Chapter 20 #2
“This is not hers,” I said, my voice flat and cold.
I unscrewed the cap and brought it to my nose, inhaling carefully.
Nothing. No scent, no discoloration, nothing to suggest tampering.
But it was the only variable that made sense.
I lifted it to my lips, prepared to take a drink myself—if it was drugged, it would be better to know what I was dealing with.
“No!” Jules screamed and slapped the bottle from my hand with enough force to send it flying.
The bottle hit the floor, plastic cracking, water spilling across polished wood in a spreading pool that caught the amber light.
“You fool!” Jules’s voice pitched high with genuine fear, her eyes wide and wild. “You don’t know what’s in that.”
I stared at her, then at the spilled water, then back at her flushed, terrified face. “I was planning to find out.”
Celine stepped forward, crouched down, and picked up the bottle. Water dripped from her fingers as she examined it, then—to mine and Jules’s surprise—she brought the bottle to her lips and drained the rest of the water.
“What the fuck, Celine?” Jules said. It felt out of place for her to curse in such a way. She’d always seemed so prim and ditzy from our few interactions.
“Mmm.” Celine swallowed, then let out a satisfied sigh. “Yep. That’s some good ol’ succubus blood, right there.” She found the cap where it had rolled beneath the settee, screwed it back on despite the crack in the plastic, and held the bottle up like a sommelier examining vintage wine.
I let out a string of curses, causing Jules to turn her eyes to me. “You know what that means?” she asked with fear on her face.
“I know a little.” I’d heard of succubus and incubus blood in my previous life, though only in whispered warnings and shreds of stories. I recalled a tale I’d been told once about a vampyre lord who kept a cellar stocked with succubi of various ages, like a demented wine cellar.
Celine must have taken my silence as ignorance, because she explained, “It’s an aphrodisiac and invigorator, for those of us who traffic with demons.
But for mortals?” She raised an eyebrow at me as she gestured towards Violet, trembling on the settee.
“It’s rather excruciating unless someone can. . . y’know.”
I glanced back at Violet, watching her chest rise and fall in rapid, shallow breaths. Her hands had clenched into fists, knuckles white, and small sounds escaped her throat—wordless, pained, desperate.
I ran a hand down my face, exhaustion and rage warring for dominance. “What needs to be done?” I forced the words out through clenched teeth.
Jules was still processing, her face pale and drawn. “I didn’t think someone would be stupid enough to drug a mortal with—"
“Jules.” My patience, already threadbare, snapped entirely. “I need to know what I need to do, and I need to know now.”
Her face somehow went even paler, color draining until she looked nearly translucent in the low light. “The symptoms need to be relieved, and that can only be done with the proper. . . stimulation. Exchanging of auras and energy. Male or female, but I assumed you’d want—"
“No.” My gut clenched at the worst-case scenario. “Absolutely not.”
Jules was shaking almost as hard as Violet, her hands trembling where they clutched her own arms. She looked as if she were about to cry before Celine let out a barking laugh—loud, unhinged, genuinely delighted.
Her pupils had blown wide, nearly eclipsing the brown of her irises, and she stumbled sideways like a drunk navigating an invisible obstacle course.
“Oh, fuuuuuuck.” She fanned herself with one hand, the other still clutching the cracked water bottle. “That is some grade-A strong shit right there. I haven’t felt this fucked up since Admiral Eddie’s Cocktail Party.”
Then she collapsed onto the floor with all the grace of a felled tree and began making snow angels against the polished wood, her limbs sweeping wide arcs as she giggled like a child.
“I am surrounded by incompetence,” I muttered as I moved to gather Violet in my arms.
She felt lighter than the other night, but I knew that was just the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Her body was all lean muscle and delicate bone wrapped in skin that burned against my palms. I cradled her against my chest, one arm beneath her knees and the other supporting her back.
Her head lolled against my shoulder, and she let out a small whimper that shot straight to my heart like an arrow.
Jules helped me gather Violet’s scattered belongings, shoving them haphazardly into the duffel and pressing the bag into the crook where Violet’s body curved against mine.
“Cold water for the fever,” Jules said, her voice steadier now that she had a task to focus on. “She'll need fluids. Electrolytes, if you’ve got 'em. And I’m sorry, Rowan, but she needs. . . relief.”
She emphasized the last word so heavily it might as well have been written in blood. I knew what she meant. I knew, and every cell in my body rejected it.
“No.” The word came out flat. Final. “I will not touch someone who cannot give their consent.”
Jules shook her head, frustration and sympathy warring across her features. “You don’t understand, honey. These next several hours will be excruciating for her unless someone—"
“Woman, I said no.” I cut her off, my voice hard and cold as a glacier. “She will come home with me. I will tend to the fever. I will keep her safe. But I will not take advantage of her in this state.”
Celine cackled from her position on the floor, still making her snowless snow angels. I threw her a look of pure disgust.
She gave me the middle finger without stopping her floor movements, her grin wide and manic. “God, I forgot how good this feels. It’s been decades since I’ve had a taste.”
Jules sent me an apologetic look. “I’ll help you leave. Are you heading straight to the apartment?”
I nodded, making my displeasure clear in every line of my body. “Do you have a car that could take us? Does Oubliette?”
Something flickered across Jules’s face—surprise, maybe, or calculation. She glanced at Celine, who had gone still on the floor, her drug-addled gaze suddenly sharp and focused. Something passed between them that I cared little to know.
“No,” Jules started, then seemed to reconsider. She shook her head. “We don’t have a car, but I can still help. Come with me.”
She led me out of the spare room and down the corridor, but instead of heading back towards the main floor, she turned in the opposite direction.
The hallway seemed to stretch longer than I thought possible, the perspective somehow wrong, as if distance itself bent to accommodate more space than the building’s exterior could possibly contain.
Magic, I thought. Of course, this building would be enchanted in some way.
It was certainly not the first magical building I’d been in.
I had a brief memory flash through my mind—breaking into The Library.
Considering that misadventure had ultimately ended with my death, it was not a memory I wished to dwell on.
We reached a set of stairs descending into darkness. Jules paused at the top, her hand on an ornate iron railing that radiated cold even from a foot away.
“Follow me,” she said, and began her descent.
I clutched Violet closer to my chest—her heartbeat rabbiting against my ribs, her breath hot and rapid against my throat—and followed Jules down into whatever lay below Oubliette’s main floor.
The stairs spiraled down and down and down. The temperature dropped with each level we descended, the heat of the club dissipating with each step. The air tasted different here—old stone and mineral water, with an underlying current of something I couldn’t place. Old Magic, perhaps?
Finally, we reached the bottom. A massive wooden door loomed before us, easily twelve feet tall and half again as wide.
The wood was ancient oak, though darker than any oak I’d ever seen.
Carved into its surface were symbols I recognized from my previous life—protection wards and binding sigils that made my skin prickle just looking at them.
Above the door, carved into the stone lintel in elegant script, were the words from Dante’s inscription over the gates of Hell. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
How fitting and ominous.
I turned to Jules, my arms tightening protectively around Violet’s trembling form. “This is not a trick, is it?”
Her heartbeat remained steady—no spike, no flutter, no telltale signs of deception. She met my eyes directly, her own clear and earnest despite the red marks still visible on her throat.
“No,” she said simply. “I swear on my life, Rowan. I mean you and Violet no harm.”
I had no better options. Violet needed help, and she needed it now. Whatever lay beyond that door could not be worse than leaving her to suffer. I followed Jules through the massive doorway, and the world changed.
The air shifted first—pressure equalizing with a pop that made my ears ring. Then came the wind, an impossible yet constant wind, carrying scents from a thousand different places. Jasmine and motor oil. Sea salt and woodsmoke. Fresh bread and copper blood. The olfactory chaos gave me a headache.
We stood in a vast corridor that defied every law of architecture and physics I understood.
Doors lined both walls as far as I could see in either direction, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, stretching into infinity.
Each door was unique, crafted from different materials, in different colors, and of different styles.
Some looked ancient, iron-banded and weathered.
Others appeared modern, sleek steel and frosted glass.
A few seemed to shift as I looked at them, their surfaces rippling like water.