Sable leans forward, her expression grave. "You remember Thornewood Castle, right?"
I feel my left eye twitch at the mention of that godforsaken place. The same castle where Azrael and his witchy sidekick played Operation on my brain and held me captive. The site of our first epic showdown with this shit show.
"You've gotta be kidding me," I groan, my head falling in exasperation. "The rift is there? In the same place, we went nuclear on a coven of crazy to stop this shit the first time around?"
Sable nods solemnly. "The catacombs beneath the castle, to be precise. Given the history of past attempts, it's the only spot where the veil between realms is thin enough."
"Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw," I mutter, channeling my inner Ash Williams. "Looks like we're heading back to the crime scene, kids."
"What if it's a trap?" Seraphina's gentle voice carries a hint of steel as her fingers dig into my arm. "What ifshe'sthere? I won't let you anywhere near her, Lucian." The fierce protectiveness in her tone goes straight to my dick. There is nothing hotter than my angel getting all commanding.
"It's alright, Sera," Emily soothes. "Sable and I were able to track her. Our intel confirms Lilith is far from here. She took whatever she managed to grab through the rift with her."
"Hold the fucking phone!" I explode. "You're telling me you've got some magical LoJack on that psychotic bitch? And you're just mentioning thisnow? After weeks of me losing my shit trying to figure out where she slithered off to?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Emily's eyes roll so hard they probably get frequent flyer miles. "I didn't realize I needed to submit my magical activities for your approval, Count Dramatic. And for your information, we only figured out we could track her prehistoric ass a few hours ago."
"Alya helped us," Sable explains softly. "She has…unique tracking abilities."
"Define 'unique,'" I press.
"Let's just say she's got a knack for tracking sup's signatures like a bloodhound," Emily drawls, examining her nails like she's bored with my questions.
When I just stare at her like a concussed puppy, she rolls her eyes again. "Not that I expect your last two brain cells to grasp the finer points of witchcraft, but Alya can taste the residual magic in the air— literally. She can pick up magical traces like they're different flavors of evil. Word is, our favorite psycho-witch's magic tastes like rotten cherries and desperation. In Oregon.
Well, excuse me for not being up to date on the Food Network: Witch Edition.
Oregon? At least that bloodsucking fashion disaster is out of our state. Though knowing our luck, she's probably turning Portland into her personal vampire speakeasy.
The Bentley purrs to a stop, and I take a moment to appreciate the sheer creeptastic vibes this place is giving off. Thornewood Castle looms in the distance like a rejected Hogwarts, all gothic spires and "abandon all hope" energy.
The night sky is pulling a full-on emo phase, with stars playing hide-and-seek behind these thick-ass trees, practically wearing signs saying, "Only idiots proceed beyond this point." And guess what? We're today's winning idiots!
I lace my fingers with Seraphina's, our hands becoming a knot of 'oh shit, we're really doing this.' We're pulling a classic horror flick move, traipsing across this lawn that's so overgrown, I swear the grass is hissing, "You dumb fucks are gonna die" with every step. And get a load of that lake, would you? Shimmering in the moonlight like a giant obsidian mirror, still as a corpse at a wake. Which, let's be real, with our track record of epically bad decisions, it's probably where the bodies are buried. Just add water and stir for an instant nightmare cocktail.
The entrance to the catacombs yawns open like Satan's personal glory hole, all dank stone and "welcome to your worst nightmare" ambiance. The whole setup is screaming "horror movie cliché" louder than a sorority girl in a slasher film.
If mist starts rolling out of there, I'm officially submitting my resignation from this shit.
I mean, look at this place. It's like someone watched every B-grade horror flick on Netflix, took notes, and then decided to build the ultimate "fuck around and find out" tourist trap. All we need now is some creepy Latin chanting and maybe a virgin sacrifice to complete the "about to die horribly" aesthetic.
Though finding a virgin in this group would be harder than finding a vegetarian at a vampire convention.
Emily and Sable better not be blowing smoke up my ass about this. It's one thing to square off against an interdimensional glory hole to Satan's asscrack—it's another to go poking at it with the Soul Stone.I mean, seriously, would it kill the universe to provide a damn instruction manual for these things? I was skeptical as fuck when the Witchy Wonder twins suggested using our half of the stone to seal this rift. If we somehow fumble this cursed rock, let's just say Dani will roast my undead nuts over an open flame. And that's if I'm lucky.
I take a deep, unnecessary breath, the scent of ancient evil and probable regret filling my lungs. "Alright, ladies," I say, my voice echoing through the night like a douchebag in a canyon. "In and out. No fucking around."
When we step inside the catacombs, it's like walking into a mausoleum's moldy armpit. The air is thick and heavy, reeking of centuries-old dust and stale secrets. And because this place wasn't creepy enough, there's a whole Pinterest board of bones decorating the walls, with skulls giving us their best "you're gonna die" grins from every possible angle. Our footsteps echo through the narrow passageways, the sound bouncing off the damp stone like a mocking chorus of the damned.
"Do you feel that?" Seraphina goes rigid beside me, her hand clutching mine like a lifeline. A wave of fear crashes through our bond, hitting me like a kick to the nuts. I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her waist like I can physically shield her from the impending shitstorm. I'm starting to regret bringing her along, but my stubborn angel insisted on being here. Apparently, the phrase "self-preservation" isn't in her celestial vocabulary.
“It’s pure evil, Lucian,”Seraphina's voice trembles through my mind.“I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
"Oh, I feel it alright," Emily mutters, her eyes darting around the gloom like she's expecting some eldritch horror to leap out. "Whatever it is, it's bad news bears."
We see it as we venture deeper into this subterranean house of horrors. It's like someone took a sledgehammer to reality itself, leaving a gaping wound in the fabric of the universe. The edges of the rift shimmer and writhe, tendrils of inky smoke curling out like grasping fingers. The rift pulses eerie light, casting sickly shadows across the stone walls. The air around it feels wrong like it's been tainted by something that shouldn't exist in this or any other realm.
Really brings down the property value of the whole "reality" neighborhood, if you ask me.
