The Soul Reaver (Myre Series Book One)

1. The night of souls

2018

Daphne woke to sirens blaring through the evening air. She nestled into her blanket, wanting to shut out the world. Pressing a pillow over her head for added silence, Daphne pulled her legs up to curl in on herself. Her hands were clammy with sweat, and she squeezed her eyes shut until colored spots danced in the dark.

It was almost time.

Another ambulance drove past her building, sending her jerking upright as her pillow tumbled off the mattress with a feathery sound.

"Goddamn it! Tell me again why we decided to squat five blocks away from the hospital?" Daphne looked down at Rufus, her pet rat, whom she obviously didn't expect to answer. He twitched his nose, making his whiskers dance, and used the edge of her blanket to climb onto the low-lying mattress before scuttling over to burrow into the crook of her elbow.

"I know. I know. I should get up. It's the night, after all." She ruffled his beige fur, then placed him gently down before climbing out of bed with a grimace. "You'll have a cake ready for me when I get back, right?"

Rufus vanished into a fold of her duvet. Cheeky rat.

She cracked her knuckles and yawned, then cursed and headed over to the small kitchen while the floorboards creaked with every step. She splashed some water on her face and brushed her teeth, belly rumbling all the while.

She didn't need her stomach telling her it was time; Daphne was unable to ignore the acute hunger steamrolling its way through her every cell.

There was no point in prolonging the inevitable, but by all that was good and holy, she hated taking what she needed. The "Night of Souls," as she'd come to call it, was an ordeal—one she was forced to reenact every year.

And of all the days the year had, the Night of Souls had to be on her damn birthday—something she already dreaded. She was getting older but not particularly wiser. Sadder maybe. More jaded.

On the upside, she didn't have to kill someone every night, just on her birthday. One life exchanged for another year of her own.

What a pitiful existence.

Daphne meandered past her mattress and opened a small cupboard in the corner of the room, one that contained the few clothes she owned. She quickly got dressed, throwing on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and her old, sturdy boots.

She grabbed her Luckies from the nightstand, nearly knocking over the old computer speakers sitting on her laptop in the process. Cursing her jittery hands, Daphne pushed the cigs into her back pocket. Blowing out a long breath in a pathetic attempt to calm herself, she looked around her room.

The last golden-red rays of sunlight flooded through the large windows. The room wasn't that big, but it contained her whole world and was safer than almost anywhere she'd lived before.

Countless paintings lined the walls, and every part of uncovered drywall was drawn on as well. Drawing calmed Daphne; it took her away from the grim reality she could never escape. It kept her sane. Apart from that, it was her only source of income. She sold pictures over the internet—granted, not as many as she would've liked but enough to keep her and Rufus fed. She'd tried working as a waitress once, but just as it had been with school, being around people had made her crave them, their energy. It was better not to put herself in tempting situations like that lest she lose control.

Daphne drew pictures of landscapes she'd never seen, of skylines she had, but mostly she drew feelings. The dark red of anger, the black of hopelessness, the gray of loneliness, and the dark blue of melancholy were frequent and prominent ones in her work. Here and there were remnants of lighter feelings: specks of light yellow to symbolize optimism and warmth, mingling with the beautiful green of hope. Yes, she had hope as well.