Chapter 27 Esmerelda #2
Still, it grates. Power. It makes me think of Maximillian, of the games he plays with lives like they’re pawns on his board.
Power is what ruined everything in the first place.
And yet… when Belvedere says it, when Marcus stands there looking like every dangerous fantasy I’ve never admitted having, a spark lights in my chest. For a heartbeat, I believe it. We look like power. Maybe we even are.
The coven’s front is, of course, a nightclub.
Neon lights strobe against the dark, painting everything in garish blues and blood reds.
Bass pounds so hard it rattles up through the pavement, vibrating in my ribs like a second heartbeat.
The line snakes down the block, a mess of bodies, overpowering perfume and smoke, everyone eager to hand themselves over to the dark with a smile and a cover charge.
“Really?” I mutter, crossing my arms as I eye the glowing sign overhead. “A nightclub? Isn’t that a little… stereotypical?”
Minerva doesn’t even blink, just arches a brow. “Please. You were expecting what? A library?”
I snort, though the sound comes out tighter than I mean it to. “Would’ve been less obvious. At least then they could claim ‘exclusive book club’ instead of… whatever this is.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh, and I glare at the flashing neon again.
Bloodlust. My stomach twists at how obvious they are being.
Because it’s too easy. Too obvious. Hide in plain sight with cheap liquor and bad decisions, and no one asks questions.
Clever, sure. But clever has a way of turning into deadly.
Belvedere grins, teeth flashing. “Darling, the best place to hide is always in plain sight.”
At the door, the bouncer doesn’t even bother to look at us properly. “No reservation. No entry.”
Before I can snap, Minerva glides forward like a ripple in a stream. Slow, steady but threatening a current. She lays her hand lightly on the bouncer’s arm, leaning in close. Her lips brush near his ear, whispering something too low for me to catch, and wow—he blushes.
His chest puffs, his jaw slackens, and just like that, the mountain of muscle guarding the door is reduced to a flustered puppy. He waves us through with a dopey grin, like he should be thanking us for the privilege.
I bite back a laugh, falling into step behind her. This Minerva doesn’t just walk into places—she makes the doors want to open.
Belvedere arches a brow. “I didn’t know you could perform compulsion spells.”
“I can’t,” Minerva replies smoothly.
Serafina smirks, lips curling in a teasing grin. “She just has tits.”
Minerva turns her head slowly, smile languid and deliberate, like she’s savoring the line. Her gaze trails over Serafina with unhurried heat, a slow drag that feels more like a stroke than anything else. “I’m glad you noticed.”
The air hums, turning electric. Flirtatious and sensual. Teasing. Dangerous in an entirely different way. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Leave it to Minerva to turn danger into chemistry.
Serafina doesn’t look away. Minerva definitely doesn’t.
I think it’s time for a little retaliation. I clear my throat loudly. “Are we going in, or are you two going to eye-fuck each other all night?”
Minerva grins, unapologetic, and slips past me. Does it bug me that it doesn’t faze her? A little. But the fact that she’s grinning like she won all the power in the land makes me happy.
Inside, the vibe is pure cyber-goth. Blacklight paint, metal cages, leather, and neon smashed together in a fever dream. Our suits stick out like silk at a soup kitchen, which makes us even more noticeable.
Almost immediately, a woman in a gown that probably costs more than my car glides toward us. Pale skin, luminous eyes. One of those ageless beauties who doesn’t need an introduction, doesn’t need words. Her presence is the greeting.
She doesn’t ask who we are, doesn’t waste breath on pleasantries. She just pivots gracefully, red silk whispering with the movement, and expects us to follow.
And we do. In places like this, hesitation isn’t a luxury; it’s another neon sign.
She leads us down a hidden stairwell, through a door that opens into a cathedral.
It’s massive. Arched ceilings, carved stone, gold-plated alcoves. Candles flicker in sconces, throwing shadows and gold across the chamber. It looks like Alibaba’s tomb. My breath catches. This place is far too beautiful to be buried underground.
While I’m still taking all this in, another door swings open, revealing an ultra-modern reception area. Glass walls, chrome counters, sterile light. A secretary sits behind a desk, typing as if this is any corporate tower uptown.
“Whoa,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
The receptionist looks up expectantly. She doesn’t say a word as she waits for us to announce ourselves, as if she gets paid by the keystroke and we’re robbing her of her income.
“We’d like to see Alaric Faustus, please.”
She blinks at us like we’re dirt smudging her marble floor. “Is Mr. Faustus expecting you?
“No, but—”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”
Fine. Two can play that game.
I step forward, spine straight, voice cool and edged with poison. “Esmerelda Lovell. Head of my family’s business as of one week ago. I’m here to discuss a merger with your leaders—or at the very least, those present. It’s vital. You’ll relay the message.”
The title tastes strange on my tongue, still new, still heavy, but I make sure it lands like a weapon.
The receptionist pales. Actually pales. I didn’t think that was possible when you were already half-dead. Her eyes flick wide, mouth opening and closing before she manages a stammered, “Y-yes, of course.”
Then she scurries off, heels clicking too fast.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Power looks good on me.
We’re ushered into a side chamber that drips with wealth. Polished wood, velvet seats, wine poured into crystal like it’s meant to impress. Plates of fine food appear as if by magic, gleaming silver lids lifted with a flourish.
We don’t touch a thing. We sit rigid, eyes sharp, every muscle tight. This is a vampire stronghold. We don’t trust anything.
I know the history of this place. A place where shifters were once bound as hunting dogs. The chains might be gone, but the scars aren’t. The room may smell of spice and wine, but underneath, I swear I catch the ghost-scent of iron and blood.
And it makes my skin crawl.
Belvedere lifts his glass, eyes glittering with mischief. “Well done, darling. That was a performance worth a standing ovation.”
I roll my eyes, though my lips threaten to twitch. Trust Belvedere to turn a diplomatic power play into theater. To him, every room is a stage, every move a performance. Part of me wants to argue, but damn it, he’s not wrong.
I lean back, my pulse finally beginning to steady, though the wineglass in my hand trembles faintly. It wasn’t a performance. It was desperation dressed up in a suit and sharp words. And I just hope it works. Because if it doesn’t, all I’ve managed to do is paint a target brighter on my back.