Chapter 20
Rowan
Iknew something was wrong when Violet did not immediately come to me after her final set.
The kompot sat in my glass, crimson liquid reduced to little more than dregs and dissolved fruit at the bottom.
My fingers drummed against the bartop in a restless rhythm that betrayed my impatience.
Even Andy seemed to notice, his dark eyes flicking towards me with something approaching concern as he polished glasses that already gleamed.
“I’m sure she'll be along any minute,” he said, his usually melodic voice careful. Measured. As if he sensed the predator coiling tighter in my chest with each passing second.
His commentary did nothing to ease the anxiety gathering like storm clouds in my thoughts. I twirled the glass on its base, the motion sharp and precise, then downed the remainder of my drink. The sweetness coated my tongue—strawberry, blackberry, sugar syrup cut with vodka—but I tasted none of it.
I’d already restrained myself earlier in the night when the piece of shit vampyre had forced his hand on Violet. Before I could even take a single step, she’d already handled the situation—like the spitfire I knew her to be. It made my cock hard seeing her shoot down another man.
But this was different.
“If she is not here by the time I finish this drink, I may pay a visit to the proprietor myself. . .” The words hung between us, a promise and a threat. Andy paused mid-polish, his hands going still.
Hell was about to break loose.
In that moment, Jules burst through the velvet curtains with a panicked energy that confirmed every instinct that had been screaming danger in my skull. I stood so abruptly the barstool nearly clattered to the floor, the legs scraping against polished wood.
“Where is she?” I asked, already moving.
I caught Jules’s arm—her skin warm beneath my palm, her pulse hammering against my fingertips like a frightened bird—and steered her back towards the curtains she had just emerged from. Her cotton candy perfume was overpowering this close, sickly sweet and cloying.
“She’s fine. No, wait. She’s safe, but she’s not fine.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush, tripping over each other. “I need you to come with me. She needs you. Or at least I think you'll be the best person to help her.”
In her panicked state, she hadn’t realized I was already leading us backstage, my grip firm enough to bruise. Whatever had happened to Violet, I was about to rain Hell’s fire down on every soul responsible.
If one hair on her head has been harmed—
The thought cut off as Jules led me through the maze of hallways, heading deeper into Oubliette. The walls there were the same deep burgundy velvet, but the doors were different. Soundproofed, I suspected, given their thickness.
She stopped before a door and pushed it open.
The room beyond was small, intimate, furnished with a leather settee and low lighting that cast everything in amber and shadow.
Violet lay curled on the settee, her body trembling, her skin flushed a deep rose that looked wrong against her natural coloring.
A woman I didn’t recognize sat beside her—petite frame, high cheekbones, hawkish nose, and neon blue pixie-cut hair.
Her eyes were lined with orange kohl that made her look like a cartoon character.
Who and what was this? I rounded on Jules, my voice dropping to a dangerous level. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know! I swear, Rowan, I don’t—"
“She was fine when I left her with you.” I took a step closer, watching Jules’s eyes widen. “I left her under your protection. Under Oubliette’s protection. So, explain to me how she ended up like that.” I pointed at Violet, my voice calmer than the storm breaking within me.
“Celine found her in the hallway after her last set,” Jules said, her words coming faster now. “She could barely stand. Someone must have slipped her something, but I don’t know who or when—"
“You do not know?” My hands clenched into fists. “Or you will not tell me?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice pitched higher. “Nobody should have done this, not with His protection—"
His protection? Whose? Irrelevant in that moment.
“Yet someone did.” I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall hard enough that her head cracked against velvet-covered stone.
Her eyes went wide, mouth opening in a soundless gasp of pain as my fingers tightened. “So, your protection means nothing.”
I was not one to harm without reason, but seeing Violet frail like this? Some rational part of me snapped. We were pawns in a game for monsters, and Jules had not given me much reason to trust her.
“Rowan—" she choked out, hands scrabbling at my wrist.
Electricity crackled behind me, the air ionizing with the sharp and pungent smell of ozone.
I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickling with the proximity of power that should not exist in mortal hands.
Jules’s eyes widened further, reflecting a flash of cerulean over my shoulder. A blue glow haloed her terrified face.
“You should let her go, lover boy.”
The voice behind me was unearthly, layered, and echoing. It was as if multiple voices spoke in perfect unison—a female and something else. Something ancient and hungry.
Still holding Jules by the throat, I looked over my shoulder to see the hawk-nosed woman standing now.
Her hands crackled with electric blue energy that danced between her fingers like living things.
Her eyes had gone completely black—no whites, no irises, just two pits of endless void that swallowed any light near her face.
“Warlock,” I said. Recognition slammed into me like a fist to the gut as her demonic energy danced between us.
I had only encountered one Warlock in my previous life, and that single meeting had taught me exactly why they were hunted by every supernatural kin or clan that discovered them.
Whereas some mortals made pacts with demons or gods—uneven trades that cost them dearly for a scrap of power—Warlocks reached out to forces far more exotic and dangerous.
They shared their lifeforce with whatever entity answered their call from the dark spaces between worlds.
Chaos incarnate. Forgotten gods. Abyssal horrors that should never touch a mortal mind.
In my previous life, the supernatural community killed Warlocks on sight. Too unpredictable. Too powerful. Too likely to tear holes in reality simply by existing.
And Jules has one as a friend. Interesting. Inconvenient as fuck right now, but interesting.
“Please, Rowan. I’m trying to help.” Jules’s voice was desperation and pain. Her bright blue eyes were stormy, begging me to believe her. I searched her face for any subtle twitch, looking for the lie that hid beneath her words. I could not find any.
Behind me, Violet let out a moan, and despite the anger simmering, I knew I needed to at least listen to what she was going to say.
I released Jules, shoving her aside hard enough that she stumbled.
She collapsed against the wall, coughing and gasping, her hands flying to her throat where my fingers had left red marks.
Those were going to bruise purple before breakfast. I should have felt remorse for the marks, but I held little regard when it came to protecting those under my care.
The Warlock’s electricity dimmed, but did not disappear entirely. Blue sparks still danced across her knuckles like restless insects as she said, “Great friend you’ve got here, Jules.” Her voice returned to something approaching human, despite each syllable being drenched with sarcasm.
Jules could only glare at her companion, then stood on shaky legs and crossed to where Violet lay shivering. I was beside her in two strides, dropping to my knees and taking Violet’s hand in mine.
I drew in a sharp breath when I felt the heat radiating from her skin.
She was burning up, fever-hot, sweat beading across her forehead and upper lip.
Her eyes were closed, lashes dark crescents against flushed cheeks, and she trembled like she was freezing despite the fire consuming her from within.
“What is happening to her?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw with fear.
Jules knelt beside me, reaching out to brush a crimson streak of hair from Violet’s face with surprising gentleness. “Someone must have slipped her something. I’m so sorry, Rowan. This is unprecedented. We’ve never had a dancer drugged before.”
“But how. . .” I searched the immediate area, looking for Violet’s bag. It was missing. I turned to Jules, my eyes hard. “Where are her things?”
“I think her bag is still in the hallway? In our rush to get her somewhere private, I forgot to grab it. Celine, could you—"
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the Warlock said as she headed for the door.
I checked Violet’s features, ensuring nothing else stood out, and knew that if things became worse, I would burn this fucking place to the ground along with everyone in it.
The certainty of it was as sure as fire was hot or that the sun would rise tomorrow.
I would destroy anyone who hurt Violet. Simple.
Celine returned moments later, clutching Violet’s purple duffel. “Here.” She thrust the bag into my arms with more force than necessary, the weight of it solid and familiar.
I rifled through the contents with methodical efficiency, cataloging each item. Her stage costume, black fabric and silver mesh. Makeup bag. Wallet. Keys.
And a water bottle I did not recognize.
The brand was wrong. The shape was wrong.
Violet and I had gone shopping together specifically to ensure that she brought her own food and water into this den of predators.
It was my first rule. I knew every item she’d packed, had watched her check and double-check the bag before we left my apartment.
I held the bottle up to the light. Clear liquid, seemingly innocuous.
But the cap had been opened, and about a third of the contents consumed.