Slowly, he released his hold on her, his hands moving gently, almost cautiously, down her back, lingering for a moment at the small of it as though grounding her, as though making sure she was truly there and not slipping away again. Then he carefully lifted his chin from the top of her head, his movements deliberate, controlled, as if she were something fragile, something that required the utmost care, something that might break if handled even slightly wrong. And at this moment, she wasn't far from that truth.
Elaine raised her head slowly, her movements slightly unsteady, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his. There was something childlike in her gaze, vulnerable and searching, like someone looking for reassurance, for safety, for something solid to hold onto in the aftermath of chaos.
"Allan…" she called again, her voice low, almost fragile.
"Mmm," he responded softly, just as before, his tone calm and grounding. "I'm here." His hand resumed its gentle motion on her back, a quiet, repetitive comfort meant to steady her breathing, to pull her back completely from whatever lingering shadows clung to her.
"Are you alright now?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers, serious but softened at the edges, as though he was carefully watching for any sign that she might break again.
"Yes," she answered, though her voice carried a faint trace of exhaustion. But then she paused, her expression shifting slightly as something registered. A metallic taste lingered in her mouth, sharp and unfamiliar. Her brows furrowed as she slowly lifted her hand to her lips, her movements hesitant.
Her eyes widened almost instantly.
Blood.
"What the—where did all this blood come from?" she asked, her voice rising slightly, confusion laced heavily with unease as she turned her gaze to him.
He said nothing.
That silence was enough.
Her expression faltered, realization dawning slowly, dread creeping in. "It isn't…" she began, her voice dropping, stretching as though she was afraid to complete the thought. "I did this," she concluded finally, her tone trembling as the weight of it settled fully.
Her eyes moved quickly, scanning him, searching, and then she saw it.
His arms. His neck. His palms.
Angry, deep scratch marks ran across his skin, some jagged, some long, the flesh torn as though shredded by something feral. Blood still lingered, fresh, not yet dried.
"Oh…" The word escaped her in a breath, her voice breaking as tears immediately gathered in her eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, she reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered before finally brushing lightly against one of the wounds. "Oh, Allan… I'm sorry…" A fresh stream of tears slipped down her cheeks, uncontrolled, guilt evident in every movement, every breath.
"I'm sorr—" she tried again, but her words were cut short as he pulled her into another embrace, firm yet gentle, as though silencing her apology without needing words.
"It's nothing," he said simply.
"No," she protested immediately, her voice muffled against him, her grip tightening slightly. "This is the second time I've hurt you like this."
"Well, you didn't," he replied calmly, almost dismissively. "You aren't capable of causing such harm." And there was truth in that, this wasn't entirely her, not really.
"It's the same thing," she insisted, her voice cracking slightly as she cried into his chest.
"Well, if you say so," he said lightly, his tone easing just a bit. "Just know that it isn't hurting."
There was a brief pause, a shift in the air, before he spoke again, his voice suddenly carrying an unexpected hint of playfulness. "Wanna see something?"
She pulled back slightly from his embrace, confusion flickering across her face. "What?" she asked, her brows knitting together as she tilted her chin up slightly to meet his eyes.
"Look," he said, lifting his palm up for her to see.
Her gaze fixed on it.
And then she froze.
Her mouth parted slightly as she watched the wounds begin to close. Slowly at first, then more noticeably, the torn skin pulled together, knitting itself back seamlessly as though time itself was reversing. The blood disappeared, the scratches faded, until there was nothing left, not even a mark to suggest they had ever been there.
"Wha—" she started, but no words followed, her mouth hanging open in stunned silence.
The same happened to the injuries on his arms, his neck, everything healing as though it had never existed.
"Wow…" she finally managed, her voice filled with genuine awe.
"See?" he said with a small smile. "Nothing."
"I know vampires can self-heal, but… Phantom Lords?" she said, her tone shifting into curiosity, her earlier distress momentarily replaced by intrigue.
"It's just one of my abilities," he replied simply, as though it were nothing worth noting.
He watched her closely again, noting the steadiness of her breathing now, the absence of tears. She was calmer. That was enough.
"Do you want to hear about your dream now, or—" he began, drawing the words out slightly.
"Yes," she cut in immediately, firm and certain this time. "I want to hear it now. It must have been quite something if it made me hurt you like this."
"You didn't hurt me," he corrected again, though more softly this time.
"But before you start," she added, pushing herself up, "I need to wash the blood off my hands and mouth." She paused briefly before adding, "You should do the same." And with that, she turned and walked toward the bathroom, her steps more stable now, though the weight of everything still lingered in her posture.
Her eyes remained fixed on his as she listened, completely attentive, absorbing every detail of the dream he recounted.
"Eleven fifty…" she repeated slowly, the words heavy on her tongue, as though saying them out loud made them more real. "Friday the seventh…" Her voice dropped slightly. "That's a day from today." Panic crept in almost immediately, subtle at first but growing, threading through her words. The nine days she had been given were almost over.
"Well, it's a good thing we're heading back to school today," he said.
"I wish I was like you," Elaine said with a sigh, drawing her knees up slightly and resting her head against them as she looked at him.
"Why?" he asked.
She studied him for a moment. He was different now, back to being Allan. Not as intensely gentle as before, not as openly soft, but not uncaring either. Just… restrained.
"You're so confident nothing will go wrong," she said quietly. "You're so sure that I'll be fine. You're just… optimistic." Her voice softened toward the end, carrying something almost like envy.
"It's normal to be scared," he replied evenly. "One wrong move and you'll be completely lost to the spirit. Just a host. You'll be gone." He paused briefly, watching her reaction before continuing. "And then I'd have no choice but to kill you."
Her eyes widened immediately.
"K-kill me?" she stuttered.
"Of course," he answered without hesitation. "We can't let a spirit live among us now, can we?"
She couldn't argue with that. She knew he was right. And somehow, that made it worse.
"Why are you suddenly being pessimistic?" she asked, her voice rising slightly in frustration. "You were just saying I'd be alright, and now you're saying you'd kill me."
"I thought that was what you wanted," he stated calmly.
"Well, I don't want that," she snapped back. "Be confident about this, and I'll be the doubtful one."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle, but unmistakable.
She paused, noticing it. He was smiling. Or… almost smiling. And for some reason, she liked it.
But the thought didn't last long.
"I'm still confused," she continued. "If I'm really a medium, why hasn't this been happening before? Why is it only at Herbert Wilbur? I should have been used to this since childhood or something. You understand, right?"
"Have you ever been to a cemetery?" he asked.
She paused briefly. "No."
"That's why."
"I don't understand," she admitted honestly.
"Herbert Wilbur is more of a place for both the living and the dead," he explained, his tone straightforward, though his hand gestures softened it slightly. "There are a lot of spirits there. More than you're used to." He paused briefly, as though searching for a simpler way to explain. "It's like pouring sugar in a place where there are no ants, and then pouring that same sugar where there are ants. What happens?"
"The ants would surround it," she answered.
"Yes. That's your case. You've never been around many of the dead before, but Herbert Wilbur is different."
"And that's why all this is happening," she concluded.
"Yes."
Silence settled briefly.
"And it's not like you're just getting possessed," he continued, referring back to her earlier statement.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You don't know how to control it," he said. "You can't control the memories you tap into, the sounds you hear, the sensations you feel that aren't yours, and most importantly, the things you do in your subconscious. And the spirit you let in." He paused, looking at her more intently now. "You let that spirit in. Probably without even realizing it. You severed something that belongs to it and didn't return it. That's how you ended up here."
"H-how do I control it?" she asked, panic flickering in her eyes again.
"That's a topic for later," he replied calmly. "Save your strength for Friday the seventh."
The way he said it sent a chill down her spine.
"On that day… am I going to have to return what I severed from it?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered immediately.
"I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to return…" she said slowly.
"Probably a body part," he added.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"A b-body part?" she repeated, hoping, desperately that he wasn't serious.
Silence followed.
He wasn't joking.
"I searched your memories," he continued. "It's unclear… blurry. But from the skull mark at the back of your neck…" His gaze lingered there briefly. "I'm betting you should be looking for a skull."