The mansion itself is some unholy union of modern architecture and supervillain chic—all sleek lines and polished surfaces.
Where the hell am I?
The grand staircase sweeps down into a two-story great room where wall-to-wall windows frame the churning sea like nature's own IMAX screen. Crystal chandeliers drip from elaborate coffered ceilings, throwing prismatic light across marble floors so polished I can see my reflection in them.
The sound of violins drifts up as we descend, and I nearly wipe out in these medieval torture devices masquerading as designer heels.
The place is teeming with the vampire elites, all decked out in black-tie attire like this is some twisted immortal prom night. Everyone's sporting masquerade masks, only adding to the eerie vibe.
What's the deal with vampires and masquerade balls, anyway?
"Move it," Morgan commands, like I'm her personal show pony.
I plant my feet, summoning my inner stubborn mule, but suddenly my body jerks forward like I'm a marionette on invisible strings. I stumble, barely avoiding a face-first introduction to the marble floor.
"Jesus, do you have to be such a Grade-A bitch?" I snarl under my breath, burning holes in the back of her head.
Morgan glances back, her smile sharp as a razor. "Behave, and I won't have to be. Simple as that. Now, be a good girl and put on your pretty smile. We wouldn't want to disappoint our hostess, would we?"
Great. I'm trapped in some twisted fucked-up soirée, being paraded around like a prized poodle by Witch Bitch while Vampire Regina George probably plots my demise over chilled blood champagne.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Morgan drags me through, but it's not respect moving them—it's hunger. Heads snap toward me, nostrils flaring as they catch my scent. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and based on the way these vampires are looking at me, it has the right idea.
Their eyes track my every movement, pupils blown wide with bloodlust. High-priced suits and couture gowns can't hide the predators beneath—if anything, they make them more terrifying. These aren't your average street vamps; these are apex predators in Armani.
"Mmm... such a delectable little morsel," purrs a woman in a red dress, her tongue sliding across pearl-white fangs.
A silver-haired vampire in a tux inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back. "I simply must have a taste. The aroma is... intoxicating."
"So this was Azrael's obsession," another whispers, voice thick with anticipation. "I understand now—she smells divine."
Cold fear slides down my spine as their words sink in. My fingers tremble against the silk of my dress as realization hits—this doesn't feel like a normal party. It feels like this is a fucking tasting menu, and I'm the main course. These trust fund bloodsuckers are looking at me like I'm a vintage wine at a sampling event.
Bile rises, as Morgan continues to drag me through this gauntlet of gleaming fangs and hungry eyes. Every cell in my body screams to run, but between Morgan's magical leash and my power-dampening cocktail, I might as well try to sprout wings and fly.
I smooth trembling hands over the dress they've poured me into—a white silk number that screams "virgin bride." The fabric whispers against my skin, hugging every curve like it was painted on. It's the kind of dress that would cost three months' rent, and here I am wearing it to what's probably going to be my last supper.
Theneckline plunges into a deep V—my breasts on full display, while the rest of the dress flows like liquid moonlight to the floor. It's elegant in its simplicity—no beading, no lace, just pure white silk that practically glows under the chandelier light.
Could this be it? The moment where they serve me up to Moretemis like some gift-wrapped offering—the ritual? Everything I know about the shadow god floods my mind—his hunger for power, his taste for innocent blood, his ability to corrupt souls.
The sick irony of wearing pure white to what might be my own funeral isn't lost on me, while surrounded by bloodthirsty vampires in a mansion that probably has more secret passages than the Winchester Mystery House.
"Ah, there's our guest of honor." Lilith's voice slices through the crowd. She sashays toward me, her own mask barely hiding the malevolent glint in her eyes, a pack of balenciaga-clad vampires following her like obedient pets. "Morgan, darling, escort our little star to the stage."
My stomach drops as I spot the setup—a single chair and microphone standing in the spotlight like some twisted American Idol from hell. What fresh nightmare is this? Are they seriously expecting me to perform like some circus animal?
Lilith's feathered spy—Ishtar—lurks in the shadows above the stage, those black eyes drinking in every detail of this twisted bullshit. The owl's heart-shaped face seems to glow in the dim light, a silent witness to my personal nightmare. Perfect—even the wildlife is in on this sick show. At least someone's enjoying the performance.
Morgan's invisible leash yanks me forward again, and the crowd of vampires parts, their fangs gleaming as I pass. They snap their jaws at me like rabid dogs testing their chains, making my skin crawl with each click of teeth.
Suddenly, a blur of movement and expensive cologne—a vampire materializes beside me, fangs aimed for my throat. Before I can scream, Lilith appears, her manicured hand locked around his neck. "Do. Not. Touch. Her." Her voice carries the weight of centuries and promises violence.
For a split second, relief floods my system—until she continues, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.
"Not until you bid. Is that clear?" Her perfectly painted lips curl into a cruel smile.
Thevampire struggles against her grip, testosterone and pride warring with self-preservation. Lilith merely tightens her hold, eyebrow raised in challenge. Finally, he yields with a jerky nod.
