ADAM DADA'S VENGEANCE

WHY IS THERE BLOOD MA?

The air in Grandma Rachel’s house always felt heavy, like walking through a pool of invisible syrup. To twelve-year-old Adam, the house didn’t just smell of old wood and dried herbs, it smelled of copper.

It was the smell of the red smudge that never went away.

Every time Adam looked at his grandmother, he didn't see the floral headscarf she wore or the kind wrinkles around her eyes. He saw a thick, visceral smear of crimson right in the center of her forehead. It looked fresh—wet enough to drip—yet it never moved.

"Adam, stop staring and eat your porridge," Grandma Rachel said, her voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement.

"Yes, Grandma," Adam whispered, looking down at his bowl.

He was only twelve, too young to understand why the world looked different to him than it did to others. He thought everyone saw the shadows behind the neighbors' doors or the flickering grey mist around the sick. But the blood on Grandma was different. It pulsed.

Today, the pulse was louder. It throbbed in time with Adam’s own heartbeat. He felt a strange, bubbling heat in his palms—a sensation he’d felt before when he touched a bird with a broken wing and watched it fly away moments later. But today, the heat wasn't for healing. It was for the truth.

He followed her into the dimly lit sitting room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the afternoon sun.

"Grandma?" Adam’s voice trembled, but he stood his ground.

Rachel turned, her silhouette sharp against the sliver of light from the window. The blood on her forehead seemed to glow a deeper, angrier purple. "What is it, child? I told you I have business with Goliath."

"I... I have to ask," Adam said, his courage catching in his throat. He stepped closer, squinting at the mark. "Why is there always blood on your forehead, Grandma? Does it hurt? Can I help you wash it off?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Grandma Rachel didn't move. She didn't blink. For a second, her face contorted into something ancient and unrecognizable.

"What did you say?" she hissed.

"The blood," Adam persisted, his innocence acting as his shield. "It’s right there. It looks so heavy. Why won’t it go away?"

He didn't get to hear her answer.

CRACK.

A hand the size of a shovel swung from the shadows behind him. The blow caught Adam squarely on the back of his head. The world tilted violently. The floor rushed up to meet him, and the taste of dust filled his mouth as his temple hit the floorboards.

Stars exploded behind his eyelids. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt like lead. His vision blurred into a hazy tunnel, and his ears began to ring with a high-pitched whine.

He couldn't move, but he wasn't fully unconscious. He lay there, a discarded doll on the rug, as heavy footsteps vibrated through the floorboards near his head.

"You're getting careless, Rachel," a booming, gravelly voice echoed. It was Goliath—the massive, hulking man who stayed in the shadows of the house, the one Adam was told never to speak to.

"He's just a boy," Rachel retorted, her voice losing its grandmotherly warmth. It was cold now, sharp as a razor. "I thought he was blind to it. Never knew he was like the rest of them were before they died."

Adam’s breath hitched, but he stayed still, feigning the sleep of the dead.

"He isn't blind," Goliath growled. Adam heard the creak of a leather chair. "He saw the mark. That means he has the Dada family gift. The same curse his father had—the sight to see the evil on a person’s brow. And if he has the sight, he has the touch, too. The healing."

"I know," Rachel said softly. "I felt the heat coming off him just now."

"Then why is he still breathing?" Goliath demanded. The floor shook as he stood up. "You wiped out every single member of the Dada line. You cleared the path. His mother, his father, his sisters—you turned them into whispers in the wind. Why did you spare this one? He’s a loose end. A dangerous one."

Adam’s heart hammered against his ribs so hard he feared they would hear it. She killed them? The fire that took his parents, the 'accident' that claimed his sisters... it wasn't fate. It was the woman who made him porridge every morning.

"He was... different," Rachel murmured, and for a moment, she sounded almost human. "The others fought back. This one just looked at me and smiled in his cradle. I thought I could suppress it. I thought I could use him."

"You can't use a Dada," Goliath spat. "They are the light that exposes us. Look at him! Even half-dead on the floor, his hands are glowing. He’s already trying to heal his own skull."

Adam looked at his fingers. They were indeed shimmering with a soft, golden hue, working instinctively to knit back the damage Goliath had done. He tried to quench the light, terrified.

"He is a threat, Rachel," Goliath continued. "If he lives to see eighteen, his power will lock in. He’ll be able to see not just the blood, but the souls we’ve taken. He’ll see the faces of his family in your shadow."

"Not yet," Rachel said, her voice final. "I have a use for a healer. Lock him away. Let him rot in the dark for a while. Maybe the hunger will break his spirit."

"Fine," Goliath grumbled.

Adam felt a massive, calloused hand wrap around his ankle. The grip was like an iron shackle. Without a word of pity, Goliath began to walk, dragging Adam across the hardwood floor like a sack of grain.

Adam’s head bumped painfully against the doorframe as he was hauled out of the sitting room. He caught one last glimpse of Grandma Rachel. She was standing by the window, rubbing her forehead right where the blood was. She looked tired, but she didn't look sorry.

The floor changed from wood to cold, damp stone as they reached the back of the house. Goliath kicked open the heavy wooden door to the store—a windowless, cramped room filled with rusted tools and the smell of rot.

With a grunt of effort, Goliath swung his leg, tossing Adam into the corner amongst the cobwebs and burlap sacks.

"Sleep well, little seer," Goliath chuckled, the sound like stones grinding together. "Try to heal the hunger. See if that works."

The heavy door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place with a definitive thud.

Adam lay in the absolute darkness, the golden glow of his hands the only light in the room. He curled into a ball, the realization of his family’s fate washing over him in waves of grief. He was alone, locked in a cage by the monster who wore his grandmother's skin.

But as he touched his throbbing head, the golden light grew brighter. They thought they had trapped a boy. They didn't realize they had locked up a storm.