Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Warrick
I make my way through the church’s halls, my senses on high alert. The bloodlust is thick in the air—it’s almost intoxicating, mingling with the scent of decay and death.
The blood of my enemies stains my hands, but it feels right, almost cleansing. Each step I take echoes through the halls, a soft reminder that I’m still here, still hunting them down.
Two of their lackeys leap at me from an alcove, knives out, eyes wild with the frenzy of fight or flight. It’s too easy. I tear into them, the sound of their bones snapping as my fangs sink deep. The blood spills—warm, satisfying—but it’s not enough. Not yet.
Further down the corridor, I encounter another group, their faces twisted in contempt as they brandish weapons from guns to machete-like weapons. They have little time to react before I move, a blur of dark strength and precise rage. The sharp snap of necks fills the air, their lifeless bodies dropping like broken toys to the floor.
I don’t pause, don’t even flinch. I follow the screams down the corridor, each agonizing cry like a song to my soul, guiding me deeper into the heart of the chaos. But it’s the unmistakable scent of her—the one that slices through the foul air like a blade—that draws me in more than any death could. Bellonna. Even as the blood still coats my skin, I can feel the pull of her presence, that sweet, cruel energy.
I push through the thick, putrid air, the echoes of my footsteps mingling with the guttural sounds of conflict. The further I go, the more I can feel my bloodlust riding me, growing with every step. I’m not just a vampire, not just a creature of darkness. I’ve lived long enough to taste every shade of hell and back. I’ve had my own scars, but those are nothing compared to the ones I’ve dealt.
And right now, I’m feeling reckless. I’ve taken a few hits tonight, bruises and cuts I’ll heal from, but what’s a little pain when there’s blood to be spilled?
The cock arrow signs lead me straight to it—the dungeon. What fucking idiots the Obsidian are, leaving these breadcrumbs like they’re begging for their lives to be cut short.
I step into the damp, stone-walled room, and my eyes land on Bellonna. She stands there, a calm smile spreading across her face as she faces off with three men, each twice her size. They stand with Vienna tied up behind them, and I see the desperation in her eyes from where I stand.
“Everything the Obsidian Circle does concerns me,” Bellonna’s voice rings out. It’s a promise, quiet but lethal, like a blade drawn across skin.
One man sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “Who let you in here, anyway? Did you come with the Brotherhood?”
Bellonna tilts her head, her eyes narrowing in mock confusion. “They came with me,” she says, her lips curling up in that unsettling smile. “Don’t you know who I am?”
The Obsidian member grunts as if the question itself is a joke. “Should I?”
She chuckles, low and dark, the sound a lullaby of death. “I’d think your momma or daddy would have warned you about me. Told you what the Obsidian’s ancestors did and what their punishment is.”
One of them laughs, like it’s a game, like their power could block out the truth of her words. “No one punishes the Circle.”
Bellonna’s smile widens, and in the blink of an eye, she morphs. Her form warps with terrifying fluidity, like something breaking free of its skin.
Her eyes darken, the pupils vanish, leaving behind lifeless, black voids—like empty wells, deep and endless, that suck in all light, all warmth, all hope. They don’t just look at you; they pierce through you, as if they can see into your soul and rip it apart, piece by piece. There’s no depth to them. No humanity.
Her hair, once a deep shade of raven black, is now an unnatural, brilliant white, as if every color was drained from her essence. It falls around her shoulders in thick, silvered waves. And then her face. Hell , her face. It’s still beautiful, of course—because no matter how much her power twists her into something monstrous, she remains stunning. But the beauty is broken now. Her porcelain skin, once smooth and perfect like a doll’s, now bears cracks—thin, jagged lines that web across her face like fractured glass. It’s as if a child, too rough in their play, had shattered their doll’s delicate features.
I can’t look away.
I’ve seen Bellonna in her Bloody Mary form before, but I’ve never really seen her like this—not this fully shifted. It’s new. It’s terrifying. But in some sick way, it’s mesmerizing. Even in this monstrous form, she still commands attention—an ancient, dangerous power that I know better than to test. She doesn’t need to speak for me to feel it—the air around her vibrates with an intensity that makes my very bones hum.
And for a moment, I forget the battle. Forget the men standing before her, trembling in fear. Forget the blood that stains all our hands.
She is an enigma, a nightmare wearing the face of a goddess.
Before any of them can react, she’s on the man who spoke, her fingers tightening around his throat like a vise.
I watch, curious, as her fist punches straight through his chest, pulling his heart out like a child ripping the stuffing from a stuffed bear.
The others are stunned, frozen in disbelief.
“What the fuck?” one whispers.
Bellonna lets the heart fall, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “He was rude.”
“Who are you?” someone whispers.
“Bloody Mary is the name, and killing Obsidian Circle members is my game.”
One of the men stammers, his fear turning to rage. “You’re not real. They told us?—”
“Oh, I’m very real,” she interrupts, cutting him off with the venom of a snake. “This is getting boring. Give me the girl or suffer the same fate as heartless over there.”
They let go of Vienna and she rushes past Bellonna into my arms, her body pressed against mine as I wrap my arms around her protectively. “We got you,” I whisper as I pull her closer while ripping the rope off her wrists.
She says nothing, but I can feel her body relax, her shoulders lifting in a silent exhale.
Bellonna sings songs, “Oh, boys.” The men look at her. “I’m a liar.” In an instant, she’s on one of them. Her hands move like lightning, snapping his neck in one brutal twist.
And just like that, the third man, still trembling, doesn’t even have a chance to scream as she’s already in front of him, her hands grabbing him by the head and lifting him effortlessly off the ground. With a twist, she tears his head from his shoulders as if it were a rag doll.
Bellonna is a hurricane of violence and beauty, and I can’t help but watch, transfixed.
“That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I hear a voice behind me.
I turn, not surprised to see Blackwell leaning casually against the doorframe, his body splattered in blood, his hand cupping his cock through his pants. There’s a gleam in his eye, one that mirrors my own—a dark amusement, the kind that only comes from shared chaos.
I raise an eyebrow, my lips curling into a half-smile. “Did you have to make such a mess?”
Blackwell shrugs nonchalantly, his gaze flicking toward the carnage Bellonna’s left in her wake. “Mess is just part of the fun. You know that.”
I chuckle, wiping the blood from my hands onto the nearest cloth. “And yet, you’re always the one complaining about cleaning up afterward.”
He grins, stepping into the room. “Somebody has to be the responsible one, right? You’re too busy enjoying the show.”
“Enjoying the show?” I scoff, glancing back at Bellonna, who’s still standing amidst the bodies like some goddess of death. “I wouldn’t say enjoying. More like… appreciating the artistry.”
“Artistry?” Blackwell tilts his head, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Is that what we’re calling it now? I always thought ‘slaughter’ had a certain ring to it.”
I laugh, feeling the familiar sense of camaraderie between us settle in. Even in the midst of a massacre, there’s no one I’d rather have by my side than him. He’s a bastard, sure, but he’s my bastard of a best friend. And that makes all the difference.