Fangs & Freaks (Shifters of Myths and Legends #1)

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Warrick

Fucking lunatics. I’m surrounded by lunatics.

I pace the room, fists clenched tight enough to make my knuckles ache. Get it together, Warrick. She has him; Varys is somewhere out there, and Bellonna is toying with us. It’s all a game to her, and we’re just the pawns.

At least if they’re fucking, and Varys is enjoying it, he’s safe. But it should be me fucking him…me fucking her.

No.

I won’t fall for the twisted bitch of legends. She may be hot, but she’s the enemy. She’s getting off on the twisted shit she’s doing. Breaking into the clubhouse, appearing and vanishing in front of my VP and I. And now she’s taken our unicorn. We rescued him, played with him, fed on him. He’s ours.

“We’re out of time,” I murmur, shooting a look at Blackwell, who’s lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, looking every bit the unbothered bastard that he always is. “We get him back. Now. No more waiting, no more?—”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the shrill sound cutting me off mid-rant. Pulling it from my jeans, the display lights up, and I answer it without checking the number. “What?” I bark into the line.

“Pres, you need to get out here. Quick.” The voice on the other end is panicked, sharp with urgency. I look at my phone and see it’s Lazarus; one of the prospects at the gate.

“On my way.”

I slam the phone down and shoot Blackwell a look. He doesn’t need to be told twice. We’re out of the office and heading down to the gate in seconds, boots pounding against the pavement.

The scene we stumble into makes my stomach twist and my fangs protrude. One of the prospects lies crumpled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His head is missing. Just…gone.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, disbelief creeping in despite everything I’ve seen in this damn life. “Why decapitate a human? What kind of message is this?”

Blackwell steps closer, his eyes scanning the area. “Who is it?” he snaps, his tone colder than his grave.

Lazarus shifts nervously, his hand twitching toward his weapon like it’s some kind of comfort. “No clue, sir. He…he just showed up like this.”

“Who’s missing?” Blackwell demands.

“I–I don’t know!” Lazarus stammers, panic creeping into his voice.

“Find out. Now.”

Before I can ask Blackwell anything else, a sound splits the air—a roaring engine. A black van screeches toward the gate, tires kicking up gravel. The side door slides open before I can react, and something is dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.

The van peels off before I can even process what’s happening.

My gaze shifts down to the ground, where the object—no, thing —lies crumpled. It’s a bowling bag, the kind you’d see in any alley, unremarkable at first glance. But my instincts scream at me that something’s wrong.

I take a step forward, my pulse steady and calm in my ears, and drop to my knees beside the bag. My fingers, steady and precise, unzip it without hesitation. There’s no surprise, no sickness in my stomach—just a deep, knowing dread that settles into my bones as I open the flap.

The smell hits me first—blood, thick and metallic, but not repulsive. To me, it's almost comforting , though I can feel the shift in the air, the subtle tension that tightens around us. I push the bag open further, and what I see inside is enough to make even me pause.

I know the scar on his left cheek, the way his hair fell across his forehead before it was matted with blood. His head—his poor, mutilated head—has been tossed to us like some sick offering.

Lucien.

Lucien was a new recruit who hadn’t even been with the Crimson Brotherhood for a few months. He was still proving himself, still on the fringes. The bastard who did this had to know that, had to know he wasn’t even fully in yet. He wasn’t even a true member. The thought feels like a slap to the face. Poor guy never stood a chance.

We’ll have to make sure his family is compensated, a heavy sum for their loss. They don’t deserve this—none of this was ever supposed to happen to Lucien.

I carefully reach forward, my fingers steady, and pull a blood-soaked note from his mouth, the edges sticking to his blood.

The words scrawled across the page are enough to make my vision blur with bloodlust:

"You took something of ours, and we want it back. To even the price, we took something of yours. Well, two somethings. Let the unicorn know if he wants his sister back, he’ll come to us. Willingly. If not... well, she’s not pure, but her pussy will make millions in the sex dungeon."

At the bottom, stamped in blood, is the crest of the Obsidian Circle.

“Cunts,” I whisper. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

I crumple the note in my fist and stand, the world tilting slightly as madness rushes through my body. “This is what happens when you fucking help people,” I mutter under my breath.

Blackwell steps up beside me, his jaw tight. “We need her. Now. We have to tell Varys about his sister.”

He doesn’t say her name, but we both know who he means. Bellonna. Bloody Mary. The unpredictable wildcard who dragged us all into an even bigger mess.

Well, helping Vienna is on us. But Varys summoned Bellonna, and we didn’t just hand him over when we realized what she wanted. Still…Bellonna could have just accepted that we saved Varys and moved on. After all, she did tell him she needed to think about it. Was he supposed to stay a caged test dummy until she made up her mind?

Calling her feels like playing with fire, but what choice do we have?

Blackwell places a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. "Think of it like this," he says, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in his eyes. “She has Varys… we want him back. She comes to help, he’s with her, and we snatch him back while also destroying the Obsidian. Two deaths, one dagger.”

"Think?" I snap, shrugging off his hand. "She has Varys. They have his fucking sister. And you want me to think ?"

Blackwell’s expression hardens, his icy demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the fury beneath. "Do you have a better fucking idea?"

I hate that he’s right. I hate that every second we waste feels like a lifetime. But I also know that charging into a trap is exactly what the Obsidian Circle wants.

"We call her.” I shake my head, not believing the words I’m saying.

“But on our terms," Blackwell adds.

I bark a bitter laugh. “Our terms? She’s Bloody fucking Mary, for fuck’s sake. She doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own.”

“Then we need to be careful," he counters.

The truth of his words settles over me like a lead weight. I hate it. I hate feeling powerless, like a puppet with someone else pulling the strings.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the centuries I’ve been alive, it’s that survival means knowing when to pick your battles.

I take a deep breath, the air burning in my lungs. "Fine. We call her.”

Together, we head back into the office. The mess from my outburst still covers the floor—papers scattered, broken things I don’t remember knocking over. I stop in front of the mirror hanging on the wall. With a deep breath, I place one hand on each side of the frame, my fingers brushing the cool surface of the glass.

“Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.”

Her voice, smooth and laced with amusement, answers.

"Miss me already, boys?" she coos, and I whirl around to see her in the reflection of a goblet, looking freshly fucked and sexy as ever.

"Cut the shit, Bellonna," I snap, my patience fraying with every passing second. "Where is he?"

"Now, now," she purrs, her tone infuriatingly calm. "Is that any way to greet a lady?"

"Where. Is. Varys?"

She laughs, the sound rich and dark, like velvet soaked in blood. "He’s safe. For now."

"This isn’t a game."

"Everything’s a game, darling," she replies, her voice dripping with mockery. "You’re just mad because you’re losing."

Blackwell crosses the room toward the goblet. "We have the Obsidian Circle breathing down our necks."

There's a pause, and for a moment, I think she's going to disappear. But then she speaks, her voice softer, almost contemplative. "You think I don’t care about him? That I’m just some monster playing with her food?"

"If the shoe fits," I bite out.

Her laugh is colder this time, devoid of humor. "You have no idea what I’ve done to keep him safe. To keep all of you safe."

Before I can respond, she lifts her chin, her eyes locking with mine one last time. A flicker of something—regret? Fear?—crosses her face. And then, in a burst of red and black smoke, she vanishes from the goblet.

The weight of her words hangs in the silence that follows.