Page 32 of Crown of Blood and Vengeance

“I have some good news and bad news for you, Serenity.” Balthazar’s voice held that silky quality that always preceded his worst cruelties. “I have expelled the demon possessing the dear prince here.”

Balthazar never did anything to help people. Every kindness had a hook buried in it, waiting to tear flesh.

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“Because, my beautiful Nephilim,” he purred the words like a predator’s promise, “the demon would interfere with your lesson.”

Butterflies flapped against my gut, desperate to get out. No, not butterflies—bats, their wings beating a frantic warning rhythm against my insides. I didn’t like this one bit.

Like a fish, I took the bait. “What lesson?”

“I want you to drain the prince’s power. That’s your first lesson.” He said it like he was asking me to borrow a cup of sugar.

I blinked, the words not making sense at first. “What? Why?”

“Because you need to test your power until you’re strong enough to drain your father’s.” His eyes gleamed with an unholy light.

“You want me to kill my father?”

“No, I want you to drain him enough so I can.” The truth dropped like a stone into still water, ripples of horror spreadingoutward. His real plan, finally revealed—I was just his battery, his power source to weaponize against Raphael.

Rocco’s muffled sounds grew more urgent behind his gag, his eyes trying to tell me something. But all I could hear was the roaring in my ears, the sound of my world tilting even further into nightmare.

Chapter

Eighteen

Angelo

I never thoughtEnzo would make such a serious mistake—turning someone into a made vampire was exhausting work that came with serious consequences. Having been made by Dracula himself, I knew better than most the raw power and hunger that came with the transformation. Made vampires like myself were immortal, far more powerful than born vampires once we gained control. It had taken me centuries to master my abilities, to learn to walk in the sun like born vampires could.

I hadn’t made a vampire in years. The responsibility was too great, the risk too high if they lost control. They would leave a parade of corpses, drawing police attention.

My family and I were already on their radar.

Steve pulled on the Elderforge steel, but like my maker, Dracula, he couldn’t break free. His blue eyes were wild and his long red hair hung in his face. Blood stained his chin and naked chest. The scene was all too familiar—I remembered my own early days of uncontrolled strength and raging thirst.

Steve pulled back his lower lip, revealing his red-stained fangs. He licked his crimson lips with slow deliberation, like a cat savoring cream. “Give me more. I want more.” The hunger in his voice was a sound I knew too well—the same desperate need that had driven me in those first dark decades.

I looked at Enzo, letting centuries of authority fill my voice. “You don’t want to kill him. Fine. You created him. He’s your problem.” I twisted my fist in his bloody shirt, yanking him against me. “But if that idiot leaves a line of cadavers for the authorities to find, I’ll stake him myself.” The threat wasn’t emotional—just a simple statement of fact. I’d ended enough fledglings over the centuries to know when one would bring more trouble than they were worth.

I abruptly released him.

Enzo dragged his hand through his hair. “What? Seriously?”

“I have more important things to do than worry about a crazed, newly made vampire.” Like finding Serenity. I walked out of the room, leaving Enzo cursing underneath his breath. Let him learn the hard way, as we all had—creating life meant being responsible for the deaths it might cause.

Trystan leaned against the wall. “My men have gone hunting for your little piranha.”

The wolves would bring back a human that wouldn’t be missed. They were good at not causing a disturbance.

But if that amateur turned the French Quarter into his personal buffet, he’d be begging for a quick death.

“You won’t be able to get near the crypt, Santi!” The desperate cry echoed down the stone hallway, followed by the harsh rattle of chains. Steve’s voice was raw, ravenous. Chosen Blood—the Dom Pérignon of vampire nutrition, prized for its ability to quell even the most savage hunger and clear a vampire’s mind—hadn’t been enough to settle him. Something had pushed him beyond its soothing effects. “It’s guarded.”

In the dim corridor, Trystan’s golden eyes met mine, a silent understanding passing between vampire king and wolf alpha. Without a word, we moved as one toward the heavy wooden door.

The sight that greeted us twisted something in my gut. Steve’s copper-red hair hung in matted strands over his too-pale face, his body slumped against the chains that held him to the wall. Dark crimson stains around his mouth testified to his messy, desperate feeding.

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