"You... treacherous..." The words fall from her blood-red lips like dying leaves. Her body sways—then she crumples, folding in on herself like a broken marionette. Her precious mask skitters across the floor, a final insult to her infamous vanity.
Nighty night, bitch.
"Now that's what I call supernatural synchronized swimming." I flash Brax a fanged grin, but he just stares at me like I'm speaking Klingon.Tough crowd. Apparently demons don't appreciate quality pop culture references.
Two syringes of witch-brew to knock her out.Impressive.Though how long this magical roofie will keep her ass down is anyone's guess. Ancient vampires aren't exactly covered in Emily's witchy manual.
Emily bursts through the doorway. "What now?"
I yank my custom Glock from its holster, loaded with special wooden rounds. The grip feels cold against my palm as I press it into Brax's waiting hand.
"Keep Sleeping Ugly here nice and docile." My fangs itch with the need to end this once and for all. "If she so much as twitches, put a round in her kneecaps. But keep her dead ass alive—we still need that other half of the Soul Stone."
Brax's fingers wrap around the gun with practiced ease, the metal clicking ominously as he chambers a round. His borrowed face—Rhyland's face—twists into a predatory grin that would make our resident Viking proud.
The bond trembles in my chest, weak and fading.
"Luc...ian..."
Phina's voice barely whispers through our connection, each syllable drenched in pain. The echo of her suffering tears through my heart like barbed wire. She's reaching for me with whatever strength she has left.
The connection pulses downward, a failing beacon in the darkness. "Emily," my voice comes out rough, all traces of humor stripped away. "You're with me. Sable, stay with Brax." My fangs elongate. "Time to collect what this bitch took from me."
I blast through the crowd like a bullet, scattering champagne flutes and immortal socialites in my wake. The basement entrance gapes before us—a familiar mouth of darkness that still haunts my nightmares. These tunnels are etched into my memory like scars, every cursed corner a reminder of darker days.
"Jesus Christ," Emily pants behind me, her heels clicking frantically to keep pace. "What kind of psycho builds a dungeon under their mansion?"
The kind that makes Hannibal Lecter look like a amateur, I think, but the words stick in my throat. The bond's getting weaker with every step, and there's no time for a history lesson about Azrael's house of horrors.
The temperature drops as I descend, the air growing thick with the stench of old blood and darker magic. Azrael's legacy seeps from these stone walls like poison. The golden thread of our bond flickers weakly in my chest, growing fainter with each step—like someone's slowly smothering a flame.
Hold on, angel face. Just hold on.
The passage opens into the cavern—that massive underground chamber where Azrael conducted his worst atrocities. We round the final corner, following that weakening pulse of our bond, and—
My legs give out. The world tilts sideways as my knees crack against stone. My lungs forget how to work, throat closing around a scream that won't come.
No.
My world fractures, reality splintering like a broken mirror. The scene before me carves itself into my retinas, a nightmare made flesh that tears my sanity to shreds.
"Dear God..." Emily's horrified whisper barely registers through the roaring in my ears. My mind short-circuits, refusing to process what my eyes are seeing.
No. No. No. Not like this. Not her.
Danica
52
"So, Lightborn..." The warrior before me strokes his beard, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "The guardian—Vidar—how did you manage to best such a legendary fighter?"
I suppress a sigh. If I had a gold piece for every time someone's asked about the trial tonight, I could buy my own realm.
"Strategy over strength," I say smoothly, smiling diplomatically. The truth—that both Rhyland and I nearly met our end at Vidar's hands—stays locked behind my teeth—no need to give these warriors more gossip fodder.
A horn blast cuts through the chatter, announcing dinner.
Thank God for small mercies.
