Chapter 8 Danica
Danica
After a battle royale of trying to force-feed me their witch's brew, the terrible twosome decided to take a more direct approach—jamming a needle in my arm.
My muscles scream in protest as Lilith's iron grip pins me to the mattress, her perfectly manicured nails digging crescents into my skin.
Morgan looms over me, syringe gleaming menacingly in the dim light.
Despite my thrashing and cursing, the needle finds its mark, and liquid fire courses through my veins.
"There we go. That wasn't so terrible, now was it?" Morgan's voice drips with false sweetness as she caps the empty syringe, like she's just given a child their annual flu shot instead of injecting me with their bullshit poison.
"Fuck you. Fuck both of you straight to hell!" The words tear from me, raw and furious. Already the drug seeps through my system like a cold sludge, numbing everything. Leaving me hollow and defenseless. The emptiness where my magic should be aches like a phantom limb.
Fucking witches and their supernatural roofies.
Lilith rises like some twisted Disney villain, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skin-tight dress that looks like Jessica Rabbit went through a goth phase.
"Well then, dinner awaits." Those emerald eyes flash with predatory anticipation.
"Our guests are getting restless downstairs, and I've wasted enough time playing with the likes of you. Come, Ishtar."
Her creepy feathered surveillance camera glides from its perch with silent grace, settling on her shoulder like the world's most judgmental accessory.
She spins on her fuck-me heels and click-clacks towards the door, pausing to toss a final command over her shoulder.
"Morgan, dress her up. Make her look..."Her lips curl into a cruel smile.
"Presentable." The door closes with an ominous click, leaving me alone with Witch Bitch and the sinking realization that 'dinner' probably isn't referring to a nice pot roast. Something tells me I'm about to star in the world's worst vampire dinner theater, and I'm not going to like my role.
I glare at Morgan. "Let me guess—it's a black-tie affair in the torture dungeon?"
But even as I spit sass like armor, fear claws at my insides. Dinner guests? Lilith's twisted idea of presentable? I have a sinking feeling this isn't going to be a pleasant evening of small talk and canapés.
Morgan's smile spreads across her face like poison, all sugar-coated malice. "Impressive—you'll see."
The second the cuffs click open, I launch into action like a caged animal finally freed. My fist flies toward her face—and then nothing. My body freezes mid-swing, muscles locked in place like I've been turned to stone.
What the hell?
"Cute," Morgan drawls, circling my paralyzed form. "But let's get one thing straight—I can turn you into a living statue with less effort than it takes to blink." She taps my frozen chin with her finger. "So maybe we skip the heroics?"
Ice slides down my spine as the reality of my situation sinks in.
This isn't some bargain-basement witch playing at dark magic.
The power rolling off her in waves makes my skin crawl—ancient, dangerous, and absolutely lethal.
And here I am, powerless as a kitten thanks to their magical cocktail, at the mercy of a witch who can apparently turn people into human mannequins with a thought.
"Mm-hmm," I manage through gritted teeth, because what else can I do? Morgan finally releases me from her magical straitjacket, I massage my wrists, trying to get feeling back into my tingling fingers while my mind races through escape scenarios—each one more impossible than the last.
"Perfect. Time to play dress-up," Morgan chirps like we're having a goddamn slumber party, disappearing into what I assume is the closet from Hell.
I'm left sitting here, my heart beating out of my chest, wondering how the hell I'm going to MacGyver my way out of this one.
After hours with a beauty SWAT team—enough makeup to stock a Sephora and enduring hair-yanking torture sessions—I'm trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in expensive silk. Morgan painted, plucked, and polished every inch of me, probably using products that cost more than my car payment.
Given my recent greatest hits—featuring my brother's attempt at vampire murder—fighting every supernatural on the planet—getting kidnapped by Vampire Barbie, and being drugged into magical submission—I must have looked like something dragged backward through hell's gift shop.
Now I'm being paraded through what has to be Bruce Wayne's evil twin's summer home—if Bruce Wayne was a bloodsucking sociopath with a thing for dramatic real estate.
The place is a monument to "fuck you" money, perched on its cliff like a glass and steel predator watching the waves below.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch toward the star-studded sky, framing a view of the ocean that's gone midnight-black, that would be breathtaking if I wasn't, you know, being held hostage.
City lights twinkle in the distance across the water, close enough to taunt me with freedom but too far to offer any hope of rescue.
The mansion itself is some unholy union of modern architecture and supervillain chic—all sleek lines and polished surfaces.
Where the hell am I?
The grand staircase sweeps down into a two-story great room where wall-to-wall windows frame the churning sea like nature's own IMAX screen. Crystal chandeliers drip from elaborate coffered ceilings, throwing prismatic light across marble floors so polished I can see my reflection in them.
The sound of violins drifts up as we descend, and I nearly wipe out in these medieval torture devices masquerading as designer heels.
The place is teeming with the vampire elites, all decked out in black-tie attire like this is some twisted immortal prom night. Everyone's sporting masquerade masks, only adding to the eerie vibe.
What's the deal with vampires and masquerade balls, anyway?
"Move it," Morgan commands, like I'm her personal show pony.
I plant my feet, summoning my inner stubborn mule, but suddenly my body jerks forward like I'm a marionette on invisible strings. I stumble, barely avoiding a face-first introduction to the marble floor.
"Jesus, do you have to be such a Grade-A bitch?" I snarl under my breath, burning holes in the back of her head.
Morgan glances back, her smile sharp as a razor. "Behave, and I won't have to be. Simple as that. Now, be a good girl and put on your pretty smile. We wouldn't want to disappoint our hostess, would we?"
Great. I'm trapped in some twisted fucked-up soirée, being paraded around like a prized poodle by Witch Bitch while Vampire Regina George probably plots my demise over chilled blood champagne.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Morgan drags me through, but it's not respect moving them—it's hunger.
Heads snap toward me, nostrils flaring as they catch my scent.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and based on the way these vampires are looking at me, it has the right idea.
Their eyes track my every movement, pupils blown wide with bloodlust. High-priced suits and couture gowns can't hide the predators beneath—if anything, they make them more terrifying. These aren't your average street vamps; these are apex predators in Armani.
"Mmm... such a delectable little morsel," purrs a woman in a red dress, her tongue sliding across pearl-white fangs.
A silver-haired vampire in a tux inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back. "I simply must have a taste. The aroma is... intoxicating."
"So this was Azrael's obsession," another whispers, voice thick with anticipation. "I understand now—she smells divine."
Cold fear slides down my spine as their words sink in.
My fingers tremble against the silk of my dress as realization hits—this doesn't feel like a normal party.
It feels like this is a fucking tasting menu, and I'm the main course.
These trust fund bloodsuckers are looking at me like I'm a vintage wine at a sampling event.
Bile rises, as Morgan continues to drag me through this gauntlet of gleaming fangs and hungry eyes. Every cell in my body screams to run, but between Morgan's magical leash and my power-dampening cocktail, I might as well try to sprout wings and fly.
I smooth trembling hands over the dress they've poured me into—a white silk number that screams "virgin bride.
" The fabric whispers against my skin, hugging every curve like it was painted on.
It's the kind of dress that would cost three months' rent, and here I am wearing it to what's probably going to be my last supper.
The neckline plunges into a deep V—my breasts on full display, while the rest of the dress flows like liquid moonlight to the floor. It's elegant in its simplicity—no beading, no lace, just pure white silk that practically glows under the chandelier light.
Could this be it? The moment where they serve me up to Moretemis like some gift-wrapped offering—the ritual? Everything I know about the shadow god floods my mind—his hunger for power, his taste for innocent blood, his ability to corrupt souls.
The sick irony of wearing pure white to what might be my own funeral isn't lost on me, while surrounded by bloodthirsty vampires in a mansion that probably has more secret passages than the Winchester Mystery House.
"Ah, there's our guest of honor." Lilith's voice slices through the crowd. She sashays toward me, her own mask barely hiding the malevolent glint in her eyes, a pack of balenciaga-clad vampires following her like obedient pets. "Morgan, darling, escort our little star to the stage."
My stomach drops as I spot the setup—a single chair and microphone standing in the spotlight like some twisted American Idol from hell. What fresh nightmare is this? Are they seriously expecting me to perform like some circus animal?