The Warlock’s electricity dimmed, but did not disappear entirely. Blue sparks still danced across her knuckles like restless insects as she said, “Great friend you’ve got here, Jules.” Her voice returned to something approaching human, despite each syllable being drenched with sarcasm.
Jules could only glare at her companion, then stood on shaky legs and crossed to where Violet lay shivering. I was beside her in two strides, dropping to my knees and taking Violet’s hand in mine.
I drew in a sharp breath when I felt the heat radiating from her skin. She was burning up, fever-hot, sweat beading across her forehead and upper lip. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark crescents against flushed cheeks, and she trembled like she was freezing despite the fire consuming her from within.
“What is happening to her?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw with fear.
Jules knelt beside me, reaching out to brush a crimson streak of hair from Violet’s face with surprising gentleness. “Someone must haveslipped her something. I’m so sorry, Rowan. This is unprecedented. We’ve never had a dancer drugged before.”
“But how. . .” I searched the immediate area, looking for Violet’s bag. It was missing. I turned to Jules, my eyes hard. “Where are her things?”
“I think her bag is still in the hallway? In our rush to get her somewhere private, I forgot to grab it. Celine, could you—"
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the Warlock said as she headed for the door.
I checked Violet’s features, ensuring nothing else stood out, and knew that if things became worse, I would burn this fucking place to the ground along with everyone in it. The certainty of it was as sure as fire was hot or that the sun would rise tomorrow. I would destroy anyone who hurt Violet. Simple.
Celine returned moments later, clutching Violet’s purple duffel. “Here.” She thrust the bag into my arms with more force than necessary, the weight of it solid and familiar.
I rifled through the contents with methodical efficiency, cataloging each item. Her stage costume, black fabric and silver mesh. Makeup bag. Wallet. Keys.
And a water bottle I did not recognize.
The brand was wrong. The shape was wrong. Violet and I had gone shopping togetherspecificallyto ensure that she brought her own food and water into this den of predators. It was my first rule. I knew every item she’d packed, had watched her check and double-check the bag before we left my apartment. I held the bottle up to the light. Clear liquid, seemingly innocuous. But the cap had been opened, and about a third of the contents consumed.
“This is not hers,” I said, my voice flat and cold.
I unscrewed the cap and brought it to my nose, inhaling carefully. Nothing. No scent, no discoloration, nothing to suggest tampering. But it was the only variable that made sense. I lifted it to my lips, prepared to take a drink myself—if it was drugged, it would be better to know what I was dealing with.
“No!” Jules screamed and slapped the bottle from my hand with enough force to send it flying.
The bottle hit the floor, plastic cracking, water spilling across polished wood in a spreading pool that caught the amber light.
“You fool!” Jules’s voice pitched high with genuine fear, her eyes wide and wild. “You don’t know what’s in that.”
I stared at her, then at the spilled water, then back at her flushed, terrified face. “I was planning to find out.”
Celine stepped forward, crouched down, and picked up the bottle. Water dripped from her fingers as she examined it, then—to mine and Jules’s surprise—she brought the bottle to her lips and drained the rest of the water.
“What the fuck, Celine?” Jules said. It felt out of place for her to curse in such a way. She’d always seemed so prim and ditzy from our few interactions.
“Mmm.” Celine swallowed, then let out a satisfied sigh. “Yep. That’s some good ol’ succubus blood, right there.” She found the cap where it had rolled beneath the settee, screwed it back on despite the crack in the plastic, and held the bottle up like a sommelier examining vintage wine.
I let out a string of curses, causing Jules to turn her eyes to me. “You know what that means?” she asked with fear on her face.
“I know a little.” I’d heard of succubus and incubus blood in my previous life, though only in whispered warnings and shreds of stories. I recalled a tale I’d been told once about a vampyre lord who kept a cellar stocked with succubi of various ages, like a demented wine cellar.
Celine must have taken my silence as ignorance, because she explained, “It’s an aphrodisiac and invigorator, for those of us who traffic with demons. But for mortals?” She raised an eyebrow at me as she gestured towards Violet, trembling on the settee. “It’s rather excruciating unless someone can. . . y’know.”
I glanced back at Violet, watching her chest rise and fall in rapid, shallow breaths. Her hands had clenched into fists, knuckles white, and small sounds escaped her throat—wordless, pained, desperate.
I ran a hand down my face, exhaustion and rage warring for dominance. “What needs to be done?” I forced the words out through clenched teeth.
Jules was still processing, her face pale and drawn. “I didn’t think someone would be stupid enough to drug a mortal with—"
“Jules.” My patience, already threadbare, snapped entirely. “I need to know what I need to do, and I need to knownow.”
Her face somehow went even paler, color draining until she looked nearly translucent in the low light. “The symptoms need to be relieved, and that can only be done with the proper. . . stimulation. Exchanging of auras and energy. Male or female, but I assumed you’d want—"
