Page 46 of Crown of Blood and Vengeance

Trystan suddenly blocked the doorway, his massive frame casting a shadow into the crypt. He’d shifted into his naked human form, and my stomach turned at the sight of him. His hair was matted with blood. I couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. Deep claw marks and cuts scored his body, probably from the hellhounds. Raw flesh gleamed in the candlelight as he lunged forward and grabbed my arm, desperation etched on his face. “I’ve got wounded here.”

My throat tightened. “From the hellhounds?”

He shook his head, nostrils flaring. “No, the hellish blades. Will that potion she’s making be enough to heal my pack?”

Rose stirred the potion, the acrid smell making my eyes water. Her hand trembled slightly as she glanced at me uneasily. “I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “It might not even be enough to heal one person. We don’t have enough demon blood or possessed vampire blood.”

Trystan’s fingers dug into my flesh until I could feel bruises forming. The familiar rage of an alpha burned in his eyes. “So you’re saying vampires are more important than wolf shifters?”

I set my jaw, fighting the urge to throw him off me. We didn’t have time for centuries of prejudice to surface now. “If you don’t let me go, Trystan,” I said through clenched teeth, “then I won’t be able to find the hallowed ground essence. Then everyone dies.”

I drew on vampire speed and shot out of the crypt, urgency burning through my veins like fire. Trystan was right—and admitting that left a bitter taste in my mouth. The scene before me would have broken a lesser vampire: wounded wolves whimpered along with naked men who had shifted back, their skin gleaming with sweat in the moonlight. We’d beaten backthe demons, but at what cost? My jaw clenched as I surveyed the damage we’d had to inflict.

Dimitri still lay unconscious where he had fallen, and regret coiled through my chest like a cold serpent. His face was even paler than Angelo’s. Strange black spiderweb marks had spread across Dimitri’s face like cracks in porcelain. My fists tightened at my sides. I had a feeling he was succumbing faster than Angelo since he was a born vampire, and watching someone under my protection fall like this went against everything I stood for as an enforcer.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of demon ichor. I picked my way through the aftermath, past broken tombstones and scattered offerings: beads, coins, and dried flowers crushed into the dirt during the battle.

I raced through the French Quarter’s narrow streets, my supernatural speed turning the tourist crowds into colored blurs. The wrought-iron balconies and gas lamps flew past as I covered the ten miles to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

The cemetery rose before me like a small alabaster city. Its above-ground tombs, necessary in New Orleans’ waterlogged soil, created narrow “streets” between rows of family crypts and society tombs. Decades of tropical weather had stained the white stone to varying shades of gray and cream. Crosses and angels watched from their perches, while the humid air trapped the scents of old stone, dried flowers, and lingering incense from tourist offerings.

The tomb itself was easy to spot, marked by countless X’s scratched into its surface by those seeking the queen’s favor. Red brick peeked through crumbling plaster, and offerings of beads, coins, and candles crowded its base. I wasn’t sure what the hallowed ground essence looked like and had to go by instinct.

White star flowers dotted Marie’s grave. The same shape as the star carved into that amulet—the one that had banished the demons. My hand shot out toward the blooms, Angelo’s fading pulse driving me forward.

I snatched a bunch of the star flowers and instantly regretted it. White-hot pain seared through my palms. “Shit!” The flowers scattered across Marie’s tomb as I jerked my hands back. Angry red blisters were already forming on my skin. Damn it, either the flowers were cursed or—the thought hit me like a punch—this was what happened when vampire enforcers touched holy ground. My hands trembled with aftershocks of pain, but I forced them steady. Angelo was slipping away with every second I wasted. I’d have to endure it. One more grab, no matter how much it burned. I wouldn’t lose him, not like this.

I yanked my shirt over my head and bundled it around the damned flowers. Even through the fabric, pain pulsed up my arms like acid in my veins. I shot through the empty streets, gritting my teeth against each wave of burning. The usual blur of vampire speed felt agonizingly slow, every second of contact with those flowers a fresh torment. The French Quarter’s gas lamps cast dancing shadows as I wove between buildings, back toward the crypt and Angelo.

St. Christopher’s graveyard hadn’t changed—wounded and dying still cluttered the grounds, their moans carrying through the heavy air. I headed for the Nightshade Crypt where Trystan stood guard in his wolf form, his white fur ghostly in the darkness. The flowers seared through my shirt, making me stumble as I reached the steps. Trystan’s growl rumbled through the night, but I pushed past him into the crypt.

Then I realized that growl wasn’t meant for me. His massive head was turned away from the entrance, hackles raised, facing something out there in the darkness. Something that wasn’t our ally.

Rose raced over to me, her eyes widening. “Enzo, what’s burning?”

“Me. The damn flowers are cursed.” I tossed my shirt onto the altar, the white blooms stark against the black fabric. “Be careful. Apparently Marie doesn’t care for vampires.”

“I don’t have time to be careful.” She snatched up the white blooms into the mixture without hesitation. Then she paused as she examined her unblemished hands. “Maybe it’s because I’m part witch.”

“Maybe,” I grumbled, still feeling the phantom burns in my palms.

White smoke spiraled up from the concoction, filling the crypt with the sweet fragrance of lilies.

Rose looked at me. “It’s ready. I just hope it works.”

If it didn’t, then the family business fell to me. Something I wasn’t ready to take over.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Angelo

Balthazar’sobsidian claws closed around Serenity’s throat, each finger a brand of ice against her sun-kissed skin. The demon’s grip tightened with deliberate slowness, his sulfur-yellow eyes locked on mine as he savored my anguish. Serenity thrashed against him, her half-celestial strength making her movements blur with impossible speed. Her small fists hammered against his arms, each blow carrying enough force to shatter concrete, yet Balthazar didn’t even flinch.

My muscles strained against the invisible bonds of my nightmare, tendons standing out like cords in my neck. The familiar taste of helplessness flooded my mouth, bitter as centuries-old blood. Scream after scream built in my throat as I watched my mate die for what felt like the thousandth time. Each death carved new scars into my soul, yet this one felt as raw as the first.

Serenity’s eyes found mine—those ethereal blue eyes that had once looked upon me with such love now clouded with fear and something worse: forgiveness. Her face flushed crimson asoxygen fled her body, the color stark against her silvery hair. Those soft lips I had kissed countless times turned the color of bruised forget-me-nots. When her head lolled back, exposing the elegant curve of her throat, a whimper escaped me. Her body went slack in Balthazar’s grasp, her light dimming like a star going dark.

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