Page 43 of Oath of Blood and Joy

“The alignment comes in three days,” she said, tapping a chart that appeared to show celestial bodies. “We’ll need to prepare the girl by then.”

“And the others?” the third man asked, his face still outside my limited view.

“The transformations serve their purpose,” Maximo replied. “Even the failures.”

My mind raced. Transformations? Failures? Was Henry one of these experiments? And what were they planning to do to me in three days?

I leaned closer, desperate to see more, to understand?—

The ladder beneath me groaned, a bolt giving way with a screech of protesting metal. I scrambled to maintain my grip, but my movement caused the curtain to flutter.

Inside the room, conversation stopped abruptly.

“We have a visitor.” Marsha’s soft voice made my heart stutter and cease.

I panicked and cursed softly under my breath as I abandoned stealth for speed, climbing upward as fast as my arms would carry me. The shadows responded to my panic, swirling around me, but in my fear, I couldn’t control them at all.

The window below me slammed open. I glanced down to see Marsha leaning out, her face illuminated by the glow from the room. Her eyes locked with mine, a predatory smile spreading across her face.

“Well, well,” she called. “Our little shadow-dancer decided to join us early.” She raised her hand, and I felt my control of the shadows falter, slipping away like water through fingers.

“Did you hear something interesting, dear?” she asked, her other hand making a twisting motion. The metal ladder beneath me shuddered, then began to tear away from the wall.

I scrambled upward, but it was too late. With a final metallic groan, the ladder separated from the stone. For one heart racing split-second, I hung suspended in air, the courtyard spinning far below me—then I was falling, the wind rushing past my ears, shadows frantically swirling around me as I plummeted toward the ground.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Enzo

Another girl approached Steve, her eyes cast down submissively, dark hair falling forward to partially obscure her face. Her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat like ripples across water. “Would you like a private dance?” She had to almost shout to be heard above the pounding music. The scent of fear clung to her skin beneath cheap perfume.

Steve glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I nodded, the movement barely perceptible, but the look I gave him spoke volumes: be ready for anything. My fingers drummed once on the sticky table—a code we’d agreed on earlier for potential ambush. His eyes hardened in understanding, the predator within coming alert.

The blonde girl stood before me, her painted smile never reaching her eyes. I noticed fresh bruises on her wrist, dark against her pale skin—someone’s fingerprints marked into her flesh. She tilted her head in a practiced gesture of seduction, but her racing heartbeat betrayed her terror.

“Would you please allow me to dance for you?” she repeated, her voice carrying an odd formality, like rehearsed lines. Her eyes darted briefly toward Fremont, who watched our exchange with unsettling intensity from across the room.

I leaned back in my chair, projecting casual indifference while my senses cataloged every detail of our surroundings—the positions of Maximo’s men, the exits, the weight of the blade concealed against my ankle. The club suddenly seemed quieter, the music fading as my focus sharpened. A trap was springing closed around us, but perhaps it would lead me to what I needed to know.

“Lead on,” I said coolly, rising to my full height. I towered over her, watching as she visibly swallowed. I gestured for her to precede me down the darkened hallway that led to the private rooms, noting how her hands trembled slightly as she turned away.

As we moved through the club, I caught Steve’s eye one final time. His almost imperceptible nod confirmed what I already knew—if this went sideways, we’d drain every worthless human in the room before they could even scream.

Duncan kept his eyes on me as I followed the girl, his gaze boring into my back like a laser. His fingers tapped a subtle rhythm against his thigh—a signal to someone I couldn’t see. The trap was being set, but little did they know they were the ones truly being hunted tonight.

The girl led me down a narrow hallway reeking of cheap cologne, spilled alcohol, and the unmistakable musk of lust. Bass from the main room vibrated through the thin walls, making the tacky artwork shake slightly. Red light bathed everything in a hellish glow, casting elongated shadows across the worn carpet.

She unlocked a door marked “VIP” with trembling fingers, the key scraping against the lock twice before sliding home.With practiced movements that betrayed how many times she’d performed this routine, she gestured me inside.

The room was small and claustrophobic, with a single padded chair positioned in the center like a throne for the desperate. Mirrors covered every wall, multiplying our reflections into infinity—a vampire surrounded by endless copies of himself and a terrified human. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The air was heavy with disinfectant, though it barely masked the scents of previous occupants.

She started to dance around me seductively, her movements mechanical and rehearsed. Her heartbeat betrayed her nervousness—a rapid, fluttering tempo that sang to the predator within me. Sweat beaded along her collarbone despite the room’s chill, carrying the salty scent of fear.

I remained standing, my shoulders blocking the door completely. The soft click as I turned the lock echoed in the small space. “Do you know who I am?” My voice cut through the tinny music playing from hidden speakers, stopping her mid-movement.

She froze, confusion falling across her face like a shadow. Her heavily mascaraed eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating with a fresh surge of adrenaline. “No,” she whispered, as her gaze darted toward the now-blocked exit.

“I’m Enzo DiSalvo.” I let my name sink into her mind, watching as recognition dawned in her eyes. Her pulse jumped, the vein in her neck throbbing visibly—an unwitting invitation I chose to ignore, for now.

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