Chapter 17
Balthazar
As I looked into Alina’s eyes, her words took root, winding themselves around every doubt I’d buried. And suddenly… it all made perfect sense.
Layla.
She was changing Malik—softening him, like Cora once did to Mathias. Twisting him into something I didn’t recognize. Into something good.
A foreign terror surged in my chest. My heart pounded with the realization.
Malik wants to destroy me.
The image of him shifted in my mind, warping from the loyal, eager pupil I had raised into a dark, looming presence cloaked in betrayal. His innocence was a mask. A lie. Beneath it, he was sharpening his blade.
And if I didn’t move fast, he would be my ruin.
I reached for Alina and pulled her into a crushing embrace, rocking her against me as though trying to steady myself.
“Oh, my beloved Alina,” I murmured, breath ragged. “Where would I be without your wise counsel? You’ve pulled the wool from my eyes. I see it now.”
“I’m glad you can see clearly,” she said, her voice honeyed with triumph. “Before it’s too late.”
But a new thought struck me like lightning.
I stiffened.
Pulling back from her, I met her gaze with sudden urgency. “I have to speak with Malik. Alone.”
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes bright with anticipation. “You must hurry—before he strikes first.”
With that, I spun on my heel and stormed out, the fire of vengeance igniting beneath my skin.
Malik’s estate loomed in the quiet heart of London, veiled in elegance and power.
The iron gates rose high, adorned with curling gold filigree, and beyond them, manicured gardens stretched in perfect symmetry—lavender, roses, and foxgloves blooming in violent color.
A fountain roared at the center, its marble figures forever caught in a dance of myth and splendor.
The house stood at the end of a long path, proud and white against the darkening sky. Ornate columns framed the entrance, and intricate carvings adorned the stone facade—flawless, stately, inviting.
The entrance to Malik’s estate was a masterwork of craftsmanship—an ornate portal of burgundy-painted mahogany, carved with filigree so precise it seemed to ripple in the fading light.
Two brass knockers flanked the door, each sculpted into a lion’s head mid-roar, their jaws frozen in silent challenge.
Beneath them was a polished metal plaque engraved with intricate swirls and curlicues—symbols of elegance, secrecy, and power.
Above, a grand bay window overlooked the street, and from it extended a pair of balconies crafted in matching wood and finish, like open arms welcoming the world—or warning it.
Classic Malik, I thought. He always had a taste for refinement, surrounding himself with beauty and control.
When the door opened, he looked surprised to find me on the stoop.
“Balthazar,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’ve recovered quickly. How fortunate.”
“Yes, yes, spare me the pleasantries,” I said curtly, brushing past him into the foyer.
I shed my coat and hat, hanging them on the claw-footed coat rack carved from ebony. Then I turned to face him squarely.
“We need to talk.”
Malik studied me briefly, his expression unreadable—but I knew him too well to be fooled. Somewhere behind his mask, calculations were being made.
I looked at him, truly looked at him—and for a moment, I hoped Alina was wrong.
I wanted her to be mistaken. I loved Malik.
Adored him. I had nurtured his darkness like a father, like a brother, like a twisted mirror of myself.
We’d killed together, bedded women together, whispered secrets in the dark no one else would ever understand.
To think he now desired to eclipse me—to rise above me—was a wound I hadn’t yet figured out how to stop bleeding.
“Of course,” he said, his voice calm and controlled. He closed the door gently behind us. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine? Bourbon?”
I held up a hand. “No. I’m fine. Where can we speak privately?”
He nodded and led me through his opulent halls, past rooms overflowing with curated treasures from across the globe—silks from Persia, statues from Rome, ivory from the East. The air was thick with the sweet scent of fresh flowers artfully arranged on every surface, making my stomach turn.
It didn’t suit him. It felt… curated. Artificial.
We entered his smoking parlor, a space far more to my liking.
The scent shifted—tobacco and leather, rich and earthy.
Dark wood-paneled walls glowed beneath low lamplight.
Leather armchairs sat around the hearth, flanked by carved tables topped with cigars, crystal ashtrays, and fine smoking implements.
The decor was masculine and tasteful—artwork of hounds mid-hunt, men on horseback charging through fog and blood.
Malik gestured toward one of the deep leather armchairs.
I sat, sinking into the worn cushion as he crossed the room with unhurried elegance. From a Spanish cedar-lined humidor in the corner, he retrieved a box of his finest cigars—aged, hand-rolled, and absurdly expensive. He extended the box to me.
I carefully selected one, brought it to my nose, and inhaled the rich scent of tobacco and clove. It was earthy, discreet, and dangerous.
Malik did the same, choosing his with practiced ease before settling into the chair opposite mine.
“Let’s light up, shall we?” he said, striking a wooden match along the side of the box with a drag that revealed the flicker of flame.
I mirrored him, touching the flame to the tip of my cigar and puffing gently until it smoldered to life. The scent of burning tobacco filled the parlor, smoke curling like serpents around us, filling the air with a familiar and foreign haze.
We smoked in silence for a time—two predators in a den, pretending peace.
Finally, Malik broke the quiet. “So… what do you wish to speak of?”
I tapped ash into the tray, watching the smoke dance lazily upward.
“I’ve known you since your inception, have I not?” I said, meeting his eyes across the room.
A rhetorical question, but he nodded, nonetheless.
“I molded you,” I continued. “Took you from a wild, indiscriminate killer and turned you into a refined executioner. A connoisseur of death.”
“Indeed, you have.” He exhaled, his lips parting as smoke spilled into the air. “I owe much of who I am to you.”
“So, tell me,” I said softly, lifting the cigar once more, “why is it that now, after everything, you seek a cure from the darkness? Have I misled you? Failed you somehow?”
“Not at all,” Malik said, casually crossing one leg over the other. His smile was tight, contained—too perfect. “But Layla and I—”
There it was.
That cursed name.
“—have discovered something extraordinary. The original daggers. The first pair—Sun and Moon. Not replicas. Not legends. The blades born from the darkness itself.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice growing reverent. “Can you imagine what it would mean to possess such relics? To wield that kind of power?”
But I’d stopped listening after Layla and me.
The words buzzed in my ears like a wasp trapped under glass.
I knew it.
She was the rot in his roots. The softness in his eyes, the tenderness curled at the edge of his mouth—it wasn’t darkness anymore. It was hope. And that hope had a name.
Layla.
She was poisoning him, unmaking him.
I bit down hard on the end of my cigar. The tobacco turned bitter on my tongue, sharp as ash.
“So,” I said coolly, “this wasn’t your idea... it came from Layla?”
Malik frowned, the lines around his mouth tightening.
“It was the result of our research,” he replied, carefully measured. “Layla knows how unhappy I am being... what I am.” He hesitated. “Don’t you ever want to be normal, Balthazar? To stop killing just to stay alive? Layla believes the Sun and Moon Daggers are the answer.”
I laughed, a harsh, joyless sound. I waved my hand through the smoke-laced air, dismissive. “Do you hear yourself? You’re clinging to fairy tales like a couple of enchanted blades will undo centuries of blood and ruin. It’s childish.”
Malik leaned forward, his eyes alight—not with madness, but hope. Hope was so pure; it looked like treason.
“What’s childish,” he said, “is pretending that what we do isn’t agony. Layla and I were told the daggers could silence the hunger. End it. We could live real lives. Normal lives. Maybe even start families.” His voice cracked on the word.
“Doesn’t that sound divine?” he whispered. “Don’t you want that?”
I stiffened.
I had a family. Long ago. A love. Children. A life full of light that ended in fire and blood. The idea of rebuilding such a thing… clawed at the walls of my heart, somewhere deep and hidden. I’d tasted the joy of raising someone—him. And now he wanted to leave me for some promised light?
Malik’s gaze burned into mine. “Just imagine it, Balthazar. No more feeding. No more shadows. No more agony. Just peace. Freedom.”
I flinched.
The image of myself just hours ago—hunched over, purging the rot of my last kill—hit me with brutal clarity. I could still taste the bile, feel the ache in my bones, the exhaustion in my soul. That moment had stripped away the illusion of power and left only rotting truth.
“I hear you,” I said quietly, voice laced with caution. “But do you even know where these daggers are? Have you seen them with your own eyes? How do you know they’re not myths—another cursed promise meant to unravel us?”
Malik’s response came fast, too fast—like dogs loosed from the leash.
“Oh, they exist,” he said, eyes flashing. “We have it on good authority. I trust my sources.”
I watched him carefully, scrutinizing every word, every breath, every shift in his posture. My jaw tightened.
“How did it happen?” I asked, keeping my tone even. “How did you meet Layla? And don’t skip the details. Start from the beginning.”
He sighed, annoyed. “You can’t be serious. I’ve told you this story a dozen times.”
“No,” I said, cold and immovable. “Tell it as if I’ve never heard it before.”