Page 76 of Vampire Soldier

The sky above the river is iron. No stars. No moon. Just thick clouds pressing low over the city, the kind of weight you can feel in your sinuses and your bones, as if the heavens are remembering how to crush us. The Barrows always hums at this hour—heartbeat of the city echoing in too-sharp horns, click-tap heels on broken pavement, the pulse of after-dark conversation barely held between alleys and chalk-painted shadows. Tonight, I can’t hear any of it.

All I hear is her.

Blake’s scream is still caught in my chest, frozen there, wrapped around each rib like wire. Charlie is gone. Taken. And the only thing louder than the memory of that scream is the silence in her eyes when she folded herself into me—shaking, yes, but fighting not to fall apart. A mother’s grief held impermeable behind a barricade of fury. I had promised I’d keep her and Charlie safe and I’d failed.

But I will right that wrong.

I am the blade that cuts clean. I am the law carried out. And now—I am the vengeance that will hunt the fucker down into the dirt no matter what shadows he thinks will guard him.

The Nightshade clan house looms before me as Ashe parks in front of it, three stories of history wrapped in stone and silence, its windows lit from within like stained glass impressions of war strategies and ruled empires. I exit the back seat, holding my hand out to Blake. I’d tucked her close the entire ride over from The Place. She’d tried to stifle her sobs, and each one that broke through ripped another jagged piece from my heart.

I don’t stop for the newly posted guards near the walkway. One look at my face and they snap to alert, their shoulders straightening like something ancient just passed by. They don’t salute. They don’t speak. Good. Because I don’t have time for them.

I cross the threshold and sound disappears—deliberate enchantment laid down centuries ago by Joséphine. The kind—a hush to keep noise from leaking out across neighborhoods, even when wars are waged within these walls.

The moment the heavy doors shut behind me, the weight of leadership settles across my shoulders like ice and iron.

The scent of fire and blood already hangs heavy in the air. I round the corner into the formal dining room—repurposed now into war command. Glittering chandeliers have been dimmed to near dark, casting the room into pools of amber and shadow. The enormous arched windows are blocked with blackout drapes, and long oak tables are dominated by tablets, weapons, maps, and the wreckage of strategy: red marker trails, snapped pencils, a half-sipped glass of whiskey being used as a paperweight.

Every heartbeat in the room turns toward me.

Ambrose stands at the head of the long table, posture like a throne’s silhouette—coiled and waiting, every inch of him radiating control. King in all but name. Kasar flanks him to the left, arms folded, posture loose but eyes anything but. Lan leans back in a chair, dressed like he came from a funeral, twirling an open switchblade in one hand while the other flies over the keyboard of the laptop in front of him.

Deidre and Eloise are seated across from him. The journalist-turned-insider is scrolling through a split screen of communication logs and CCTV feeds, her freckles standing out beneath too-pale skin. Eloise peels her gaze from her own laptop when the three of us enter. She rises, immediately coming toward us to wrap her arms around Blake.

“We’re going to get her back,” El whispers into Blake’s hair as the two of them cling to each other.

“I know.” Blake speaks without tremor. Her voice is steady in a way that cuts deeper than grief or panic. It’s not the hollow calm of someone in shock. It’s the sound of a steel beam forged inside hellfire. She’s already breaking apart inside, yet refuses to let it out by sheer will alone.

Eloise guides Blake to take the seat she’d abandoned, her arm still wrapped protectively around Blake’s shoulders. “Do you want anything? Water? Tea? Vodka?”

Deidre snorts a laugh and Blake tries to smile, but doesn’t quite manage to.

I give Blake one final glance, a grounding touch to the curve of her shoulder, before turning away and taking my place at the edge of the table.

Ambrose speaks first.

“Everyone’s been briefed,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “Now, tell us your plan.”

I nod, palms braced on the table, leaning forward. “Kit took Charlie less than two hours ago. He walked in wearing the face of someone Blake’s daughter trusted—Sam. Which means Kit had help. That kind of glamor spell isn’t natural for a lone shifter. It requires magic.”

“Witch?” Lan asks, still twirling his blade. His body language is lazy, lounging, exquisitely disinterested—until you look at his eyes. Cold fury glints behind them like ice poisoning a bloodstream. His mother was hit. That makes it personal for all of us, but especially Lan. He never reacts with heat. Only clinical detachment. It’s always worse. “Does Cassandra have any leads on who it could be?”

“She says charms are available on the black market,” Ashe answers, tapping something into his tablet. “Bloodcraft-level glamour charms—rare and expensive. You need a drop of blood from the person you want to impersonate, and the spell doesn’t hold long unless it’s stabilized with a binding agent. Still . . . if Kit has enough money, it would be enough to pull this off.”

Ambrose hums low, barely audible. The sound is more of a vibration than a noise. “Expensive enough to not be purchased on impulse. Which confirms he’s been preparing for this for some time given what we’ve learned of his finances.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but the implication hangs in the silence.

He’s been planning this longer than I’ve been sleeping with Blake. Longer than I’ve been pretending I haven’t already started building a life around her and Charlie without saying it aloud.

I think back on the night I told him Blake was my girlfriend and my fangs lengthen again at the fury striking up again inside me. If she’d refused him and I wasn’t there, would he have moved against her earlier? Taken Charlie because of Blake’s rejection?

Fucking coward.

“Do we have any idea where he might go?” I ask, forcing the words past the pressure crushing my lungs.

Ashe lifts his eyes from the tablet. “No confirmed location yet. Kit left his phone at his place. Cassandra’s trying a proximity trace, but whatever glamour charm he’s wearing—it’s strong. Foot soldiers are combing the Barrows. Best we can say for certain? He hasn’t crossed any of the bridges into Topside that we’ve seen. He’s still here. Probably stopped somewhere to wait us out.”

---