“Why don’t you take your friend to her room and tend to her?” he says, then hesitates, frowning. “That is… if you’re up to it?”
“I’m not that drunk,” I protest, my cheeks burning.
And I’m not. The fog of wine has burned away, leaving something else behind—a strange warmth under my skin. I feel a lingering flush—a soft, aching awareness between my thighs that makes no sense at all.
But there’s no time to think about that right now.
I move to Hanna’s side and help her to her feet. She leans heavily into me, her arm slung around my shoulders as we make our way toward the door.
Behind us, Lucian is already turning back to his desk, his mind clearly racing ahead to confrontation and consequences.
I glance over my shoulder at him one last time.
He looks dangerous…and tired…and impossibly alone.
Please be careful, I think, even as I lead Hanna out into the hall.
Because if something happens to him—if things go wrong between him and the Necro Don and Lucian gets hurt…
I don’t know what I’ll do.
55
Lucian
The doors of my office have barely closed behind Julia and her friend when I turn back to the warded circle at the center of the floor.
The room still smells of fear.
Not Julia’s—hers is sharp but controlled, threaded through with concern and loyalty—but Hanna’s. It’s a thin, fraying scent, like frost creeping over dying leaves. It lingers in the air, clinging to the stone and wood as though her soul itself has brushed against something cold and hungry. Something that wants to consume her, body and soul.
Malthus—that bastard!
My jaw tightens.
I cross the chamber in three long strides and reach for the Crimson Vox, the speaking device mounted atop a black obsidian pedestal near my desk. It is an ancient thing, older than the Spires themselves—an orb of dark crystal veined with living red light, suspended between three clawed prongs. The blood within it pulses faintly, responding to my presence.
I prick my finger and press it to the crystal.
The Vox flares, hungry and excited to be used.
The Blood Lust stirs in response—low and restless—but I ignore it. This is a necessary sacrifice.
The air before me folds inward with a sound like silk tearing and I utter a single name.
“Whistler!”
The Realm-Hopper steps out of the In-between, boots hitting the carpeted floor of my office with a muffled thump. His long leather coat flutters once before settling, his sharp grin already in place.
Before I can speak, he throws up his hands.
“I know you need to get rid of the other Curvy Queen I brought by accident, your Fanginess,” he says. “I’m arranging a passageway right now. It’s just that it’s harder to get from the Shadow Realm to the Human world than the other way around.”
Flippant, as ever. I could wring his neck for his unserious attitude. Somehow, I restrain myself.
“I am well aware of the difficulties,” I say coldly. “I’m calling to tell you that we need to speed things up. The woman you brought—Hanna—has been Soul-marked by an emissary of the Hollow Necropolis. We must get her back to the Human world quickly before her soul is siphoned away to the dark lands that lie behind the Bone Gates.”
Whistler’s expression shifts instantly—gone is the grin and his eyes widen.
