Chapter 14 Lucian
Lucian
Iwatch my brother blur up those stairs like Satan himself lit a fire under his Viking ass—and considering the murder written all over his face, the Devil better take a number.
Wherever Rhyland vanished to earlier, it clearly didn't improve his mood.
When he's this pissed, even the apocalypse would take one look and say, "Nah, I'll come back later. "
Meanwhile, Emily's got our psycho maker trapped in her magical hamster ball, and those emerald eyes bring back every twisted memory I've spent years trying to drink away.
No way was I letting Emily go all Sabrina the Teenage Badass to face this nightmare alone—though convincing my stubborn angel to sit this one out took every trick in my considerable charm arsenal.
"Please, Cupcake," I'd begged, actually begged—and let me tell you, that's not a good look on this handsome face.
"Someone needs to keep an eye on Sable while babysitting Baby Vamp downstairs.
" But we both knew I was really saying, 'I can't watch you get hurt.
' My celestial sweetheart's already survived enough of our vampire family drama to fill several heavenly therapy sessions—last thing she needs is a front-row seat to Mommy Dearest's psychotic comeback tour.
My eyes scan for Sir Broods-a-Lot, but Erik's pulled a Houdini on us. That brooding bastard never misses a chance to judge our life choices with his disapproving stare—something's definitely fucky here, and my undead gut's doing backflips.
"Think you can keep me in this sparkly timeout corner, you weak witch?" Lilith sneers through the barrier. Just hearing that voice—that same fucking voice that used to whisper such sweet poison while she broke me piece by piece—makes me shiver.
Emily's got her best "fuck around and find out" face on, hands weaving magic like she's conducting an orchestra of pure sass. "Bitch, I could do this with one hand and still scroll TikTok with the other."
Those emerald eyes lock onto me, and suddenly I'm right back there—forty years as that Fanged Thunder-cunt's favorite fuck toy.
Made me slaughter innocent kids with a smile while my soul turned to ash.
Finally shoved a stake against my own heart, ready to punch my ticket to hell just to escape her twisted shit show.
If Rhyland hadn't fed this Couture Cock-goblin's ego exactly what her psychotic heart wanted that night.
.. well, some nightmares are better left choking on silence.
"Well... if it isn't my greatest failure," she drawls. "Tell me, darling, have you missed Mummy?" Her nails tap against the barrier. "Should have let you end your pathetic existence that night. Forty years trying to mold you into something worthy—what a waste."
The rage bubbling up tastes like copper and children's screams.
I force my best shit-eating grin, even as my hands shake.
"Oh, totally, Mom! Been meaning to send a card—'Sorry you're a rapist psycho who gets off on mind-fucking people into being murder puppets' wasn't available at Hallmark.
But hey, maybe Etsy has something in the 'Go Fuck Yourself' collection? "
One second I'm verbally middle-fingering the Gucci Gutter Slut, the next I'm doing an impromptu flying lesson across the foyer. Fun fact: drywall? Not as soft as it looks in the movies, and trust me, I've been thrown through enough walls to be a fucking expert.
I peel myself off the floor, spitting out plaster and what might be a tooth, to find myself face-to-face with a witch with a vengeance.
"Morgan, kill that little shit—this weak witch, and get me the hell out of here!" Lilith screeches, sounding exactly like she did when she'd ordered her "children" to torture others for her sick amusement.
Morgan—Witch Bitch 2.0—stands over me like some twisted queen, those hate filled eyes screaming, "I snort nightmares and shit curses.
" Ancient words slip from her lips, each syllable cracking the air violently.
"Mens dominari," she hisses, and suddenly my body's not my own anymore—like someone's rewiring my brain with barbed wire.
Emily's counterspell hits like a divine bitch-slap. "Ignis protego!" Blue flames erupt between us, shattering Morgan's mind-control spell into a shower of magical sparks.
I stagger through the wreckage of Lilith's dinner party from hell, following a trail of bodies and broken furniture straight to the ballroom.
Behind me, Emily and Morgan's magical cage match sounds like Latin for "fuck you" meets reality-bending chaos.
But something's wrong—Erik's about as likely to ghost a fight as I am to join a monastery.
I scan the chaos until—ah, fuck. My stomach drops as I spot him crumpled in a dark corner of the ballroom, head twisted at that unique angle that screams, "Someone's been playing chiropractor from hell.
" I know that look intimately—Rhyland's favorite move during my more "rebellious" phases and Emily's go-to solution when my amnesiac ass got too rowdy for her witch-sitting abilities.
"Well, Silver Sorrowpants, it looks like someone adjusted your attitude," I mutter, kneeling beside him. "Though I gotta say, this is a bit dramatic even for you." I hoist his deadweight over my shoulder, and that's when I see it—karma's middle finger glinting under a broken table.
Azrael's ring, complete with that world-ending Soul Stone, just chilling there like the world's deadliest party favor. I drop Erik (sorry, bro, priorities) and blur toward it, but Morgan's stray spell hits like a metaphysical freight train.
"That is mine!"
The ring goes airborne like a cursed Frisbee because of-fucking-course it does. I scramble after it, dodging Morgan's "Mens dominari!" while Emily's counter-curses light up the air like supernatural fireworks.
A blur of feathers and talons dive-bombs for it like some crackhead pigeon on a mission.
My hand closes around the ring just as the bird's talons snatch something off the marble.
I stuff our apocalyptic jewelry into my pocket like it's plutonium wrapped in dynamite, then blur back to Erik, who's still doing his best impression of a broken action figure.
Just in time to see Rhyland emerge from upstairs with Dani cradled against his chest. Holy shit—she looks like death warmed over, and the rage on my brother's face promises the kind of violence that makes our maker's tantrums look like a toddler's timeout.
Just another family reunion, chez Lilith. At least no one's on fi—
"Inferno circulus maxima!" The mansion erupts in flames as Emily's voice rings like that of a vengeful witch from hell.
Blue flames race along the walls, climbing higher than the roof, turning the whole place into Satan's ass. The heat's so intense it's making my eyebrows crispy even from here.
Well, fuck. Me and my big mouth.
"Move your undead asses! This won't hold forever!" Emily shouts over the roar of her magical inferno.
Rhyland blurs down the stairs with Dani cradled against his chest. We haul ass for the cars, Erik's dead weight still flopped over my shoulder like the world's most expensive gym equipment.
Behind us, the mansion's windows explode outward in a shower of glass and chaotic energy.
Whatever Emily just pulled from her magical hat, it's big enough to register on the Richter scale.
I dump Erik in the back of the Mercedes with all the grace of a drunk moving company.
Emily staggers out of her ring of hellfire, looking like she just went ten rounds with Doctor Strange.
I blur over, scoop her up before she face-plants, and zip back to the car.
She lands in the backseat with a grunt that promises future revenge.
"Drive!" Rhyland roars from the passenger seat, Dani still clutched to his chest like she might disappear if he loosens his grip.
The Mercedes roars to life, its tires shredding pavement as we tear out of there like bats out of hell. In the rearview mirror, Emily's magical inferno transforms Lilith's pretentious mansion into Vancouver's most expensive light show—it seems Rainbow Brite has a flair for dramatic exits.
Our maker might be a psychotic bitch, but she's like a cockroach—impossible to kill. Still watching her bougie paradise go up in flames? That'll slow her entitled ass down. At least long enough for us to get the hell out of dodge.
"So, you gonna tell us where the hell you disappeared to, or are we playing otherworldly charades?" I can't help running my mouth—it's kind of my brand. But Rhyland just keeps that 'I'll murder the universe if it breathes wrong' stare locked on Dani.
"Is she—" The question dies on my tongue as I glance at Rhyland. His face carved from stone—but his eyes? Pure Viking murder.
"Just drive, goddammit." His voice could freeze hell itself.
Right. Driving. I can do that.
I slam the gas pedal to the floor, the Mercedes eating up asphalt like it knows what's at stake—forty-five minutes to the tarmac, where our jet's waiting.
Just forty-five minutes of praying Erik's neck heals, Emily doesn't pass out, and Dani...
I press the pedal harder. Some questions are better left unasked.
Ibarely make it through the front door before a golden-haired missile slams into me. My angel's arms around my neck, her celestial warmth chasing away the last of Lilith's icy memories. "Lucian, thank god! Are you all okay?"
I crush her against me, breathing in her heavenly scent like it's the only thing that can wash away the stench of tonight's family reunion. "Yeah. I am now." The memory of Lilith's voice still crawls under my skin, but my angel's touch burns it away like holy water.
Rhyland shoulders past us, Dani limp in his arms as he makes a beeline for the stairs. The flight home was like watching the world's most fucked up medical drama—my brother trying to force-feed Dani his blood while she barely clung to life—so much blood loss.
My brother claimed the entire back of the jet like some possessive Viking gargoyle, snarling at anyone who got too close to Dani.
Can't blame him—watching Dani try to choke down his blood while dealing with the unholy trinity of trauma, blood loss, and our maker's unique brand of psycho?
That's enough to turn anyone into an overprotective asshole.
Our firecracker has a long road ahead between Lilith's twisted games, those bite marks, and whatever other hell she endured. Returning to her usual sass-slinging self will take more than just vampire blood and willpower.
"Dani..." Seraphina's voice cracks and her delicate hand flies to cover her mouth. Her honey-colored eyes fill with tears as her angelic empathy kicks into overdrive. "Is she—?"
"She'll pull through, baby girl." I pull her close, trying to soften the blow of what we both know happened tonight. "Our feisty savior is tougher than she looks. Besides," I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, "you really think Rhyland will let anything take her from him now?"
On our way home, I gave my angel the cliff notes version—what little we knew about Dani's nightmare. But the real horror show? Whatever happened behind that bedroom door with that sick fuck who "bought" her. That's a darkness only Rhyland will ever know if Dani can even bring herself to tell him.
Erik, our resident master of stealth, finally decided to rejoin the land of the conscious mid-flight.
Looked around like someone had replaced his tactical manual with a Dr. Seuss book.
He gave me one of his patented "thank you, but I'll never actually say it" nods.
Obviously, I had to give him shit about getting his neck snapped during his super-secret spy mission.
Can't let The Gloomy Gladiator think I'm going soft.
Meanwhile, Emily ransacks the liquor cabinet as if she were auditioning for "World's Thirstiest Witch." Can't blame her—after spending the entire flight passed out and turning Lilith's mansion into a pile of ash, she's earned a drink. Or ten.
"Come on, Cupcake." I tug Seraphina toward the vault, my pocket feeling heavier than all my of sins combined. Each step closer to that reinforced door adds another layer of 'we're so fucked' to this spectacular disaster of a night.
"Sparky, where are we going?" Her voice carries that perfect blend of heavenly concern and 'what stupid thing did you do now' that only she can manage.
I punch in the vault code with shaking hands—when did I turn into such a bitch? The ring feels like it's burning through my pocket as I pull it out.
"Oh my goodness, where did you find that?" Seraphina's excitement dies faster than my attempt at sobriety when she sees my face. Her golden eyes narrow with that celestial perception that makes lying impossible. "Lucian... what's wrong?"
Somewhere between cloud-hopping and trying not to think about the shit show we'd left behind, I finally checked our apocalyptic party favor. That's when I noticed it—must've been when that witchy bitch Morgan went all magical IED on my ass, and that demonic vulture.
I hold up the ring under the vault's fluorescent buzz—the cosmic equivalent of a broken condom—the broken edge of the stone catches like a guilty secret.
"Our little nuclear bomb just went half-sies. Ten bucks says Hells Favorite Hooker has the other half tucked away in her Gucci handbag by now."