Chapter 51 Lucian
Lucian
The gothic monstrosity looms ahead like Dracula's McMansion got busy with a haunted cathedral. Welcome to Casa de Crazy, formerly known as Azrael's House of Horrors, under new management by Hell's Favorite Bitch.
I half expect to see bats circling the towers and hear organ music echoing from the depths. Seeing it makes my insides twist like a pretzel, memories of this place souring on the back of my tongue.
Seraphina's in there. My angel cake. So close and yet so fucking far.
We're armed to the fangs for this little soirée.
I dusted off the old masquerade stash—because if you're going to infiltrate a psychotic vampire's party, you might as well look damn good doing it.
Brax is wearing Rhyland's mask, and I've got to say, the sight of not-my-brother wearing my brother's face is enough to make my head spin.
Identity crisis, party of one.
Emily and Sable came through with the fake Soul Stone, a dead ringer for Azrael's old bling.
But the real showstopper? Shadow's Grasp. We're all packing a syringe of that sweet, sweet oblivion juice.
Because when you're crashing the party of the century, you come prepared.
Considering it's Lilith we're up against, we might need the entire fucking pharmacy of Shadow's Grasp to put her ass down.
And you know what? I'm actually hoping we do. Because watching Queen Bitch Supreme convulse while that magical roofie hits her system? That's the kind of entertainment you can't buy tickets for.
Emily gave me the crash course on this magical cocktail earlier—apparently, it turns vampire strength into vampire jelly. Watching Lilith's super-powered ass get knocked down a few pegs? Chef's kiss. Worth every drop of that witchy brew.
Can't wait to see how that poison cocktail pairs with her blood type. Bet it goes great with her bitchy personality.
"All right, kiddies—showtime!" I adjust my mask, scanning our little band of misfits. "Brax, just channel your inner douchebag. Trust me—nothing says 'Rhyland' like being a Grade-A asshole with a side of brooding."
Emily tugs at the edges of Dani's borrowed dress, her gold mask catching the moonlight, "For the last time, Dracula, I know my part. Go to the room we found on the map, set up shop, and turn it into Witch's Kitchen: Binding Spell Edition."
"The full moon's energy will amplify the spell," Sable adds, helpfully, looking like some fairytale princess gone rogue in her pink dress and gilded mask "Should give it enough juice to hold even Lilith."
The bond in my chest pulses like an open wound. Phina's close—so fucking close I can taste it. But that bitch Morgan has got her doped up on whatever mystical roofie she used on Dani—I can feel the fuzzy edges of Phina's consciousness through our connection.
"I'll handle Morgan." My fangs ache just thinking about it. "Just need to get that necromancing nightmare to look me in the eyes."
The ballroom sprawls before us like some twisted vampire's version of the Met Gala.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, casting prismatic light across a sea of masked faces.
The air practically vibrates with supernatural energy—and the unmistakable scent of way too many vampires trying to out-design each other.
Welcome to Hell's Fashion Week, where the drinks are blood-red and everyone is dressed to kill—literally.
My eyes scan the crowd, picking through the kaleidoscope of masks and evening wear. There is no sign of my Cupcake, and I don't see Lilith's psychotic ass either. It is an endless parade of immortals playing dress-up while my chest aches with every beat of the bond.
Where are you hiding her, you couture-obsessed demon?
The string quartet in the corner strikes up something classical and pretentious, because of course Lilith wouldn't settle for a DJ. Not fancy enough for her bloodsucking debutante ball.
Emily catches my eye across the crowd, giving me that subtle "don't-fuck-this-up" nod before she melts into the throng of party-goers. Sable trails after her like a pink shadow, keeping just enough distance not to draw attention.
Look at you, witches, being all stealthy.
Not-Rhyland looms beside me, radiating enough brooding energy to make Edward Cullen look cheerful. A waiter materializes with a tray of champagne flutes—the contents are not your standard Dom Pérignon unless they've started adding O-negative to their blend.
I snag two glasses and push one at Brax. His face twists into that signature Rhyland look of disapproval—like someone just suggested putting pineapple on pizza.
"Drink the damn champagne," I mutter through clenched teeth. "My brother wouldn't be caught dead—pun intended—turning down free booze. Even the pretentious blood-spiked kind."
The champagne barely touches my lips when a voice like nails on a chalkboard slithers behind us.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't my favorite brooding boy-toy.
" Lilith's gaze rakes over not-Rhyland like he's a piece of meat.
"And here of your own accord, for once. How novel.
" Her laugh could cut glass. "Oh wait, my mistake.
Still playing the self-sacrificing hero, aren't we? Old habits die hard, I suppose."
I have to physically restrain myself from jamming my champagne flute down her smug throat. Bitch.
Subtle reminder about how my brother traded himself to save my ass. Real classy, you ugly bitch.
Lilith dressed in some emerald-wrapped nightmare, her gown catching light like scattered venom. Those electric-green eyes pierce through her black mask, locked on Not-Rhyland with predatory intensity. "Miss me, lover?"
Brax's shoulders stiffen, his voice dropping to a low growl that's pure alpha male. "I'm not here to play your twisted games, Lilith. We have a deal, remember?"
Lilith's smile is all razor blades and venom. "Oh, you mean Lucian's little angel toy?" She tsks, running a finger down Brax's lapel, looking at me. "Really, darling, I thought you had better taste than some feathered bimbo."
I nearly crush the champagne flute in my hand. Keep talking, you cunt. We'll see who's laughing when this night is over.
Lilith's venomous gaze slides back to Brax, her blood-red lips curling into a cruel smile. "Speaking of heavenly creatures..." She makes a show of scanning the room, with mock concern. "Where's your little mortal pet? The one I so enjoyed... entertaining."
Not-Rhyland's shoulders bunch with tension, his growl pure Viking rage. Holy shit, Brax is channeling my brother's protective alpha male routine perfectly. "You really think I'm stupid enough to bring her anywhere near you?"
"Mmm." Lilith traces a perfectly manicured nail down his lapel, her eyes glittering with malice. "Can't be that attached if you're willing to trade yourself away so easily." Her tongue traces her lower lip. "Miss our little... encounters, darling?"
I swear to god, if she doesn't stop eye-fucking my not-brother, I'm going to hurl up every drop of blood I've consumed this century.
"Like a stake to the heart," Brax seethes. His voice drops to that dangerous register Rhyland gets right before breaking things. "Let's skip the foreplay. Me for Seraphina. That was the deal."
Holy shit. Who knew demons could method act? I'm starting to get uncanny valley vibes. The sneer, the growl, even that signature "I'd-rather-be-stabbing-someone" stance—it's like watching Rhyland's greatest hits performed live.
Lilith laughs. "Always so... direct. That's what I love most about you, darling. That raw... intensity." She groans. "Especially in more... intimate settings."
Oh god, someone fetch me a bucket. Bile burns the back of my throat. "Where's Seraphina?" I snap, done playing her twisted game of Twenty Questions.
"Patience, darling." She waves a dismissive hand, never taking those venomous eyes off Not-Rhyland. "The night's young. Surely you remember our dances, lover? How about a little... warm-up?"
If I survive this night without projectile vomiting, it'll be a miracle.
Brax shoots me a look, and I give him a barely perceptible nod.
Time to play along.
I watch Lilith lead him onto the dance floor, her emerald dress clinging to her like a second skin. They move together like a pair of vipers, all sleek grace and coiled danger. Brax's hand rests on her lower back, his fingers digging in just a little too hard to be friendly.
That's it, buddy. Sell the hate-fuck tension. Make her believe it.
I weave through the crowd like a shark circling its prey, keeping one eye on Lilith and her demon dance partner.
Now, where are you hiding, Morgan? Come out, come out, wherever you are, you necromancing nightmare.
From the landing, I catch Brax's eye. One subtle nod is all it takes—our signal to start the show. T-minus ten minutes until this party gets started.
The back room is exactly where we planned—far enough from the crowd to avoid unwanted attention, close enough to spring our trap. Emily and Sable are already there, the air thick with magic that makes my fangs itch.
"We set?" I keep my voice low, though honestly, the pretentious classical crap downstairs is loud enough to cover a demon choir.
Emily doesn't even look up from her work. "All ready for our guest of horror. Full moon's giving us enough juice to hold Cruella De Vil herself."
"What about Morgan? Can't you wave your hands and locate her witchy ass?"
Emily's glare could freeze hellfire. "For the last time, you bloodsucking moron, magic doesn't work like your Netflix shows." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Though I can try a detection spell."
"In English, please?"
"Think supernatural GPS, you fanged disaster." Magic snaps around her like static electricity. "It'll ping any magical signatures in range."
"Fine. Do your magical sonar thing. The last thing we need is that bitch showing up uninvited to our little party."
The bond flutters in my chest like a wounded bird, pulling me downward. Below us. Of course she'd have her in Azrael hell hole.