I'm usually more of a "live and let live" kind of vampire—you know, if you don't count the occasional consensual blood drinking. But right now? With my angel in the clutches of Hell's Next Top Model? Yeah, this situation's gone from zero to apocalyptic real quick. And if I'm going to crash Lilith's little hostage party, I need my mojo firing on all cylinders.
Wooden bullets slam into my chest, burning like holy fire. Fuck. Officer Perez switched her ammo while I was busy draining the others dry. Smart girl.
I blur forward, ripping the weapon from her grip before her finger can squeeze off another round. Her eyes widen in terror as I lock onto her gaze."Listen up, Officer Not-Buffy," I growl, blood still dripping from my fangs—my compulsion sliding into her mind like silk. "Tonight's highlight reel? Boring traffic accident. No vampire shenanigans, no blood fountains, definitely no sexy undead badass using EMTs as juice boxes. Got it?"
She nods mechanically, holstering her empty weapon. The wooden bullets in my chest burn like a bitch as I work them out one by one. I pluck the last wooden slug from my chest. The wound knitting shut like a zipper. Fishing my phone from my blood-soaked pocket, I punch in Emily's number. "Round up the Scooby Gang. We are going to war."
"Jesus Christ, what the hell have you stirred up now?" Emily snaps with that unique brand of exasperated snark she saves for me. "Some of us were actually trying to sleep, you inconsiderate bloodsucker."
"She took—" My phone buzzes, cutting off my fury-fueled rant.
Unknown:
Trade offering, darling. One mystical rock and Rhyland for your precious Halo. Tick Tock.
I clench my jaw. This fucking bitch has my angel. And she thinks she can bargain?
I'm bleeding all over my iPhone's keyboard as I type, fingers trembling with rage:
My phone cracks under my grip, Emily's voice crackling through the dying speaker.
Touch her, and I'll personally introduce your organs to daylight.
Such language!Tsk, tsk.And here I thought we could be civil. Your angel says hi, by the way. Well, she would, but she's a bit gagged and drugged at the moment.
Shall we discuss terms like grown-ups? Soul Stone, Rhyland for the angelic bimbo. Or...
I will start express shipping her home to you. Prime delivery. Maybe start with those gorgeous wings? They'd make such lovely wall decorations ??
I'm going to wear your fucking spine as a belt.
Cute. Clock's ticking, lover boy—24 hours. Or your precious angel becomes a DIY craft project. Starting with those pretty feathers...
Where?
Come now, darling. Even someone of your limited mental capacity should recall what I like. Do keep up, pet. Time's wasting, and so is your angel's patience... not to mention her blood supply ??
When I get to you, I will introduce your face to a wood chipper. Repeatedly.
Better hurry, darling. Your precious angel's hourglass is running out. And I do so love to play with my food.
I reach out through our bond, searching for that warm golden thread that always leads me to my angel. But there's nothing—just a cold, empty void where her light should be. That bitch must have dosed her with the same mystical roofie she used on Dani.
Fuck!
Her next text pings in, giving me a location. Well, isn't that just fucking perfect? Not Oregon—Seattle, specifically Azrael's architectural nightmare. You know, that Dr. Seuss mansion on steroids where he played "torture chamber interior decorator" with his human collection.
Because of course Lilith would pick that place. Nothing says 'I'm an evil bitch' quite like recycling another psycho's torture palace. Points for dramatic irony, I guess, but minus several million for originality.
"Lucian! What the hell? Are you there?" Emily's snark evaporates when I finally speak.
"It's Lilith." The name tastes like piss in my mouth. "She's got Phina. Wants to trade her for the Soul Stone and Rhyland."
The line goes so quiet I can hear Emily's heart skip a beat. Her breathing turns shallow, and I know she's processing the full weight of how monumentally fucked we are.
And that's saying something, considering our usual threshold for disaster sits somewhere between 'apocalyptic' and 'oh shit.'
"Get your ass over here," I growl into the phone, texting my location with more force than necessary. Like somehow stabbing the screen harder will make Emily materialize faster. "And bring one of my spare cars. The one that's not currently doing its best pretzel impression in a ditch."
