Chapter 36 Jules
Jules
Lucian comes for me sooner than I expect.
One minute I’m still standing in front of that enormous gothic mirror, staring at my own reflection like it might suddenly make sense. The next, there’s a soft knock at the bedroom door and it opens without me answering.
Lucian steps inside, immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, like the entire concept of stress can’t touch him. He fills the doorway—tall, broad, and powerful—his presence making the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
He takes me in, his eyes going half-lidded as they sweep over me from head to toe. The wine-red dress…the swooping up-do…the jeweled hairpins catching the firelight.
For a moment, something dark and hungry flickers across his face—so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he inclines his head, formal and calm.
“You look beautiful, my Queen” he rumbles.
I can feel my cheeks getting warm at his compliment, which is ridiculous. I shouldn’t care what he thinks—should I? I clear my throat and force myself to sound normal.
“I look like I’m about to be sacrificed to one of Dracula’s business partners.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
“Not sacrificed, exactly”
“Good. Because I’ve had enough ‘gate tolls’ for one lifetime,” I say. The words are supposed to sound snarky, but they come out breathless instead as I remember exactly what kind of “toll” we paid at the gates of the Carnal Bazaar last night.
He steps closer and offers his arm like we’re headed to a charity gala instead of…whatever the hell this is. His cufflinks catch the ruby glow from the chandelier, sending little sparks of light dancing.
I hesitate. Should I take his arm? This feels like capitulation—like I’m agreeing to be his “Curvy Queen”—to act the role he has assigned to me.
Then again, what’s the benefit of refusing? Should I stay, sulking in the bedroom instead of coming out to eat dinner? What good would that really do me?
Don’t be stupid, Jules, I lecture myself. You need information. You need leverage. Eating dinner with him and this other Don might get you both of those.
Also, my stupid body really likes being near him, which is an inconvenient truth I try not to examine too closely.
Decision made, I take his arm.
Lucian’s hand closes over mine—warm, firm, and possessive in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Come, my darling,” he murmurs. “It’s time we were dining.”
“Dining,” I repeat. “Like normal people.”
“As normal as this realm allows,” he says, his voice dry. “Though I know it’s very different from the Human Realm, we still need sustenance and enjoy companionship while we eat.”
He leads me through the Crimson Spires. We go down the elevator to a floor I haven’t been on before and walk down a corridor lined with dark stone and crimson lanterns.
The air smells faintly of incense and iron and the carpets underfoot are thick enough to swallow sound—like the entire place is built to keep secrets.
Or to keep prisoners, whispers a little voice in my head. I push it aside with some difficulty.
We pass a set of double doors so tall they look like they belong in a cathedral. Two guards in black stand at attention on either side, their faces impassive. They bow as Lucian approaches.
I try not to flinch at the way their eyes flicker over me—curious, cautious, and surprisingly respectful, as though I really was their Queen.
Queen.
The word makes my stomach twist again. Is that really what I am?
What Lucian wants me to be for him? And would I be willing to take on that roll…
for the right incentive? But what is the right incentive?
I cast a sidelong glance at my Vampire Don.
Does he really care about me? Or is he simply thirsty for my “Curvy Queen” blood? I just don’t know…
Lucian doesn’t even slow down as we approach the doors. They swing open at his silent command like magic. Or maybe it’s the same kind of technology that makes supermarket doors slide open when you approach them? I don’t know and now doesn’t seem to be the time to ask.
We step into the dining room, and I look around in awe.
It’s huge—the word “cavernous” comes to mind—more like a royal throne room than a place you eat dinner.
The ceiling arches overhead in dark stone, ribbed like the inside of a gothic cathedral and chandeliers hang down like clusters of frozen blood-red stars.
Ruby crystals catch the light and scatter it across everything in warm, dramatic glints.
A fire roars in an enormous fireplace at one end of the room, flames licking up over carved stone that depicts tangled roses and thorned vines—and, disturbingly, skulls hidden among the petals if you look too long.
The furniture is heavy and ancient-looking—all black wood with ornate carvings.
Tall-backed chairs line the walls like silent witnesses.
The floors are polished stone, but layered with thick rugs—deep crimson and midnight black, threaded with metallic designs that shimmer like spilled coins.
It’s all gorgeous but also really intimidating.
I feel like I’m going to a state dinner at some distant but extremely wealthy kingdom. Which, I guess in a way, I am.
In the center of it all is the table—a vast oval dining table, long enough to seat a small army, carved from dark wood so glossy it reflects the chandelier light.
It’s set with silver—so much silver. Candlesticks and serving trays gleam in the reddish-gold light and forks and knives are lined up on either side of each vast plate like weapons.
Each place setting is immaculate. White napkins are folded into severe, perfect shapes. Crystal goblets that I’m sure would make that perfect note—ping—if I tapped them with a fork are to the right of every plate. And speaking of plates—each one is rimmed with silver filigree.
Seriously, I’ve been to formal weddings that are less fancy than this. I don’t think I’ve ever attended a dinner this grand and I haven’t even seen the food yet.
I can’t help feeling like I don’t belong here—it’s too posh—too elegant for me.
I’m just a mid-level accountant with a crappy apartment and an ancient car and a bank account that constantly hovers near zero, no matter how much I try to scrimp and save.
What am I doing in this luxurious, dangerous, frightening world?
I swallow, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Lucian… do you host banquets often?” I ask.
His hand tightens slightly on my arm.
“Not often. I am not on friendly terms with most of the other Shadow Realm Dons. But that is not usual. We all mostly keep to our own regions. However, I wanted to thank the Don of the Ossuary Circle for ridding us of your predatory coworker.”
His lip curls slightly as he speaks, revealing a flash of fangs. I feel a shiver go through my bones when I remember Donald Pugh’s gruesome fate. Am I really going to meet the man—or creature—responsible for those many-jointed shadow hands that dragged him to his grave?
I guess I am. We approach the table, but Lucian doesn’t sit. Instead, he pauses at the head of the table, standing with the stillness of someone used to being obeyed.
“We wait,” he says quietly.
“For who?” I ask, even though I already know.
His gaze lifts toward the far doors.
“The Don of the Ossuary Circle who rules the Hollow Necropolis,” he murmurs. “He is the Head Necromancer of the Shadow Realm. We must not sit before our guest arrives.”
A chill runs through me—part fear and part curiosity. What is this guy going to look like?
Then the air around us changes.
It’s subtle at first—the temperature drops a few degrees, as though somehow the fire’s warmth is suddenly less effective. The candle flames flicker and the shadows in the corners seem to deepen, pooling like ink.
Then the double doors opposite us open and something—or someone—glides in.
My mouth goes dry as I watch the person coming towards us—or at least I think it’s a person.
The Necro Don is… not what I expected. Or maybe he’s exactly what I expected, and that’s the problem.
He wears a mask fashioned from an animal skull—long and narrow, with bone teeth that show in a permanent grin.
Antlers rise from the top, branching like dead trees.
Shadowy robes swirl around him, moving as if they have their own wind, their own breath.
His hands—when he lifts them—are skeletal, bone-white, and too long.
Their joints are sharp and wrong, and I’m reminded of the shadow hands that dragged Donald to his doom.
Yet beneath the shifting darkness of his robes, I can see the outline of his body and it’s absolutely freaking huge.
Broad shoulders and a thick chest lead down to a narrow waist and powerful thighs. His body looks muscular. Built. Almost like Lucian’s—if Lucian were wrapped in death and winter instead of tailored suits and blood-red accents.
The Necro Don moves toward us with a smooth, predatory grace, like a nightmare who has decided to be polite.
Or maybe a sleep paralysis demon who just wants to say hello.
I feel another shiver go down my spine. This man—if he is a man—is death incarnate.
I’m reminded of my own mortality when I look at him.
Lucian, however, doesn’t seem to be disturbed by his guest at all. Or else, he’s hiding it better than I am. He inclines his head towards the other Don.
“Don Malthus Veyl. You are most welcome to the Bleeding Court.”
The skull tilts slightly, as if the Don is studying me through the seemingly empty sockets of his skull mask. But is it a mask? Or is that his real face? I don’t know and I’m sure it would be rude to ask.
Then his voice pours out—low, and velvet-dark, with an odd echo beneath it, like something speaking from a crypt.
“Don Lucien Draxos,” he says. “And this must be the human.”
I bristle automatically. The human. Like I’m a rare houseplant or some strange and delightful oddity that Lucian wants to show off.