Chapter 48 Lucian
Lucian
I'm wearing a trench in the hardwood, pacing like a caged animal. Haven't closed my eyes in eighteen hours—not that I could sleep if I tried. The bond in my chest feels like an open wound, raw and bleeding, screaming for its other half.
Every second without a word from Dani is another nail in my sanity's coffin.
Six hours. We've got six fucking hours before Lilith starts her DIY angel dismemberment project.
The thought sends another wave of nausea through me. My mind keeps spinning worst-case scenarios like a demented carousel—each one more horrific than the last.
Is she hurting her?
Torturing her?
Has she touched those iridescent wings yet?
The vault downstairs calls to me like a junkie. The Soul Stone's down there, practically gift-wrapped for Hell's favorite psychopath. I could end this right now. Just hand over the cosmic nuke and get my angel back.
But she wants Rhyland, too.
I could lie. Feed her some bullshit about knowing where he is. Or tell her the truth—that he's playing hopscotch through the air realm. Either way, I'd be painting a target on everyone's back.
And I don't even care anymore.
Rosa's in the kitchen, filling the house with the scent of her famous enchiladas—the ones that usually have me drooling. But right now? Food tastes like ash in my mouth. The only thing I can taste is failure and time slipping away.
The bond twists in my chest like barbed wire, each pulse a reminder of what I've lost. This isn't like the last time when Captain Bloodbitch took her. The bond wasn't sealed then. Now? It's like missing half my soul, and I'm done waiting for magical Post-It notes and careful plans.
Emily can take her caution and shove it where the sage doesn't burn.
I'm halfway to the vault when my phone chirps. The message makes my heart skip:
Do try to dress appropriately, darling. Black tie affair and all that. Wouldn't want your little angel to be embarrassed by your... pedestrian fashion choices. Though I suppose that's the least of her concerns right now ????
I shove my phone in my pocket, grinding my teeth. Of course, Lilith wants to turn this into a spectacle. Because being a psychotic bitch isn't enough—she needs an audience for her megalomaniac theater production.
My fingers barely brush the vault's keypad when an invisible force clotheslines me. I slam into the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
"Mother fucker!" I snarl, peeling myself off the wall. Emily and her fucking protection spells. I blur up the stairs, ready to hunt down my least favorite Glinda and give her a piece of my mind. Fury burning in my veins—
And screech to a halt outside her door, my hand frozen mid-reach for the handle.
Oh fuck. Just, NO.
"Mmm, yeah, split me open with that demon dick," Emily's breathy moan filters through the door. "Show me what that supernatural stamina can do."
Fuck my vampire hearing. Fuck it right to hell.
The wet sounds of skin-on-skin make me want to bleach my brain. Because, of course, she's getting railed by a shapeshifting demon while my angel's being held hostage.
"You like that, doll?" Brax's voice rumbles with a distinctly Brooklyn accent. "Want me to show you why they call me America's ass?"
No. NO. He fucking WOULDN'T.
"Yes, Captain!" Emily's enthusiastic response confirms my worst fears. "Paint me like one of your French girls—with your star-spangled banner!"
I spin away from the door, gagging. Great. Now I need therapy AND to burn my entire Marvel collection.
"Whatever it takes!" The distinct moan filters through the door, and—sweet fucking Christ—that's definitely not Brax's normal voice. The demon's got a thing for borrowing faces, but this? This is a whole new level of copyright infringement.
"Harder, Captain! Show this witch what that super-soldier serum can really do!"
Nope. That's it.
I slam my fist against the door hard enough to crack the frame. "Hey, assholes! Wrap up your 'Avengers: Infinity Whore' audition and get your asses out here. Some of us have an actual crisis to deal with!"
The symphony of super-soldier sexcapades cuts off like someone hit the emergency brake on the porn train. The door flies open to reveal Emily, looking like she just lost a fight with an electrical socket—her hair standing on end and magic sparking around her like a horny Tesla coil.
"Were you seriously creeping outside my door like some undead peeping Tom?" Her eyes narrow dangerously, promising hexes in my immediate future.
"Trust me, catching the X-rated version of 'Captain America: The First Avenger' wasn't on my bucket list." I bare my fangs in frustration.
"But newsflash, genius—vampire hearing plus your decidedly not soundproofed room means I get front-row seats to your patriotic booty call whether I want them or not. "
A flush creeps up her neck before her face hardens into its default setting of 'done with your shit.' "What do you want, Lucian?"
"Six hours," I snarl. "We've got six fucking hours before Lilith starts her angel dissection project and nothing from Dani. So either you unhex my vault, or I will start using your grimoire collection as vampire toilet paper."
Emily's eyes narrow dangerously. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me, Sabrina. I'll start with that crusty leather one you keep under your pillow—you know, the one with the special summoning spells?"
Emily glances at her watch, worry flickering across her face before being replaced by her trademark annoyance. "Still radio silence from our realm-hopping bestie, huh?" She runs a hand through her sex-mussed hair. "Fuck. Fine. Give me five to get... presentable."
The door slams forcefully to make Great-Aunt Gertrude's portrait rattle on the wall.
Her voice carries through the not-so-soundproof barrier: "And Lucian?
If I hear one single 'Star-Spangled Banner' joke out of you, I swear to every god in existence.
I will personally relocate your fangs to your ball sack! "
Like, I'd risk that hex. Though I've got to admit, the jokes practically write themselves...
I roll my eyes and head back downstairs, the world's weight settling back on my shoulders with every step.
Damon and Sable are wrapped around each other on the couch, lost in their own little bubble of domestic bliss. Must be nice, I think bitterly, not having your mate's life hanging in the balance. I give them a wide berth, not trusting myself not to say something I'll regret later.
In the kitchen, Rosa is dancing to an upbeat salsa number, her hips swaying in time with the music as she pulls a steaming tray of enchiladas from the oven. The spicy aroma fills the room, but my stomach just twists into knots. Food is the last thing on my mind right now.
"Rosa," I clear my throat, making her jump. "Heads up—your least favorite demon's about to make an appearance. You know, the one you keep threatening to exorcise with your abuela's rosary?"
"?Ay, Dios mío! ?Ese demonio del diablo!" Rosa practically throws the pan onto the counter, crossing herself three times in rapid succession. "?No, no, no! ?Me voy! The food is ready, but I will not stay here with that thing wearing faces like Halloween masks!"
She's out of the kitchen like her ass is on fire, probably heading straight for her room to reinforce her protection wards.
The bourbon's halfway to my lips when the realization hits me like a stake to the chest. I nearly drop the bottle, my mind racing with possibilities.
Well, fuck me sideways.
Brax's latest party trick—the one that made even my jaded ass do a double-take—could be precisely what we need.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, dark and maybe a little unhinged. And here I've been, overthinking this shit for hours when the answer's been strutting around in borrowed skin this whole time.
The war room (aka my living room) looks like a supernatural think tank exploded. Empty bourbon bottles, grimoires, and magical supplies litter every surface while we hammer out our half-baked rescue mission.
"Alright, Brax," I toss him my phone, pulling up Rhyland's most recent voicemail. "Study up. You're about to play the role of everyone's favorite brooding Viking." I swipe through a collection of candid shots I'd snapped of our resident thunder god.
What? Sometimes, blackmail material comes in handy.
Brax's features are already shifting, his borrowed face melting like wax as he absorbs Rhyland's voice patterns.
"You two," I point at Emily and Sable with my half-empty bottle, "need to whip up a knockoff Soul Stone that'll fool Lilith long enough for us to get Phina out. I don't care if you have to bedazzle a paperweight—just make it convincing."
The bourbon burns going down, but it's not doing shit to calm my nerves. "Knowing that theatrical bitch, she's gonna want to make this a public spectacle. We need to get her somewhere private, somewhere we can—"
"Spring a confinement spell," Sable finishes, her eyes lighting up with that particular witchy inspiration.
"Bingo." I drain the bottle, ignoring how the glass trembles in my grip. "Trap the psycho, grab my angel, make our exit stage left."
Emily looks up from her grimoire; her face scrunched in that way that means she's about to rain on my parade. "And what about Morgan? That witch is Lilith's attack dog—she won't let us anywhere near her precious queen."
A dark smile spreads across my face as I reach for another bottle. "Morgan? Oh, don't worry about her. I've got a special plan for that necromancing nightmare—it involves me, her, and a very permanent separation of head from shoulders."
My fangs itch just thinking about Morgan—that vindictive witch who couldn't leave well enough alone.
Had to go and play prison break with Lilith, didn't she?
After all the trouble my brothers went through to lock that psychotic bloodsucker away, one bitter witch with a grudge decides to throw open the gates of hell.
But that's okay. All I need is one look, one moment of eye contact, and my compulsion will turn her mind into putty. Then we'll see how she likes being trapped in her own personal nightmare.
Payback's a bitch, and tonight, so am I.
The room falls into that heavy silence where you can practically hear everyone's brains churning through worst-case scenarios. My fingers drum against the empty bourbon bottle, each tap marking another second we're wasting.
"Better break out your fancy dress clothes, kids." I wave my phone with Lilith's text. "Satan's Side Piece is insisting on black tie. Wouldn't want to disappoint her royal psychosis."
My gaze locks onto Brax like a laser sight. "Hey, Shapeshifting Steve Rogers," I jerk my head toward the stairs. "Time to play dress up, demon boy. You're about to get a crash course in Rhyland's wardrobe."
And if we're lucky, his suit game will be enough to fool Lilith long enough for us to get Phina out of this mess.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes with an ominous dong, making everyone jump. Five hours until showtime. Five hours until I either get my angel back or paint Seattle red.
"Three hours," I bark, taking the stairs two at a time. "Get your shit ready and in order. If you're not ready by then, I'm taking matters into my own hands. This train waits for no one."
I pause at the top, throwing a wicked grin back at Emily. "Oh, and Em? You might want to leave the star-spangled lingerie in your room. Something tells me Lilith's not a fan of patriotic panties."
"Oh, go gargle holy water," Emily snaps back, her magic popping and fizzing around her like Pop Rocks.
Worth it.
The bond in my chest pulses with each step toward my room, a constant reminder of what's at stake.
Just a little longer, angel cake. Your favorite disaster is about to crash Lilith's party—and this time, I'm bringing hell with me.