Page 13 of Blood

Apparently, the sarcophagus has a magical stairwell that leads monsters deep into the ground below the museum.

It’s there we now stand, facing off with the feared and revered monster council that has only ever been a thing of legends for me.

At the very end of the long, slightly curved table is Pan, the goat with the huge schlong. Sitting next to him is a woman with black hair, interwoven with spiderwebs, and bedecked in a gossamer dress that does very little to hide her curves. In the center of the table is the creature that can only be the White Stag—a large, majestic deer-like creature (no offense) with a pure white coat and intelligent eyes. Two other monsters sit beside him. One I recognize as Dorian Gray, Dimitri’s father, while the other is Frankenstein himself.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” the spider woman demands with a sneer. As she speaks, a spider crawls out of her mouth and settles on her bottom lip. I try very, very hard not to grimace in revulsion. The last thing I want to do is offend her by confessing I’m deathly afraid of spiders and all other creepy crawlies.

“Hello, council,” Alex begins diplomatically, bowing his head. When I just remain standing there, gaping, he once again elbows me in the stomach, shooting me a pointed look out of the corner of his eye.

I catch on quickly and lower into a curtsy.

“Good afternoon, your excellencies,” I say in a posh British accent. No idea why. I blame my nerves. And the fact that, you know, the council wants to murder me.

The satyr, Pan, snorts.

“I like her,” he muses.

The spider woman scoffs yet again. “You like anyone and everyone who wears a skirt. Even a wanted criminal like Violet Dracula.”

I clear my throat uncomfortably. “It’s actually a dress—”

“Stop. Talking,” Alex murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

I press my lips together tightly.

Where, oh where, are staples when you need them? I swear my mouth only serves to get me into trouble. Or even more trouble, as the case may be. I would pay good money to be able to staple my mouth together whenever the need arises without receiving any permanent damage.

“I suppose it’s a nice change to see one of Dracula’s bastard children bowing before this world’s true royalty,” the spider lady continues with another haughty sniff. I may be completely off base here, but I get the impression that she doesn’t like me very much.

This time, I’m rather proud of myself when I don’t immediately correct her about my parentage. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for the world to know the truth about me—that I’m the offspring of Lucifer, the King of Hell, and Hera, the Goddess of Mount Olympus.

Alex may believe we need the monster council’s help in the battle to come, but I can’t forget about all the sins they committed. They murdered Cal’s entire family after it was revealed that Cal could reinforce flimsy mate bonds. Then they threw my sweet cupid into detention until the end of time.

The question is...why?

Belatedly, I know that this happened over one hundred years ago. The monsters sitting before me may not even be the same monsters involved in what happened to Cal. But that doesn’t negate the incessant voice in the back of my head screaming at me to be cautious.

Not only that, but they put a kill order out on me for a crime I didn’t even commit. Legally, they could kill me here and now, and no one would even bat an eye.

I’m putting a lot of faith into a group of monsters who would no sooner see me ripped into pieces and tossed into the Pacific Ocean than they would willingly offer their assistance.

So, no. I’m not telling them the truth about my birth parents. I have a feeling that would only add fuel to the fire of their hatred, blossoming the tiny ember into a raging inferno.

“We request the council’s help,” Alex continues, keeping his head lowered and his voice level. I notice that he doesn’t make eye contact with any of the monsters before us, so I follow his example and very purposely look anywhere but at them.

The room is dark and barren, exactly what you would expect from a bunch of terrifying monsters. Aside from the long table directly opposite us and a desk that belongs to Furry Hairball—I believe he’s the receptionist—there isn’t another piece of furniture. The only light is from the ornate brass sconces lining the wall and the staircase leading back up to the sarcophagus.

“Is that so?” Pan tilts his head to the side curiously. It’s honestly strange as fuck to see. How can such a human voice come from those...lips? Snout? What the fuck am I even looking at?

Most certainly not the largest penis I’ve ever seen in my life.

“This is tiresome,” Dorian drawls, dabbing at a bead of perspiration on his forehead. While the man himself is traditionally attractive—white-blond hair cut short, piercing blue eyes, and a strong, muscular physique—I can’t help but think he doesn’t hold a candle to Dimitri. I wonder what Dorian would do if he discovered he wasn’t the handsomest man in existence? “Can’t we just vote and move on?”

“Ummm...” I find myself speaking before my brain can catch up. “We haven’t even explained the problem. What would you be voting on?”

Mouth—one.

Brain—negative two hundred and forty-six.

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