Page 29 of Crown of Blood and Vengeance

“Let me go,” Dracula growled as he pulled against his restraints. He was chained up, obsidian links weaving around the room like a spider’s web, each one shimmering with an inner darkness that seemed to drink in the starlight. The ancient runes etched into the metal pulsed with cold fire every time he struggled, and I could smell the acrid scent of burning immortal flesh where they touched his skin.

“Don’t worry. He can’t escape. The chains are made from Elderforge steel from the Elder Dimension,” Keir said as he and Trystan helped me stand in front of Dracula. The chains hummed with otherworldly power, their resonance making my fangs ache like struck tuning forks. Every time my maker pulled against them, they seemed to tighten, drawing more of his power into their crystalline depths. Each link pulsed with stolen strength, turning his immortal essence into cold starfire.

The sight of him bound and furious should have been satisfying, but instead, the scent of his blood called to me like a siren’s song, making my hunger surge despite my resentment. I should hate him, but he was my maker and we would always share a special bond—a cursed connection written in blood and darkness.

My fangs extended with an aching snap, hunger roaring through my veins like wildfire. I lunged forward, my fingers tangling in his raven-black hair, yanking his head back with enough force to snap a mortal’s neck. The pale column of his throat exposed before me, blue veins pulsing with ancient blood beneath marble skin.

“No!” he yelled, thrashing against my grip. The chains sang with his struggle, their ethereal resonance filling the room as they drained more of his power. For once, the mighty Dracula was powerless—trapped like a wolf in steel jaws.

I sank my fangs into his neck, piercing through flesh that felt like cool silk. His blood flooded my mouth—thick and intoxicating, carrying centuries of power in every drop. But there was something wrong, something tainted that slithered across my tongue. I could taste the demon residing in him, its essence like bitter ash mixed with honey.

Yet beneath that corruption, his blood still sang with raw power. It coursed through me like liquid lightning, burning away the pain, searing through the shadowweavers’ poison. Each swallow was both salvation and damnation, healing my body even as it reminded me of everything I’d lost.

Chapter

Sixteen

Enzo

Joy struggledagainst Maximo’s crushing grip. He dragged her toward a black SUV, a triumphant smirk on his face spreading impossibly wide, splitting his features. I tried to stand, my legs tangling in invisible restraints. The knife wound in my back blazed with fresh agony, sending me stumbling. I reached for her—so close, just inches away—but my arms moved through the air like molasses.

The SUV’s doors slammed shut like the sound of a coffin closing. Joy’s face pressed against the tinted window, her features distorting, stretching in terror. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as they peeled away, the vehicle dissolving into shadows that swallowed her whole.

“Joy!” I screamed, thrashing against the darkness that held me down. Steve’s blood filled my mouth, choking me, drowning me. Still kneeling in the dirt, watching her disappear over and over, my body refused to move. The taste of vengeance turned to ash on my tongue as Joy’s accusing eyes haunted the darkness.

Someone shook me hard, tearing the nightmare away. “Wake up, Enzo. We have work to do.”

I jerked awake with a strangled cry, sheets twisted like restraints around my sweat-soaked body. My heart slammed against my ribs as I clawed my way to consciousness, the echo of Joy’s terrified face still burning behind my eyes. The knife wound in my back throbbed with phantom pain, a reminder of my failure that even sleep couldn’t erase.

I groaned, not believing the voice... Angelo towered over my bed. My breath caught in my throat as disbelief crashed through me like a blade of ice. I struggled to push myself upright, wincing as my wounds protested the movement.

“You’re alive,” I whispered, voice breaking. My hand reached out of its own accord, half expecting him to vanish like smoke.

But he was solid. Real. Not the battered king I had seen at Fandor Citadel, whipped to shreds and barely able to walk—but the king I served: powerful, commanding, ready for war.

The shift from nightmare to this reality felt like whiplash, but even as relief flooded through me, the guilt of losing Joy still clung to me like a second skin, dragging me back to our desperate reality.

“Angelo?” I shook my head, the pain still throbbing in my back where Steve had stabbed me. The wound refused to heal properly, a constant reminder of my failure with Joy.

He ripped open his wrist. “Here, drink.”

His essence radiated something ancient and familiar—like finding a heartbeat you’d forgotten was missing. Where Keir’s remedies felt foreign and clinical, Angelo’s blood promised to awaken every deadened nerve ending, to remind my broken body what it meant to be whole. The connection between us wasn’t just loyalty or servitude—it was written in whatever passed for my soul, a signature I couldn’t erase. One taste would do more than heal my wounds; it would reinstate the clarity andpurpose I’d known as his right hand, washing away the fog of doubt that had clouded my decisions since I’d lost him.

I slowly released his wrist, savoring the last drops of his ancient blood as it dripped down my chin. The familiar metallic taste lingered on my tongue, a reminder of the bond between maker and apprentice. “Good to see you, boss.” My voice was stronger already, though exhaustion still weighed heavy in my bones.

Angelo looked down at me, his eyes dark with concern he’d never voice aloud. “Enough.” The word dropped between us like a gauntlet. “The clock’s ticking.” Something in his posture shifted—a barely perceptible softening at the edges. He must have been worried to share his blood so freely. Like me, he was still healing, but at a much faster rate.

I flipped the covers off, trying to hide my grimace. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”

He flashed me a hard look, the kind that made lesser vampires tremble. But I knew him too well to flinch.

“I’m moving.” I crawled out of bed and sat on the edge, my muscles protesting every inch of the way. The beast in me burned with shame at this weakness even as Angelo’s blood worked its healing magic through my veins. My strength was still returning, too slowly for my liking. I was the enforcer—lying around in bed wasn’t my nature. “What’s the plan?”

I wanted to track down Joy and rip out Maximo’s flesh, but I knew Angelo had other plans.

“Vlad is still possessed.” Angelo’s jaw tightened at the mention of his maker, and I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Once they were as close as brothers, but now they were bitter enemies. “According to Keir, there is a potion or stone or spell inside the Nightshade Crypt that could release the demon.” His quiet words whispered of the dangers we could face when we faced Dracula. But danger was our old friend.

I stretched one arm, then the other, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness. “Then what?” My stomach twisted, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be good.

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