She nods, a quick jerk of her chin. "Goodnight, Erik."
The finality in her tone hits like a Templar's oath. I dress quickly, each layer of clothing a piece of my own armor sliding back into place. At the door, I pause, looking back at her. "This isn't over, Bryn."
Her lips twitch, but whether it's a smile or a grimace, I can't tell. "Goodnight, Erik," she repeats, a clear dismissal.
The soft click of the door closing behind me echoes in the silence of the hall.
Lucian
51
The gothic monstrosity looms ahead like Dracula's McMansion got busy with a haunted cathedral. Welcome to Casa de Crazy, formerly known as Azrael's House of Horrors, under new management by Hell's Favorite Bitch.
I half expect to see bats circling the towers and hear organ music echoing from the depths. Seeing it makes my insides twist like a pretzel, memories of this place souring on the back of my tongue.
Seraphina's in there. My angel cake. So close and yet so fucking far.
We're armed to the fangs for this little soirée. I dusted off the old masquerade stash—because if you're going to infiltrate a psychotic vampire's party, you might as well look damn good doing it. Brax is wearing Rhyland's mask, and I've got to say, the sight of not-my-brother wearing my brother's face is enough to make my head spin.
Identity crisis, party of one.
Emily and Sable came through with the fake Soul Stone, a dead ringer for Azrael's old bling.
But the real showstopper? Shadow's Grasp. We're all packing a syringe of that sweet, sweet oblivion juice.
Because when you're crashing the party of the century, you come prepared.
Considering it's Lilith we're up against, we might need the entire fucking pharmacy of Shadow's Grasp to put her ass down.
And you know what? I'm actually hoping we do. Because watching Queen Bitch Supreme convulse while that magical roofie hits her system? That's the kind of entertainment you can't buy tickets for.
Emily gave me the crash course on this magical cocktail earlier—apparently, it turns vampire strength into vampire jelly. Watching Lilith's super-powered ass get knocked down a few pegs?Chef's kiss.Worth every drop of that witchy brew.
Can't wait to see how that poison cocktail pairs with her blood type. Bet it goes great with her bitchy personality.
"All right, kiddies—showtime!" I adjust my mask, scanning our little band of misfits. "Brax, just channel your inner douchebag. Trust me—nothing says 'Rhyland' like being a Grade-A asshole with a side of brooding."
Emily tugs at the edges of Dani's borrowed dress, her gold mask catching the moonlight, "For the last time, Dracula, Iknowmy part. Go to the room we found on the map, set up shop, and turn it into Witch's Kitchen: Binding Spell Edition."
"The full moon's energy will amplify the spell," Sable adds, helpfully, looking like some fairytale princess gone rogue in her pink dress and gilded mask "Should give it enough juice to hold even Lilith."
The bond in my chest pulses like an open wound. Phina's close—so fucking close I can taste it. But that bitch Morgan has got her doped up on whatever mystical roofie she used on Dani—I can feel the fuzzy edges of Phina's consciousness through our connection.
"I'll handle Morgan." My fangs ache just thinking about it. "Just need to get that necromancing nightmare to look me in the eyes."
The ballroom sprawls before us like some twisted vampire's version of the Met Gala. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, casting prismatic light across a sea of masked faces. The air practically vibrates with supernatural energy—and the unmistakable scent of way too many vampires trying to out-design each other.
Welcome to Hell's Fashion Week, where the drinks are blood-red and everyone is dressed to kill—literally.
My eyes scan the crowd, picking through the kaleidoscope of masks and evening wear. There is no sign of my Cupcake, and I don't see Lilith's psychotic ass either. It is an endless parade of immortals playing dress-up while my chest aches with every beat of the bond.
Where are you hiding her, you couture-obsessed demon?
The string quartet in the corner strikes up something classical and pretentious, becauseof courseLilith wouldn't settle for a DJ. Not fancy enough for her bloodsucking debutante ball.
Emily catches my eye across the crowd, giving me that subtle "don't-fuck-this-up" nod before she melts into the throng of party-goers. Sable trails after her like a pink shadow, keeping just enough distance not to draw attention.
Look at you, witches, being all stealthy.
