Page 47 of Crown of Blood and Vengeance

The demon’s laughter echoed through the darkness, a sound like breaking glass and crumbling graves. His claws retracted from her neck one by one, letting her body crumple to the ground like a discarded doll. The marks of his fingers stood out black against her skin—a collar of bruises that would fade just in time for the nightmare to begin again.

The nightmare began to dissolve like smoke in water, but the horror of watching Serenity die lingered in every cell of my body. A cloying wave of lily scent invaded my lungs, so intense it felt like drowning in perfume. My entire being screamed in agony, as though someone had taken steel wool to my soul and scoured away every layer until only raw nerves remained. The familiar pain in my back—my constant companion for what seemed like centuries—melted away as flesh and sinew knit themselves back together.

“Boss?” Enzo’s voice cut through the haze, thick with concern. It anchored me to reality like a lifeline thrown into churning waters.

My eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. The phantom feel of Balthazar’s triumph still echoed in my bones, and Serenity’s last forgiving look burned behind my eyelids.

Grief, rage, and helplessness warred inside me, threatening to tear me apart. When I tried to push myself upright, my ancient muscles betrayed me, quivering like a newborn’s despite the immortal strength that usually coursed through them. Each tremor was a reminder of how powerless I’d been in mynightmare–how powerless I remained in reality while Balthazar held her captive.

Enzo’s arm slid around my back, solid and real compared to the phantom terrors still clinging to my mind. “Boss, can you stand?”

The world spun like a kaleidoscope of fractured images as I tried to orient myself. Bookcases swam into focus, their ancient spines a blur of leather and gilt. Glass jars caught what little light existed, their contents casting twisted shadows. Strange symbols crawled across the walls, their power humming just at the edge of my awareness. “Where—” My voice came out raw, as though I’d been screaming.

“You’re in the Nightshade Crypt,” Enzo said, his words heavy with unspoken worry. “We almost lost you again.” The again hit me like a stake to the heart—how many times had I slipped away while my people fought and died?

I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, trying to force the fragmented memories into order. “The battle... the invisible demons...” Each word curdled in my mouth like sour milk.

“We won.” Something in Enzo’s tone made my dead heart clench—that particular inflection that meant victory had come at a terrible price.

Dread coiled in my gut like a serpent as I forced myself to ask, “How many did we lose?”

“As far as I can tell, half, including Dimitri.” The brutal truth hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I could see my sister’s face when I told her Dimitri had fallen. She would never forgive me.

“Maybe not.” A female voice caught my attention.

Rose Dragan held a bowl with an otherworldly smoke that twisted like living mercury, its ethereal tendrils reaching toward the ceiling. “This spell healed you,” she said, her eyes bright. “Ithink it might heal the others.” Hope threaded through her voice—precious and fragile in the aftermath of such devastation.

But magic couldn’t satisfy every need. The hunger clawed at my insides like a rabid beast, an all-consuming fire that threatened to burn away what little control I had left. My fangs ached, desperate for sustenance. “Enzo.” Just his name, but he understood immediately—centuries of loyalty contained in that single word.

Without hesitation, his fangs pierced his own wrist. The rich copper scent of his blood hit me like a physical force, making my throat constrict with need. I grabbed his offered arm, bringing it to my mouth with trembling hands. His blood—ancient and potent, though not as old as mine—flooded my senses. Each swallow was like drinking liquid strength, power flowing through my veins like burning starlight. The sweet, heady taste of immortality filled me, and I felt my body responding, healing, becoming whole again. My weakness ebbed away like a receding tide, replaced by the familiar thrum of supernatural strength.

I released Enzo’s wrist, giving him a grateful smile as his blood trickled warm and vital down my chin. The crack of my neck echoed through the crypt like breaking bones, a sound of preparation, of readiness. Serenity’s face flashed in my mind—not the nightmare version with blue-tinged lips and lifeless eyes, but her real smile, her strength. The thought of her ignited something primal in my chest, a fierce determination that burned hotter than my earlier hunger.

Trystan’s growl rippled through the air, low and threatening—a sound that would make mortal blood freeze in its veins. It resonated with my own predatory instincts, awakening centuries of hunting reflexes.

I moved to join him at the crypt’s entrance, every sense heightened and alert. The night air carried a thousand stories—wet earth, decaying leaves, the lingering copper tang of recentbattle. My eyes cut through the darkness, searching the shadows between ancient headstones. A pair of crimson eyes met mine, burning like hot coals in the blackness before vanishing like smoke. My muscles tensed, ready for an attack, but something felt off.

This wasn’t Balthazar—there was no sulfurous stench of demon, no ashen residue that marked their presence. This was something else entirely, something that made my ancient blood run cold with recognition, though I couldn’t quite place why.

“What was it? Was it Balthazar?” Enzo came up alongside me.

“I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t him. This felt different.”

Rose joined us, the mysterious bowl cradled in her hands like something precious and dangerous. The white smoke erupted from its depths, no longer passive but alive with purpose. It splintered into dozens of ethereal tendrils, each one seeking out the fallen with an almost sentient determination. The silvery wisps slithered across the blood-soaked ground, wrapping around broken bodies like ghostly bandages.

One by one, the wolf shifters began to respond. Their bodies jerked as if touched by lightning, muscles spasming under the smoke’s influence. Vacant eyes suddenly sparked with awareness, glazed expressions sharpening into focus. Limbs that had been still and lifeless began to twitch and move. The night air filled with a symphony of pain and revival—groans of returning consciousness, confused whimpers, the rustle of bodies stirring back to life.

But Dimitri remained still.

I drew on vampire speed and hurried over to him. Dimitri lay completely still, his normally pale skin now an ashen gray. Dark veins spread outward from the wound like cracks in marble. The hellish blade had left more than just a physical injury—theedges of the wound glowed with a sickly crimson light and the flesh around it seemed to be decaying before my eyes. No breath stirred his chest, no movement betrayed any sign of life. Only the fact that he hadn’t yet turned to ash told me he still clung to existence. Blood, darker than it should be, had pooled beneath him, the scent wrong—sulfurous and tainted, nothing like the usual metallic sweetness of vampire blood.

The smoke circled him like a frustrated spirit, weaving and diving as if searching for a way in. But unlike the others, there was no response—no sudden gasp, no return of color to his ashen face. Something cold and heavy settled in my chest as I watched the healing tendrils try and fail to spark life back into Gianna’s mate. The magic that had saved so many others seemed to mock us now, dancing over Dimitri’s form without effect, as if highlighting the finality of his death.

I ripped into my own wrist with my fangs, feeling flesh and vessels tear. Blood—ancient and powerful, the blood of a vampire who had walked the earth for millennia—welled up, dark and thick. I pressed my bleeding wrist against Dimitri’s cold lips, hoping it would be enough to save him for Gianna’s sake. My compulsion, a power as old as my bloodline, surged through my voice. “Drink, Dimitri.”

“Angelo, wait!” Enzo rushed to my side. His hand gripped my shoulder, heavy with concern. “You’re not strong enough.” The worry in his tone spoke of too many close calls, too many times he’d watched me push myself to the brink.

But I felt it then—the faintest response. Dimitri’s tongue, barely warmer than a corpse’s, brushed against my wound. Each weak pull at my blood felt like triumph and agony combined. His drinking was shallow, tentative, as if even this small effort cost him everything. But he was drinking. He was fighting.

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