Page 32 of The Curse of Blood and Silenc

Don’t fail her Don’t fail her Don’t fail her.

The mantra pulsed in time with my fading heartbeat as I pressed my hands against Shannon’s skin once more.

Please heal her.

A tiny spark flickered deep inside me where my power had almost run dry. I seized it, desperate, pulling at it like a thread in darkness. The spark responded, burning brighter, spreading through my veins like liquid fire. I wasn’t sure how I was doing this—it felt different from my usual healing. Wilder.

Balthazar caught my eye. His eyes gleamed intently with something that might have been hunger or fascination. It only made me more determined to heal the poor girl, to prove he hadn’t broken me yet.

I gulped in oxygen, focusing everything I had on Shannon. My blood turned molten, racing through my body as my heart thundered against my ribs. Each beat sent a fresh wave of power surging through me, the sensation both terrible and exhilarating, like running a marathon while fever stricken. The magic poured from my hands, no longer a gentle stream but a torrent that threatened to sweep us both away.

Shannon groaned and her eyes fluttered open. Tears streamed down her face. Her hair and her shirt were caked in her own blood. She looked more dead than alive.

Bile rose in my throat as I looked at her. Each wound I’d healed felt like a betrayal, simply preparing her body for fresh pain. My gift of healing had been twisted into an instrument of torture. I wished I could erase her memory so she wouldn’t remember what had just happened, or know what was about to happen again.

My magic was diminishing. I felt like a melted down candle with the wick almost out. Each breath felt heavier, the loss of my power a physical ache that spread through my limbs like ice.

“Splendid. You managed to heal her. Even drained and tired, you’re powerful,” he purred.

He reached for Shannon and she burst into tears, her body trembling.

Her sobs raked across my guilt like glass. Every time I healed her, I was just resetting the canvas for Balthazar’s cruelty. The line between mercy and monstrosity had never felt so thin.

I gripped his wrist. “Please, no more. Please,” I begged, hating myself for it. But I couldn’t bear to watch the girl to be tortured any longer.

He cocked his eyebrow then looked down at Shannon as if she was something under a microscope. Then he picked up a lock of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “You’ve donewell, so I’ll grant you this one request, but that means we have another test to begin.”

A dizzying wave of relief washed over me even as I cringed at his touch. The respite felt poisoned by his final words. Another test. Of course. Balthazar never gave anything without asking something worse in return.

“Please don’t let him hurt me.” Shannon’s fingers dug into my arm, her eyes wild with terror.

Something fiercely protective surged through me. I shielded her body with mine, as if my human frame could somehow protect her from a demon’s wrath. I searched Balthazar’s face, trying to find the tiniest bit of compassion in his face, knowing there might not be any left to find.

He snatched her up again, fingers digging into her arms like steel claws. Her head lolled back, too weak to resist. When his fangs tore into her throat, blood spilled down in thick rivulets, pattering on the floor like rain.

“Don’t, please. I can’t… I can’t heal her anymore.”

He dropped her to the ground next to me and smiled. “As you wish, beautiful.” He gave me a big grin. “We’ll find another subject.”

My stomach swished uneasily and I rubbed my slick forehead. He truly was a monster. How many people would he torture to get what he wants?

He snapped his fingers and the door opened immediately, as if someone had been waiting at his beck and call.

Petar entered the room, swagger in every step like he owned the place. As always, his hair was slicked back with not a strand out of place, and his three-piece blue suit looked freshly pressed despite the lateness of the hour. The red tie screamed for attention—as obvious as a rooster in a chicken coop. Everything about him felt carefully chosen to project an image of power.

But true power didn’t come from silk suits or practiced struts.

It was Angelo’s quiet smile before he showed his teeth.

It was Balthazar’s casual cruelty, his absolute certainty that no one would dare stop him.

Petar was just playing at being one of them. He’d studied their movements and learned their mannerisms, but it was like watching a child playing dress up. No one would ever truly fear or admire him. He could wear the finest suits and practice that swagger for centuries, but he’d never be more than what he was: nothing.

A shadow of a shadow, desperate to be seen.

Petar wasn’t alone. Steven DuPont trailed behind him like a ghost. His amber hair hung loose over his shoulders, lacking its usual careful styling, and the absence of his signature bandana and sunglasses left him looking vulnerable. But what chilled me most was his face—blank and empty, his usual sharp intelligence replaced by a vacant stare. He moved like a wind-up toy, each step mechanical and lifeless.

My throat closed up at the sight of him. I wanted to run over and fling my arms around him, shake him until that terrible emptiness left his eyes. This wasn’t my Steve—Joy’s older brother who’d treated me like a second sister despite his gang ties. The guy who’d taught me how to survive the streets, shown me how to throw a punch, how to use a knife in a fight, who’d cleaned my bruises after Freddie had beaten me. Seeing him reduced to this hollow shell felt like watching someone befoul a sacred place.

---