Chapter 9 #2
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
“That’s my girl.”
The words settle in my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the binding and everything to do with him.
The auction begins with a ceremony that feels half ritual, half performance. The auctioneer is something ancient, speaking in layered languages that overlap and echo.
Items appear on the central platform as if they are being pulled out of reality itself.
Cursed jewelry. Spell books bound in leather I hope aren’t human skin. A sword that, according to the description, drinks souls.
Everything has a price. Everything finds a buyer.
Lot seventeen appears.
The mirror piece gleams under violet light. Smaller than I expected. Darker. Almost hungry, as if it’s aware of being watched. Something in my stomach tightens at the sight.
Bidding starts at fifty thousand.
It hits two hundred thousand in under a minute.
Azrael raises his paddle. “Five hundred thousand.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
Ara smiles and raises hers without hesitation. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”
“One million,” Azrael counters immediately.
No pause. No strain. Like the number means nothing.
The auctioneer’s eyes, all three of them, glint with interest. “One million from the gentleman in black. Do I hear?—”
“Two million,” Ara says.
A whistle cuts through the crowd. People are paying attention now. This is no longer just an auction. It is a message being written in money.
“Five million,” Azrael says.
Every head in the room turns a fraction more toward us. Not just curious now. Calculation.
I choke slightly on nothing at all.
Five million.
For broken glass.
Ara’s smile tightens. Just barely. “Seven million.”
“Ten million,” Azrael says.
His tone doesn’t change. It’s like he’s ordering coffee, not throwing around enough money to buy a small island.
I have no idea where his limit is.
That should terrify me more than the number itself.
Silence drops over the room, and even the auctioneer hesitates.
“Ten million,” it repeats slowly. “Going once.”
Ara’s stare could freeze water solid. But she does not raise her paddle.
“Going twice.”
Still nothing.
“SOLD,” the auctioneer announces. “To the gentleman in black for ten million dollars.”
Polite applause follows. Controlled but enthusiastic. The kind of reaction people give when they have just witnessed something they will talk about later.
We’ve just become the entertainment for the evening.
Azrael collects the mirror piece from the verification table and tucks it into his inner pocket with deliberate care. The exchange completes quickly, contracts sealing in ways I don’t fully understand.
“We should leave,” he murmurs. “Before she decides she wants it badly enough to kill for it.”
Too late.
We reach the iron door before they hit us. Not Ara. Someone else. Multiple someones.
The first attacker is massive, seven feet of muscle and fur barely contained in human form. His eyes are amber, hungry.
“That piece belongs to Caruso,” he growls.
More mercenaries emerge from the shadows. Six. Seven. All shifting between human and beast, bones cracking, fur breaking through skin.
“I do not know who Caruso is,” Azrael says smoothly, “but I paid for this item legally.”
“Legally.” The alpha laughs. The sound is like breaking glass. “Nothing here is legal, Shadow King. So let’s do this the traditional way.”
He lunges.
Azrael’s shadows meet him mid-air. Magic and claw collide, darkness and fur snapping against each other. The force sends the alpha crashing into the wall hard enough to crack stone.
The others attack as one.
I draw my blades. No thinking. Just movement.
Training takes over. The shadows respond to my panic, pouring from my hands as if they have been waiting for permission. They wrap around the nearest mercenary’s legs and yank him off balance. My blade finds his throat before he hits the ground.
Hot blood. A choking sound. He shifts back into human form as he dies.
No time to think. Another comes from the left.
I shadow-step, a short leap, maybe five feet, just enough to avoid his claws. I reappear behind him and drive both blades into his spine.
He drops.
“Morgana,” Azrael warns.
I spin. The alpha is charging now, ignoring Azrael completely, coming straight for me.
My shadows rise instinctively, desperately, forming a barrier between us. Crude, but solid.
He hits it and bounces back, confusion flickering across his lupine features.
I do not give him time to recover. My blades cut through air, through fur, through flesh.
He goes down.
The remaining wolves hesitate, then scatter. Smart enough to recognize a losing fight.
Silence falls except for our breathing, heavy and ragged.
I am covered in blood again. This is becoming a pattern.
The worst part is how fast my body accepted it. Strike. Move. Survive. Like killing is just another lock I learned how to open. And the part of me that should be horrified is already moving on to the next problem.
“You okay?” Azrael’s hands land on my shoulders, checking for wounds.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Undamaged.” His gaze moves over me. “You killed three of them.”
“Was I supposed to ask nicely for them to stop?”
A laugh escapes him, unexpected and real. “You are incredible.”
Before I can answer, pain detonates across my back.
I hit the ground. I don’t remember falling. A mercenary I thought was dead has his claws buried in my shoulder, tearing deep.
Then he is gone.
Azrael lifts him by the throat. Shadows surge from him, pouring into the man’s mouth, nose, eyes. The mercenary convulses, screaming as the corruption consumes him from the inside out.
When Azrael drops the body, he is shaking with rage.
His eyes are black. Completely black. Shadows writhe beneath his skin like something alive trying to break free.
“Azrael.” I push up, ignoring the fire in my shoulder. “Look at me.”
He does. Those void-black eyes lock onto mine. For one second, I’m not sure he sees me.
“I’m okay,” I say, steadying my voice. “I’m alive. You saved me.”
The shadows pulse once. Twice.
Then they recede.
His eyes fade back to indigo blue. He gasps, looking horrified.
“I almost?—”
“But you didn’t.” I reach for him, my hand cupping his face. “We’re both okay.”
The moment breaks as alarms shriek through the underground market. Not human sirens. Auction security.
“We need to go,” he says. “Now.”
He pulls us into shadow. The world collapses around us.
We reappear somewhere else. Small. Unfamiliar. Brooklyn, if I had to guess from the warehouse district visible through grimy windows.
A safe house, then.
“Sit,” Azrael says, firm but gentle. “Your shoulder.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s shredded.” He guides me onto a worn sofa. “Let me see.”
I let him ease my ruined silk top down. The claw marks are deep, still bleeding.
His jaw tightens. “This is going to hurt.”
“I have had worse–”
His shadows sink into the wound.
I bite back a scream. It’s not just pain. It feels like something fundamentally wrong as his magic rewrites my flesh from the inside out.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”
When he finishes, the wound is closed, leaving only pink scars that will fade with time.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You should not have to thank me for fixing injuries you got protecting yourself.” His hands remain on my shoulders. “You could have died tonight.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You almost did.” His voice breaks. “When he clawed you, when I saw the blood, I lost control.”
“I noticed.”
“I could have killed you. The corruption almost?—”
“But it didn’t.” I turn fully toward him. “You pulled back. You’re stronger than you think.”