Page 3 of Something Worth Keeping
Cillian’s entire being screamed to follow.
His grip tightened on the dead man’s jacket. The fabric ripped, and the body slumped even further, one hand dragging against the pavement. He looked down at it, at the Vane Syndicate tattoo stark against cold flesh, and felt nothing but irritation at the obstacle between himself and…
Julian.
The name blazed across Cillian’s mind like one of those annoying neon signs, even though the human hadn’t offered it. Cillian had read it from the security badge clipped to the man’s belt, from the library card visible in his wallet tucked deep in Julian’s pocket, and from the name written in neat block letters on the side of the cardboard box - J. PURDY - PERSONAL ITEMS.
Julian Purdy.
Five syllables that rewrote the architecture of Cillian’s existence.
His shadows surged again, tendrils creeping along the ground toward where Julian had stood, as if they could track his footsteps through the concrete. One tendril coiled around the spot where Julian’s shoe had pressed into a shallow puddle, caressing the water as if it held sacred residue.
“No,” Cillian said out loud, his voice rougher than intended.
The shadows retreated, sulking.
He forced himself to focus on the corpse and his job at hand - the reason he’d been in this alley in the first place. He and his brothers had been systematically tracking Marcus Vane’s distribution network, eliminating the rot one piece at a time.
The blue dumpster, three streets over.
Julian’s voice echoed in his mind, calm and precise. Matter of fact. As if he discussed body disposal the way other humans discussed weather patterns or sports scores.
Statistically speaking, this man was involved in activities that caused measurable harm to the community.
No fear. No horror. Just...observation as if he was seeing the truth in his own unique way.
Cillian’s chest constricted around something that felt dangerously close to hunger. Not the hollow ache that came from feeding on corruption and sin. His current urge was different, sharper - a need that had nothing to do with sustenance and everything to do withproximity.
He wanted to crack open Julian’s skull and examine every thought. He was desperate to catalogue each logical conclusion, each blunt assessment, each moment of fearless practicality.In short, he needed to wrap himself around that bright, unflinching mind and never let go.
Mine.
The word resonated through every shadow, every fragment of darkness that comprised Cillian’s form. His shadows trembled with agreement, pressing against the boundaries of his human shape as if they might burst free and hunt Julian down on their own.
“Dismember the body first,” Cillian muttered, dragging his attention back to the task. “Reduce the volume.”
Efficient. Julian had called himselfefficient, as if that explained everything. As if standing in an alley with an eldritch horror and offering disposal advice was simply the most logical course of action.
Cillian’s fingers sank into the corpse’s shoulder. Shadows wrapped around limbs, and he pulled.
The work should have grounded him. Violence always did. There was something familiar about the rhythm of destruction, the satisfying separation of joint from socket, that particular snap when a bone broke. He’d dismantled hundreds of bodies over the centuries. Thousands, perhaps. Cillian had stopped counting after the first fifty years.
But as he worked on his current victim, his mind refused to focus.
You’re leaking shadows onto the pavement.
Julian had said those words the same way someone might point out a loose thread or an untied shoelace - a minor imperfection requiring correction.
Cillian looked down. His shadows had spread across the alley again, drawn toward the corner where Julian had vanished. They pooled against the brick wall, climbing upward as if they might scale the building and track Julian’s path from the rooftops.
“Stop it.”
They obeyed, reluctantly. The effort it took to rein them in sent a tremor through his human form. His hands flickered, solid flesh bleeding into smoke and back again.
This is wrong.Dangerous.Cillian had seen others of his kind fall into obsession. He had watched ancient beings reduce themselves to shadows of shadows, consumed by fixations that burned away rational thought. The Order had rules about that sort of thing - protocols that were only mentioned in hushed whispers.
I should report this.Cillian paused for a moment, a leg in one hand and anarm in the other. He could mention it to one of his brothers - Thorn would be the obvious person, as he gave the illusion of having the most authority, although Silas was the fixer of the group. As for Rook - Cillian considered him for a moment and then dismissed him. Rook was good at what he did, but his chaotic energy wouldn’t be useful in Cillian’s particular issue.
