16. Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
The descent into Blood Moon Club was a plunge into shadow and light, the air thick with pepper and cinnamon, sweat, and magic. It enveloped Emmaline, intoxicating, almost suffocating, but beneath it all, a different rhythm thrummed. Would he be here?
As they stepped onto the upper landing, the crowd below shifted—no, parted—as soon as Ursula’s towering form came into view.
Ellyllon and fae of all types melted from their path, slipping into the crowd’s periphery with murmurs of deference mingled with fear.
Some bowed their heads, others whispered low acknowledgments.
One or two even dared a reverent “Mistress” before vanishing into the sea of bodies.
“Mistress?” Margo giggled in Emmaline’s ear.
“If only they knew her like we did. If they knew she was secretly afraid of—ow!!”
A sharp pinch landed on Emmaline’s backside.
“That’s enough out of you.” Ursula swept past them, nudging Emmaline’s hip in playful retaliation. She barely slowed her stride, all commanding presence and danger as she cast a glance over her shoulder. “Duty calls. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. At least until I get back.”
Emmaline laughed, rubbing her, no doubt, bruised skin as Ursula strode off, the crowd folding around her like shadows swallowing the moon.
“Come on.” She caught Margo by the elbow, guiding her toward their usual spot, a curved, high-backed booth nestled in the club’s elevated VIP section.
Unlike the gaudy, gold-drenched lounges of other supposedly high-class establishments, Ursula’s vibe was pure, calculated decadence.
The seating was obsidian leather, its plush surface cool against the skin, while the low table in front of them was carved from dark quartz, its veins pulsing with purple magic that reacted to the patrons’ presence.
The booth overlooked the dance floor, offering a perfect vantage point to observe the writhing pandemonium below.
Margo flopped onto the seat with a satisfied sigh, stretching out like a cat, before waving down a passing waitress.
“More of the Fion Dathliad!” she called, lifting her empty glass in a lazy flourish.
The waitress—barely clad in shimmering silk strips, her azure skin sparking under the club’s ambient light—paused just long enough to wink before twirling away.
“You got it, Margo!” she called back, already disappearing into the press of bodies.
Tiny, luminous scales dusted the curve of her shoulders, catching the shifting colors of the enchanted strobes floating above the dance floor.
“Ursula’s going to gut you.” Emmaline snorted. “That stuff is expensive.”
“Please.” Margo waved a dismissive hand. “I doubt it. But if she’s upset, I’ll cover it.”
“Of course you will.” Emmaline rolled her eyes. “It’s only a month of my salary.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Margo’s hands found hers, fingers threading tight before she tugged her forward, pulling them both into the tide of moving bodies. “Not tonight! Let’s just have some fun.”
The music throbbed through the floor, winding around the bones, thick and alive with the blend of too many cultures to name.
The deep, resonant percussion was unmistakably troll-forged, layered with the eerie, lilting harmonies of faery string instruments, while beneath it all, a slinking, serpentine bassline pulsed like the heartbeat of the club itself.
Margo swayed where she stood, hands lifting to her ruby-colored hair as she tilted her head back, lost for a moment in the sheer, intoxicating sound. “Goddess, this beat! What is it?”
She was stunning. And not just in the way most noble ladies were—poised, elegant, distant—but in the way of a wildfire.
Untamed, burning bright, heedless of the destruction left in its wake.
Her cherry-stained gown clung to her curves, the slit riding high on her thigh while the delicate gold chains at her waist winked in the low light with every turn of her hips.
Emmaline couldn’t help but admire her, as she always did. If the noble houses had any sense, they’d be throwing their sons at her feet.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
“Just how much did you have to drink before coming tonight?” Emmaline laughed, letting the music drag her into motion beside her.
“Just enough to drown out Mother’s voice.” Margo grinned, throwing her arms around Emmaline’s shoulders as they swayed together. “She’s on another crusade to see me married.”
“Oh, Margo.” Emmaline frowned, pulling her friend into a tight hug, though Margo only sighed, resting her chin on Emmaline’s shoulder for a brief second before spinning away.
Lady Tremaine was nothing if not persistent. Every couple of years, without fail, she paraded her daughter through ballrooms and tea parties, arranging carefully orchestrated meetings with eligible young lords.
“Let me guess,” Emmaline said, slipping back into step beside her. “She started with the charming artists and philosophers before moving on to the scholars and war heroes?”
“Naturally,” Margo huffed, twirling beneath Emmaline's arm before taking her hands again. “And when none of them caught my interest, she moved on to the ones who were just there.”
“The ones with land.”
“The ones with titles,” Margo corrected with a knowing smirk. “Because clearly, I am in desperate need of a man to help me exist in society.”
They both laughed, but the tension beneath it was real.
Margo could have had her pick of noble sons—kind, smart, and breathtaking as she was—but that would require honesty.
And honesty would ruin her. Marriage among the nobility still followed archaic traditions.
Strength of lineage was paramount, and brides were tested to ensure powerful magic passed to their children.
If Margo’s secret ever came to light, if anyone discovered she was null, her family would be disgraced.
Not even her parents knew.
Sometime between the War and the migration to the New World, her magic had faded. She had only told Emmaline, Ursula, and Cassidy, swearing them all to silence, begging them to help keep the truth buried.
“You know, I could always sue one of your suitors. Lord Greymane always likes a good suing,” Emmaline teased, bumping her hip against Margo’s. “Just to get them off your back.”
Margo laughed, rich and full, before looping an arm around Emmaline’s shoulders. “If you really wanted to help, you’d marry me yourself.”
“Tempting,” Emmaline mused. “But your mother would never approve.”
“And that,” Margo spun away, grabbing a passing glass of faery wine, “is why I drink.” She tipped her glass toward Emmaline. “I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves, not cry over unsolvable problems!”
Emmaline opened her mouth to respond, but Margo was already disappearing, lifting her glass in a wordless toast before throwing her a wicked grin. “Go find that man of yours! Or I might take him myself!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Emmaline darted after Margo, laughter spilling past her lips, though she already knew it was pointless. Her friend was quick, a flicker of red silk vanishing into the gyrating mass of bodies.
She’d see her again before going home—probably.
When the sun began its slow ascent, Margo would eventually resurface, makeup smudged, hair in disarray, some beautiful man, or woman, tugging at her sleeve, pressing one last lingering kiss to Margo’s skin before she disappeared into her carriage.
She would shake off whatever weight she carried tonight the way she always did, by burying it under fleeting pleasure and whispered vows she never intended to keep.
Emmaline let her go, turning her attention elsewhere. To him.
She let the music pull her back into motion, swaying as she moved through the crowd, the soft rush of her skirt brushing against her legs with every step. The dancers closed around her, hands reaching, eyes hinting, but she barely noticed.
Her hand hesitated over her silver belt, the cool metal of her speak-easy pressing against her skin.
She hadn’t given him her contact information.
She knew that. And yet, she pulled it out anyway.
The runes flickered as she flicked it open, scanning for a message she already knew wouldn’t be there. The screen was empty, dark, impassive.
She exhaled, snapping it shut, irritated at herself for even checking. What was she even expecting? That he’d somehow found a way to reach her? That she’d see his name glowing against the dark glass like a promise he never made?
The music swelled, but the club’s magnetic allure had started to wane, an undercurrent of tension creeping into her limbs with every minute that passed.
Maybe she had misread him. Or maybe she hadn’t been bold enough. Or maybe she had been too bold. Maybe the events in the storeroom had been a mistake. Maybe he had only humored her. Maybe it hadn’t meant to him what it had meant to—
She clenched her jaw, forcing the thoughts away as she wove her way back to their reserved table.
The VIP lounge remained exactly as they’d left it, except now, sprawled at the center of it all, was Ursula. Reclined against the plush leather couch, she barely spared Emmaline a glance, too preoccupied with the young man currently stretched across her lap.
His wings—Goddess above, his wings—were a work of art.
Wide, iridescent, like stained glass. When he moved, the colors fractured, casting patterns of gold, violet, and sapphire across the dark leather.
And Ursula, ever the connoisseur, had one perfectly manicured hand trailing over their delicate membranes, while the other squeezed the curve of his ass.
Emmaline flopped down beside her with a huff, crossing her arms.
“I take it we won’t see Margo until dawn?” Ursula finally glanced up.
“Yep.” Emmaline sank deeper into the couch, kicking off her heels with a grumble.
“I can’t believe it’s already been that long.” Ursula exhaled, then gave the beautiful fae in her lap another indulgent squeeze. He chuckled, wings fluttering in response, before twisting to face her, his bare chest gleaming under the club’s low lights.
“Yep.” Emmaline grabbed the tall bottle of Fion Dathliad and tipped it back, taking a long, slow pull straight from the neck, letting the smooth, floral warmth coat her throat.
“Whoa, no need to gulp the nice stuff!” Ursula shoved the winged fae from her lap, careful not to rumble his wings, reaching for the bottle before Emmaline could take a second drink. Then, she studied her for half a beat, a frown settling in. “He didn’t come?”
“Nope.” Emmaline leaned forward and snatched the bottle back, and this time, Ursula didn’t stop her.
“Damn.” Ursula exhaled, then patted the young man’s head before giving him a dismissive flick of her fingers. He pouted, but didn’t protest as he stood and sauntered off.
“You want me to kill him?”
Emmaline choked mid-sip. “No!” She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, brows shooting up. Whether Ursula was joking or not, she genuinely couldn’t tell.
She looked up toward the large enchanted crystal orb suspended above the main dance floor—a swirling mass of liquid stardust and shifting constellations that tracked the passage of time in slow, deliberate rotations.
The night was barely half over.
“He’s probably just running late,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.
Ursula arched a brow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” She slid her shoes back on and pushed up from the couch, hands braced against her knees before straightening fully. “I’m going to take another turn.” She mustered a weak smile. “If you don’t see me again, you’ll know I found him.”
“Right.” Ursula was already scanning the crowd for her next distraction. “I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time.” Her gaze landed on a familiar figure weaving between tables. With an idle flick of her hand, she caught the waitress’s attention. “More wine, Linette.”
The blue-skinned fae grinned, already pulling a fresh bottle from her tray.
“Good luck.” Ursula’s dark purr followed Emmaline as she slipped back onto the dance floor. Every flash of green she caught in her periphery sent her pulse leaping, only to crash into a fresh wave of disappointment when it wasn’t him.
He’d come. Wouldn’t he?
The music swelled, the pulsing bass pressing against her ribs.
But the longer she stood there, the more the anticipation curdled into something sour.
Turning toward the bar, she pushed through the crowd, scanning each face as she passed.
No green hair. No wolfish smirk. He wasn’t here. She kept looking anyway.
By the time she reached the club’s entrance, the cool night air bit at her skin, raising a trail of goosebumps along her arms. She stepped past the threshold, just far enough for the heavy bass of the current song to dull behind her.
“Where are you, Deyric?” Her gaze lifted, finding the nearly full moon, pale and watchful above the rooftops.
The words barely left her lips before she forced down the lump in her throat, cursing the way her voice wavered.
With a sharp breath, she turned abruptly back toward the club, determined to shake off the gnawing disappointment, to throw herself into the music, into anything or anyone that would silence the thoughts spiraling in her head.
But the moment she stepped forward, she collided directly into someone.
“Sorry,” she muttered, head down, already moving to slip past. Before she could, though, a firm hand closed around her wrist, halting her in place.
“It’s you.”
Her heart leaped—then plummeted. The voice wasn’t Deyric’s. Too smooth. Too controlled.
Fingers encircled her wrist, holding her in place.
She looked up, breath catching in her throat.
“Lord Caelith?” She barely managed, too dumbfounded to pull away.
His fingers tightened, just slightly. Not enough to hurt. But enough. “I’ve been looking for you.”