Chapter 17 #2
His scowl deepened, his mouth curling into an impatient snarl, his eyes flashing like a predator surveying unfamiliar terrain.
“No!” His voice cracked through the air like a thunderclap.
Frenzied, he tore through the pages, nearly ripping the fragile parchment in haste. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breaths coming faster, his panic rising.
“It can’t be gone…” His hands shook, flipping forward, then back, searching—desperate.
Balthazar shoved the journal into my hands, his gaze wild and unhinged.
I turned the book over, frowning. I flipped it open. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Look there.” I pointed to a ragged spot along the spine. “It’s been tampered with. The stitching—it looks like someone hid something inside.”
Balthazar surged forward. “Open it. Quickly. Now.”
I patted my waist. “I don’t have my knife.” A lie. I always carried my dagger, but I had no intention of using it here.
“There’s a letter opener on my desk.” He jabbed a finger toward the oak desk in the corner.
I limped over, snatched the gold opener, and wedged the tip into the book’s spine. It took careful maneuvering, the blade sliding back and forth against the old stitching until I finally pried it open. I wiggled a finger inside the narrow space.
Something was there.
A lump—small but solid.
I couldn’t pull it free, so I took the letter opener and carefully sliced it along the edges of the spine, peeling it apart.
A single, folded piece of paper tumbled onto the floor.
Balthazar’s hand shot out, snatching it up with frantic desperation. He unfolded the delicate parchment, his eyes skimming the words in silence.
Then, he began to weep.
Not the quiet, restrained grief of a hardened man—but the deep, agonized sobs of someone whose heart had just been torn open.
I hovered beside him. “What does it say? Tell me!”
His voice trembled as he read aloud.
“Oh, Alina… she writes: ‘I’m carrying Balthazar’s child. I’m in so much danger, I don’t know what to do. He’s going to come and take my baby from me. I must deceive Philip and tell him the child is his.”
A strangled sound tore from his throat—a wail so haunting, it sent a chill straight through me.
“Alina,” he choked, “you gave me the greatest gift I could ever hope for… and hid it from me.”
Tears streaked down his face, dripping onto his linen shirt, darkening the fabric in uneven blotches.
I swayed where I stood.
Balthazar—a father?
“This means Emily is my daughter. I’m such a fool.”
The words hung heavy in the air. My gaze locked onto his, and realization settled over me. He was right. Emily had his eyes—the same piercing hue and bone structure. But she wasn’t like him. She was light where he was a shadow, kind where he was cruel.
I was so fucked.
The piece of paper slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. Then, as if possessed by a sudden, unstoppable force, Balthazar surged.
“I must return and find her—no matter the cost. I will do whatever it takes to prove my sincerity, to show her my loyalty. She’d be the best daughter any father could hope for—far more than my fool of a son ever could be. I’ll make it right—one way or another.”
A dangerous fire burned in his voice.
“I’m so angry that I didn’t know. I nearly burned her alive. I caused her so much pain.” He let out a shuddering breath, then snarled toward the heavens. “Damn you, Alina, for keeping this from me!”
I barely heard him. My mind reeled.
I was married to the daughter of the most potent darkness on earth.
And she wanted nothing to do with me.
If only I could tell her the truth…
Balthazar paced erratically, his mind spinning. Then, passing by the sofa, he snatched up the journal again, flipping through its brittle pages with feverish intensity.
His expression darkened. “What’s this? Alina found the Sun Dagger and gave it to that fool of a scholar, Giovanni Zampa.” He thumbed through more pages, his eyes darting across the words. “And Malik had a child? Good god, the secrets in here…”
His voice trailed off, and he turned to me.
His lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer.
And his eyes—
His eyes gleamed red.
Oh, yes—the demon was back.
“Do you have a plan?”
“Yes,” Balthazar snapped, already striding from the room.
I had to hurry to catch up. “Where are you going?”
“We are going to Italy. I must find the dagger, my daughter, and reclaim control before it is too late.”
We raced down the stairs, two at a time.
Pain still lingered in my right leg, and Balthazar’s stomach wound couldn’t have fully healed. But a demon with a mission was a monster on the move.
Outside, beneath the full moon, we each drew our daggers. Minutes later, our palms were slick with blood, the scripture hanging from our lips like an incantation of fate.
The world imploded.
And then, we were hurtling through dimensions.
When we emerged, it was midday, the golden sun drenching us in heat. I blinked against the brightness, taking in the sprawling countryside—olive trees, vineyards, and sun-warmed earth.
This was Italy.
Balthazar laughed—a deep, triumphant sound—as he flung his arms wide. “Ah, Sicily! The place where my love and I first met.” His voice rang with something both wistful and unhinged. “Come, Marcellious. My villa is right over there.”
He pointed down the hill to a grand, sweeping structure nestled among cypress trees.
Then, like a stallion loosed from the reins, he bolted.
I struggled to keep pace, my breath coming in quick bursts as we rushed downhill. Balthazar moved as if propelled by an invisible force, each step like a gust of wind urging him forward.
The villa loomed ahead—an ominous masterpiece of old stone and shadow.
Monstrous statues lined the path leading up to it, their grotesque faces frozen in eternal screams.
Gargoyles perched at every corner, their unblinking eyes tracking our movements.
And for a moment, I swore they moved.
Balthazar burst into the foyer, his voice booming through the grand halls. “Ginevra! Giorgia! I want a bath at once!”
The house erupted into movement. Servants scurried, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors.
“Master!” one of them cried, breathless. “Welcome home!”
Balthazar didn’t slow. He bounded up the stairs, his movements fevered.
“Balthazar!” I shouted, struggling to keep pace. “What do you need me to do?”
He stopped abruptly, gripping the ornate banister. His eyes gleamed with purpose.
“You will go and retrieve the dagger from Giovanni.”
I faltered. “What? Where—?”
But Balthazar was already moving again, ignoring me completely.
A plump maid, flushed with exertion, waddled up the steps, gasping. “Master, wait! I shall prepare your bath.”
“Fine, fine, Ginevra, but hurry! There is much to do.”
He vanished down the hall, and I had no choice but to chase after him.
We entered a massive chamber.
At its center stood a grand copper tub, its clawed metal legs sculpted into the shape of deer hooves.
I hesitated in the doorway.
“Come, come.” Balthazar waved me inside, his impatience palpable.
The room itself was otherworldly. Devilish-looking plants with spiraling vines and wicked thorns hung from the ceiling, their tendrils swaying as if alive. Stained glass bathed the space in fractured crimson, gold, and violet hues.
Balthazar shed his clothes without hesitation, tossing them carelessly in every direction.
He stood bare, unbothered, as if he owned the very world we stood in.
My gaze flicked to the angry, red gash on Balthazar’s abdomen. Then, lower.
Damn it.
Heat crawled up my neck as my eyes betrayed me, lingering on the impressive cock hanging between his legs. Mortified, I yanked my gaze away.
Except for that wound, Balthazar was a specimen of unshaken power—his muscled physique carved like a warrior forged in battle.
Ginevra lifted a copper lever, pumping water into the tub. Balthazar remained still, hands perched on his hips, exuding the effortless arrogance of a man who expected the world to serve him.
Several servants shuffled in, balancing heavy wooden buckets brimming with steaming water. They poured most into the basin, setting the remaining ones aside for later use.
Ginevra tested the temperature with a careful hand. “It’s perfect, my lord,” she said, keeping her gaze respectfully averted.
Balthazar placed a hand on the tub’s edge and stepped in, sinking into the heat with a satisfied groan. “All of you, leave. But remain close in case the water needs reheating.”
The servants bowed and curtsied as they retreated, careful to duck beneath the thorny tendrils of the strange, carnivorous plants dangling from the ceiling.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Shall I depart as well, master?” The thought of standing here while he bathed made my skin crawl.
Balthazar reclined against the tub’s edge, eyes shut, his body at ease. “Reach into my trousers and retrieve Alina’s blade. Place it on my trophy wall.”
I stiffened. “Your trophy wall, my lord?”
Balthazar’s lids lifted.
“You know—the place where I store my most prized possessions. Like the many blades of the Timebornes I’ve killed.”
His voice softened, laced with the same unsettling warmth he had used earlier when tending to me.
“I know I can trust you, Marcellious. Once you place Alina’s dagger on the trophy wall, you will go to Giovanni’s house and retrieve the Sun Dagger.
He is a weak man—it should be easy for you. Then return to me at once.”
I inclined my head in servitude. “I shall make you proud, master.”
Crouching, I rummaged through his discarded trousers until my fingers curled around the hilt of Alina’s sheathed dagger.
Balthazar watched me intently. “My trophy wall is downstairs, in my office. Ask Ginevra to take you there, but do not let her see my collection.”
His eyes held me captive, expectant.
“Of course not, master.”