spoke. She had a flare for the dramatics. None of my father's children cared when he got home. His wife did though.

"Tell them if they want the big house and the cars and games I provide for this family I have to work! Nothing is free Emma!" They were fighting again. It was nothing new in my home. It seemed as if the longer my parents stayed married, the worse their marriage became. Maybe that was just how marriage works.

"You're supposed to be their father, not their debit card." I didn't think my father was just a bank number. He was always busy, always working. I couldn't remember a time when he wasn't leaving in the middle of dinner for work.