Chapter 23 Esmerelda #2
Her lips twitch in a humorless smile. “Not a problem.” She draws, aims, and releases. Each arrowhead embeds in throats and joints, ending lives before they even knew they were under attack.
Two silent deaths before I even register the arrows flying. The vessel is calm. Terrifyingly calm.
I scan the shadows frantically. Nothing is there, but it feels like every enemy eye is watching us. The silence presses in heavily, unnaturally. We glide along the perimeter like wraiths, my wolf prowling beneath my skin, clawing at me to be unleashed.
Belvedere ensures reality warps in front of us.
The air ripples with heat, molecules shuddering until suddenly we’re at the door.
Marcus nods at Leonard, and together they shift and strike, wolves lunging at the guards.
A glamour cloaks them, leaving the men thrashing at invisible adversaries.
Blood spills, violent and fast. I almost pity them.
Almost. It’s the same helpless terror they inflicted on us with their silent attack.
Even if it wasn’t them directly, they do work for the enemy.
Minerva bursts into the guardhouse, snapping the guard’s neck before he can raise the walkie-talkie.
I stay in my human form, crouched low. My eyes are sharp, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood thickening the air. A metallic tang burns my throat, and even though there is no blood, it’s a promise of the bloodshed to come. I can’t wait. My wolf stands, teeth bared in anticipation.
By the time we reach the inner chamber, silence hits. Too much silence. My wolf paces restlessly. This is wrong. Too easy.
And then we see them.
The Damaris heir, pale and desperate, sweat slicking his temple, and the head of House Corven. Along with them, about a dozen soldiers.
“It was you,” Marcus snarls, voice slicing the chamber.
They don’t deny it. They lunge.
Chaos ignites. Fangs, claws, blades, and magic clash in a storm of violence that shakes the chamber. The air fills with the copper bite of blood, the sting of smoke from spellfire, the ragged screams of men realizing too late that they’re prey.
My wolf surges, ripping through my skin in a wave of heat and fury, and I slam into Damaris.
We crash against the stone floor, his breath blasting out in a grunt.
My claws rake across his chest, shredding fabric, biting into flesh.
He thrashes, teeth snapping inches from my throat, his desperation making him sloppy.
Baring my fangs, I sink them into his shoulder, hot blood flooding my mouth, thick and metallic, sending my wolf into a frenzy.
Behind me, Leonard pins Corven against the wall, both of them snarling, muscles straining as claws rake the stone.
Belvedere raises his hands, and the chamber splits into three, then five, then a dozen false realities.
Our enemies stumble, swinging at illusions, striking shadows that dissolve into smoke.
Confusion spreads like fire through dry brush.
Arrows whistle through the air, slicing past my ear, each one finding its mark with brutal precision thanks to the vessel’s magic.
One lodges in a thigh, another pins a hand to the wall; screams rise, sharp and ragged.
Minerva’s whip cracks through the chaos, a serpent of leather and steel.
It coils around a soldier’s throat, and she yanks hard, the sound of vertebrae snapping echoing through the room.
The Damaris boy claws at my forelegs, his nails drawing blood, but my wolf doesn’t care.
My vision tunnels, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, every sense alive with rage and the intoxicating scent of fear.
His. Mine. Ours. I slam him down again, claws tearing, every strike fueled by the memory of my family turned to stone, their faces frozen in horror.
All around me, blood spatters the walls, smoke curls thick and acrid, and the screams keep coming. It’s not a battle anymore. It’s slaughter, raw and merciless, and we’re not stopping until the last of them falls.
And then—it’s over. Both men and their soldiers subdued, bound, and defeated.
Relief ripples through us. For once, it seems everything has gone right.
Then a clap slices through the air. Slow. Mocking.
We follow the sound and lift our heads.
Maximillian Faustus of the Mephistus coven stands on the balcony, shadows draped around him, his smile holding with it centuries of fake charm.
“Well done,” he purrs. “You’ve uncovered far more than I thought possible.” He claps again, each strike dripping in mockery. “Pity it changes nothing.”
Maximillian is the kind of beautiful that unsettles more than it pleases.
Tall, lean, and sculpted like marble, he carries himself with the languid confidence of a man who has never been told no and never intends to be.
His skin holds that faint, unnatural pallor unique to the oldest vampires—smooth as porcelain, flawless, but just a shade too cold, too bloodless, so pale it’s tinged with blue.
His hair, ink-black and pulled back into a sleek ponytail, gleams under the light, not a strand out of place.
Dark brows frame eyes the color of old wine—rich, red-brown with a hint of crimson that sparks when the light catches just right.
Those eyes never soften, even when he smiles, and that smile is practiced to perfection, wide enough to charm, sharp enough to cut.
He favors tailored suits in deep, commanding shades—midnight blue, obsidian black, charcoal gray—fabrics that cling just right to his lean frame, accentuated with subtle flashes of indulgence.
A silk tie the color of blood. A glint of gold cufflinks.
Rings heavy enough to catch the eye but not gaudy.
Everything about him whispers control, calculation, refined elegance.
He smells faintly of wood and something darker. Iron, maybe. Smoke. The kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room and sears itself into memory. His voice matches everything about him, low and smooth, like satin.
Maximillian isn’t striking in the way that makes you sigh and go weak at the knees; he’s striking in the way that makes you look twice because instinct tells you never to take your eyes off danger.
Marcus steps forward, every muscle wound tight. His fangs flash in a promise of violence. The air around him vibrates with raw, unrestrained rage. He shifts.
“It’s over,” he snarls, voice guttural, breaking at the edges.
Spittle flies with the force of it. “Confess. Admit what you did.” His chest heaves, breath shuddering like he can’t pull enough air past the anger consuming him.
His gaze burns into Maximillian, hot enough to scorch.
“You petrified them. My family. Her family.” He jabs a finger toward me, his whole body trembling with the urge to strike.
His voice drops lower, dangerous, his wolf’s growl bleeding through every syllable. “You won’t walk out of here alive. Not after what you’ve taken from us. Not after what you’ve done.”
Maximillian laughs, the sound rich and cruel. “Confess? Do you think I came here alone?” His grin widens. “It wasn’t hard to find others who want you gone.”
He snaps his fingers.
Marcus and I exchange a worried stare.
The doors explode open.
At least twenty shifters and vampires pour in, snarls filling the air, claws scraping stone as they rush into the room. Intimidation leeches from their pores. Bloodlust thickens the chamber, every escape swallowed in the rush of bodies.
We tighten into a circle, back-to-back, weapons raised. My wolf snarls, teeth aching for release. My heart pounds like it might burst free of my ribs.
This isn’t good.
Leonard exhales. “Well… shit. That’s a lot of teeth.”
Minerva cracks her whip, lips curling. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Twenty against six is bad math.”
Belvedere actually laughs, smooth and unbothered as he adjusts his cuffs. “I’ve seen worse odds. Granted, I was drunk and hallucinating at the time, but still.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “We’re about to die and you’re reminiscing about your drinking days.”
Serafina raises her bow, her calm unnerving in its steadiness. “Twenty. That’s all? I thought they’d at least try to make it a fair fight. I almost feel sorry for them.”
Marcus growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating through my spine where it presses against his back. “Let them come. I was getting bored anyway.”
Leonard grins, showing teeth. “If we’re all going to die, can we at least agree I get the prettiest one?”
Minerva doesn’t even glance his way. “Focus, Romeo, or you’ll be the first one down.”
Despite the situation, warmth floods my chest, and I’m proud of us. We might be facing our death, but we’re not going down like sniveling babies. We’re going down fighting.