Page 44 of Crown of Blood and Vengeance

I released Julienne and she fell onto the bed like a marionette with cut strings.

Balthazar leaned against the doorjamb as if he didn’t have care in the world. His dark hair was pulled up into a man bun, and, as always, he was shirtless. His carved muscles glistened in the light, a reminder that beautiful things could be deadly. He definitely was a dark temptation, but an evil one—one taste and you were bound to him forever. I wanted my dark hero, not this demon lord who played with souls like toys.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to mask my fear with anger. “What did you do to her?”

He shrugged, the casual gesture somehow more threatening than any show of force. “She was interfering, so I put a spell on her. She’s in a deep sleep and won’t wake until I determine she’s been punished enough.”

Julienne looked so peaceful, almost angelic. But this was hell. Appearances were deceiving. “What do you mean?”

His eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure that made my blood run cold. “She’s having nightmares of Dracula dying over and over again.”

Nothing would be worse for me than watching Angelo die again and again. The very thought made me sick. I gasped. “You’re a monster.”

“No. A demon.” He stretched out his hand, skin perfect and unmarred—a beautiful lie. “Now come with me. I have another guest I want you to meet.”

“Not until you wake Julienne.”

“Don’t make this difficult, love.” His endearment felt like poison. “Right now, Julienne is only watching Vlad die. I could have her feel his pain.”

“No. Don’t.” My shoulders slumped in defeat. I reluctantly placed my hand in his, trying not to shudder at his touch, and allowed him to lead me out of the room.

At least I knew where Julienne was, even if she was under a dark spell. Sometimes in hell, that’s the closest thing you get to hope.

I glanced at him. “Did you take Rocco back to the palace?”

“No, but he’s alive if that’s what you’re wondering. I have a friend watching him.”

A chill ran down my spine at the casual way he mentioned a “friend” watching Rocco. With Balthazar, that could mean anything from a demonic guard to some form of magical surveillance—none of it good for Rocco. Another person I’d failed to protect.

I stared straight ahead refusing to look at him. “Petar?”

“He’s not my only friend, Nephilim. I have many friends in high places. Some right under your nose.”

In the living room, a short, curly-haired blonde woman sat in the same chair that Rocco had occupied. She had on black leathers on that seemed to absorb the light around her yet couldn’t dim the white aura that clung to her like morning mist. Her hands were bound behind her back, mouth gagged just like Rocco’s had been. Silver eyes, ancient and otherworldly, seemed to look right through me, as if reading every sin and secret written on my soul.

But she didn’t look fearful—anger permeated from her like heat from a flame.

I jerked my hand out of Balthazar’s grip, instinctively stepping back. “Who is she?”

He gestured toward the woman. “Her name is Poison.”

“Poison? Seriously? That’s her name?”

“She’s a Dark Angel. All the Dark Angels have lethal names. Michael’s idea.” He played with one of her blonde curls, the gesture somehow obscene. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” His voice caressed the words like he was savoring them. Another toy for him to torture.

“Or at least she used to be until she pissed off the Archangel Michael.”

My breath caught in my throat. The Archangel Michael, Heaven’s most fearsome warrior, God’s sword of justice. Even in hell, that name held power. What could she have done to earn his wrath? And if Michael had cast her out, what hope did any of us have?

He put a hand on her shoulder and she twisted away from his touch, disgust evident even through her bonds. “Now she works for your father.”

Poison mumbled something behind her gag, her silver eyes flashing with fury.

My face paled, blood running cold as the implications hit me “You mean Raphael?”

He stroked Poison’s hair with deliberate slowness, each touch a reminder of his control. “Yes. I want you to drain her power like you did Rocco’s.”

“Drain an angel?” The words tasted like sacrilege in my mouth. Even saying it felt like a sin. Years of Sunday school lessons flooded back—angels as God’s messengers, beings of light and protection. Some acts crossed lines that could never be uncrossed. “I won’t do that.”

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