Chapter 44
Lucian
Voices fade in and out like a poorly tuned radio. Red and blue lights strobe across the shattered glass, each flash sending daggers through my skull. A penlight burns my retinas as someone keeps asking questions I can't process.
Blood trickles down my face. The steering column pins me like a bug in a display case—dashboard crumpled around my legs. Every breath tastes like copper and gasoline.
"Sir, can you hear me?" A female officer crouches by the wreckage, her name plate reading 'Perez.' "The Fire department's en route. Just stay still."
Seraphina. Her empty seat mocks me, airbag deflated and blood-stained. They took her. Those bastards took my angel.
I try to move, but my body screams in protest. Glass crunches with every slight shift, embedded in my skin like thorns.
"Don't move," Officer Perez warns, her hand on my shoulder. "You're wedged in pretty tight. It's a miracle you're even conscious."
Miracle. Right. If she only knew what real miracles looked like.
And I just let one slip through my fingers. Images flash through my mind—Dani's torture, Lilith's cruelty, what that psychotic bitch might be doing to my angel cake right now. Bile rises in my throat, rage burning hotter than the gasoline pooling under the wreck.
How many minutes have I wasted trapped in this metal coffin? How many hours of head start have I given them?
That gravelly voice echoes in my skull: "Lilith sends her regards." Something familiar scratches at my memory, like a record needle stuck in a groove. I've heard that sadistic voice and felt that presence. But where?
"Can you tell me your name, sir?" Officer Perez's voice fades beneath the approaching wail of sirens. Red emergency lights paint the wreckage in hellish hues as firefighters swarm the scene.
"Move."
"Out of the way."
Two men approach the vehicle. Metal screams against metal.
The jaws of life tear through the car like it's made of paper, each second an eternity while my angel slips further away.
Finally, the door gives. I spill out onto blood-slicked asphalt, limbs trembling.
Paramedics descend like vultures. Penlight beams stabbing my eyes.
Their pulses thunder in my ears—strong, vital, precisely what I need. The hunger rises, primal and vicious.
The first medic never sees it coming. My fangs tear through his carotid like wet tissue paper. Hot blood floods my mouth, sweet and rich with adrenaline. Bones knit, wounds seal as I drink deep.
Screams erupt. The female EMT tries to run. I catch her quickly, dragging her down. Her blood tastes like fear and cherry lip gloss.
Two officers fall next, their service weapons useless against vampire speed. Four bodies drain dry at my feet, their life essence burning through my veins like liquid fire.
I'm usually more of a "live and let live" kind of vampire—you know, if you don't count the occasional consensual blood drinking.
But right now? With my angel in the clutches of Hell's Next Top Model?
Yeah, this situation's gone from zero to apocalyptic real quick.
And if I'm going to crash Lilith's little hostage party, I need my mojo firing on all cylinders.
Wooden bullets slam into my chest, burning like holy fire. Fuck. Officer Perez switched her ammo while I was busy draining the others dry. Smart girl.
I blur forward, ripping the weapon from her grip before her finger can squeeze off another round.
Her eyes widen in terror as I lock onto her gaze.
"Listen up, Officer Not-Buffy," I growl, blood still dripping from my fangs—my compulsion sliding into her mind like silk.
"Tonight's highlight reel? Boring traffic accident.
No vampire shenanigans, no blood fountains, definitely no sexy undead badass using EMTs as juice boxes. Got it?"
She nods mechanically, holstering her empty weapon.
The wooden bullets in my chest burn like a bitch as I work them out one by one.
I pluck the last wooden slug from my chest. The wound knitting shut like a zipper.
Fishing my phone from my blood-soaked pocket, I punch in Emily's number.
"Round up the Scooby Gang. We are going to war. "
"Jesus Christ, what the hell have you stirred up now?" Emily snaps with that unique brand of exasperated snark she saves for me. "Some of us were actually trying to sleep, you inconsiderate bloodsucker."
"She took—" My phone buzzes, cutting off my fury-fueled rant.
Unknown:
Trade offering, darling. One mystical rock and Rhyland for your precious Halo. Tick Tock.
I clench my jaw. This fucking bitch has my angel. And she thinks she can bargain?
I'm bleeding all over my iPhone's keyboard as I type, fingers trembling with rage:
My phone cracks under my grip, Emily's voice crackling through the dying speaker.
Touch her, and I'll personally introduce your organs to daylight.
Such language! Tsk, tsk. And here I thought we could be civil. Your angel says hi, by the way. Well, she would, but she's a bit gagged and drugged at the moment.
Shall we discuss terms like grown-ups? Soul Stone, Rhyland for the angelic bimbo. Or...
I will start express shipping her home to you. Prime delivery. Maybe start with those gorgeous wings? They'd make such lovely wall decorations ??
I'm going to wear your fucking spine as a belt.
Cute. Clock's ticking, lover boy—24 hours. Or your precious angel becomes a DIY craft project. Starting with those pretty feathers...
Where?
Come now, darling. Even someone of your limited mental capacity should recall what I like. Do keep up, pet. Time's wasting, and so is your angel's patience... not to mention her blood supply ??
When I get to you, I will introduce your face to a wood chipper. Repeatedly.
Better hurry, darling. Your precious angel's hourglass is running out. And I do so love to play with my food.
I reach out through our bond, searching for that warm golden thread that always leads me to my angel. But there's nothing—just a cold, empty void where her light should be. That bitch must have dosed her with the same mystical roofie she used on Dani.
Fuck!
Her next text pings in, giving me a location. Well, isn't that just fucking perfect? Not Oregon—Seattle, specifically Azrael's architectural nightmare. You know, that Dr. Seuss mansion on steroids where he played "torture chamber interior decorator" with his human collection.
Because of course Lilith would pick that place. Nothing says 'I'm an evil bitch' quite like recycling another psycho's torture palace. Points for dramatic irony, I guess, but minus several million for originality.
"Lucian! What the hell? Are you there?" Emily's snark evaporates when I finally speak.
"It's Lilith." The name tastes like piss in my mouth. "She's got Phina. Wants to trade her for the Soul Stone and Rhyland."
The line goes so quiet I can hear Emily's heart skip a beat. Her breathing turns shallow, and I know she's processing the full weight of how monumentally fucked we are.
And that's saying something, considering our usual threshold for disaster sits somewhere between 'apocalyptic' and 'oh shit.'
"Get your ass over here," I growl into the phone, texting my location with more force than necessary. Like somehow stabbing the screen harder will make Emily materialize faster. "And bring one of my spare cars. The one that's not currently doing its best pretzel impression in a ditch."
Iburst through the front door like a man on a mission, keys clattering onto the table like a metallic thunderclap. Emily trails behind me, her heels clicking against the hardwood like an angry metronome.
Between dodging traffic and breaking every speed limit known to man, I'd given Emily the highlight reel of our evening's shit show.
"And where exactly do you think you're going, Captain Impulsive?" Emily's voice could cut diamonds as I beeline for the vault. Of course she knows what I'm planning—the witch probably read it off my blood pressure.
"Well, unless you've got a better idea hiding in that cauldron of yours, I'm getting the stone and going full John Wick on that blood-sucking bitch." My fangs drop as I spin to face her. "Or should I wait until she starts gift-wrapping pieces of my angel with pretty little bows?"
"Jesus, Lucian!" Emily throws her hands up, magic crackling around her. "Your half-cocked suicide mission isn't going to save anyone. Since when do you play by the bitches rules?"
I can feel my eye twitching. "Emily, I swear to God, if you don't move, I will move you myself."
She scoffs. "Try it, Fang Face. I'll hex your dick off before you take a step."
We glare at each other, the tension thick enough to choke on. Every second we waste, my Phina is suffering. I can feel it in my bones.
"Emily, please." My voice cracks, desperation leaking through the cracks in my bravado. "I can't... I can't lose her. Not like this."
Emily's face softens, the snark melting away. "Look, Captain Dramatics, I get it. Sera is... she's family now. But we can't just throw a cosmic nuke into Lilith's manicured hands and hope for the best. We need a plan that doesn't end with the apocalypse."
"What's the problem?"
I whirl around to find Braxos sauntering in, wearing Tony Stark's face like he raided Marvel's costume department. Because apparently, this demon's got a hard-on for my entire comic collection.
"For fuck's sake," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Could you not? I'm already dealing with one crisis. I don't need Iron Demon over here giving me copyright nightmares."
But of course, he's only got eyes for Emily, his concern practically oozing through Stark's perfectly trimmed goatee. It makes me want to projectile vomit all over this kitchen.
"Brax, it's... we're handling it," Emily sighs, her voice carrying the world's weight. "Lilith snatched Sera. Wants to trade her for the Soul Stone like it's a fucking Pokemon card."