Page 35 of Oath of Blood and Joy

The cries from within the box grew dimmer, fading to barely audible whimpers as if Zoe had begun to succumb to the darkness, the suffocating heat, or perhaps even death itself. Each weakening sound felt like a needle piercing my heart.

“Please, let her out.” Desperation clawed at my throat. “I can’t do it.” The admission tasted like ash in my mouth—another failure, another life I couldn’t save.

“No.” Marsha’s eyes hardened, her pupils contracting to pinpoints of cold calculation. She glared at me, not a hint ofcompassion crossing her perfect features. “What do we care if the girl dies? We can get another one.”

Rage rushed through me—white-hot and all-consuming. It surged from some hidden well deep inside, flooding every inch of my body until I trembled with it. The shadows responded instantly, no longer wisps but solid tendrils of darkness that writhed and coiled around the lock with predatory purpose. They tightened, constricting like midnight serpents, then crushed the metal with a sound like distant thunder. Fragments of the shattered lock scattered across the courtyard stones.

I shoved Marsha away with strength I didn’t know I possessed. Her eyes widened in momentary surprise—perhaps even fear—before I turned my back on her and ran to the chest. The metal lid was searing to touch, burning my palms and fingertips with a hiss of flesh meeting scorching metal. I ignored the pain, barely registering it against the desperate need to reach Zoe.

With a cry, I flung the lid open. Waves of trapped heat billowed out, carrying the sickly sweet smell of human suffering.

Zoe lay crumpled at the bottom, curled into herself like a wilting flower. She was lying in a pool of her own sweat, her chest barely rising and falling with shallow, irregular breaths. Her eyes were shut, lashes dark smudges against skin gone frighteningly pale despite the heat. I reached for her, my burned hands throbbing as I touched her shoulder.

“Zoe, Zoe. Wake up.”

For one terrible heartbeat, there was nothing. Then she groaned—a paper-thin sound that was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Her lips, parched and cracked, moved slightly. Her gown, once a pale blue, was now nearly transparent with sweat, slick and sticking to her like a second skin. Her red hair pressed against her face in damp tendrils, framing features contorted by hours of torment.

Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. Was she truly alive, or merely reflexively responding? I couldn’t tell. I gathered her limp form in my arms, not caring about the watching guards or Marsha’s calculating gaze. I had saved her—at least I thought I had. But as her head lolled against my shoulder, her breathing ragged against my neck, the victory felt hollow.

I had passed their test. They had glimpsed what I could do but remained blind to how I did it. The hidden knowledge—that my rage, fear, even hate triggered my power—would be my secret weapon. Something I could use against them.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Enzo

I got out of the limousine, the bright daylight momentarily blinding after the tinted comfort of the vehicle. My eyes fixed on the back door of Crescent Manor. A black sedan was parked nearby, its polished surface reflecting the harsh sunlight with mirror-like intensity. I kept waiting for Flanagan to emerge from the vehicle, but something told me he was already inside, patient as a spider waiting to spring its trap on unsuspecting prey. On us.

The thought of Flanagan made my jaw clench involuntarily, muscles tightening until pain was radiating up to my temples. He’d been hunting for Joy too—another player in this dangerous game, methodical and relentless in his pursuit. As Louis DuPont’s former partner, Flanagan was likely still operating under the assumption that Louis was alive somewhere, perhaps in hiding, perhaps in danger.

The fact that he was also searching for Joy made everything more dangerous—a race against a ruthless opponent who might use her either as bait to draw out Louis or worse, discoverthe truth about what happened to him. He couldn’t know that Angelo had been forced to kill Louis—Joy didn’t even know her father was dead.

DuPont’s death was a grim necessity we’d concealed from the authorities with meticulous care. What remained of Louis by the end had been barely recognizable—the possession had hollowed him out, leaving nothing of the good man he’d once been, just a vessel for something ancient and hungry and evil.

Every policeman in New Orleans was now looking for Joy, their search extending into every corner of the city, but there was something particularly unsettling about Flanagan—something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t merely following protocol. The last time we’d encountered him, standing amid the carnage of another crime scene, he’d leveled those cold, knowing eyes at Angelo and accused him of murdering several women—the casino staff from Crimson Stakes as well as a young woman from Ravenwood Estate. His voice carried an edge of certainty that went beyond professional suspicion.

Now, watching the sedan gleaming in the sunlight, I could only assume Flanagan believed we were guilty of Simon’s death as well—another bloodbath to add to our growing ledger of supposed crimes. The injustice of it burned in my chest. Simon had been alive when we left, wounded but breathing. I remembered the rise and fall of his chest as we’d backed away, the mission complete.

There had been casualties, unavoidable in the chaos that had erupted, but we hadn’t slaughtered everyone like the wolves discovered them. We’d gone in with a precise objective and limited force—a rescue mission, not a revenge mission. We’d taken only the lives we had to take, made only the sacrifices necessary to extract Joy.

Simon and his men had died afterward, and it wasn’t by us. But trying to explain that to Flanagan, a detective who saw onlymurderers when he looked at us, would be an exercise in futility. In his world, we were simply violent criminals, dangerous men who solved problems with bloodshed. What he didn’t know—what we couldn’t tell him—was the true nature of what we were fighting. As far as Flanagan was concerned, this was just human violence, brutal but comprehensible. If he ever discovered what we really were, what truly lurked in the shadows of his city, his hunt would only intensify.

The silence of the place was unnerving despite the bright day. No birds chirped in the nearby trees. No distant voices carried on the still air. Just the soft rustle of expensive fabric as Angelo adjusted his jacket beside me, carefully positioning himself to remain in the shade of the building.

“Come on.” Angelo glanced at me, his ancient eyes missing nothing. “Remain calm.”

I stiffened as a flicker of irritation stirred into me. My fingers flexed at my sides, betraying the tension I was trying to mask. “I’m always calm.”

Angelo grumbled, a sound deep in his throat that carried centuries of weariness. “Not when it comes to Joy.” His words cut through my pretense with surgical precision. “She’s your Achilles’ heel and could be used against you.”

The truth of his statement stung more than I cared to admit. Joy’s face flashed in my mind—her quiet strength, her unpredictable power. What would Flanagan do if he discovered what she meant to me? Or worse, what if he found her first?

Dimitri came alongside Angelo. “You mean like Serenity was yours.” He moved with calculated precision as he scanned the grounds, his body positioned slightly ahead of Angelo’s—the protective stance of family rather than a subordinate. His eyes, cold and assessing, missed nothing as he cataloged every shadow, every potential hiding place with the methodicalthoroughness of someone who had survived countless such encounters.

A heavy silence fell between us, laden with old wounds and unspoken history.

Dimitri opened the door with measured caution, the hinges giving a soft protest that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Angelo stepped inside first, his movements fluid and controlled, shoulders squared beneath his tailored jacket. I followed close behind him, instinctively scanning the dimly lit hallway for threats.

Two men dressed in identical dark suits stood at the end of the corridor like sentinels, their stances rigid with the practiced vigilance of law enforcement. The taller one, with a scar running along his jawline, pulled a radio from his belt and held it to his mouth, eyes never leaving us as he spoke.

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