Page 30 of The Madness Within

The cops called it ritualistic. A cult hit.

But I knew better.

It was a warning.

And now Kreed’s circling again. Same pattern. Same precision.

He was following this woman and she didn’t know. He’d keep coming until he got what he wanted.

I leaned back in my chair, cold bleeding through my bones like rot. Every nerve screamed for blood.

Because this threat… It wasn’t just another client.

Another body.

Another name to bury.

This one’s personal. She’s personal.

And if Kreed laid a finger on her again, I wouldn’t just end him. I’d erase him. Cell by cell. Scream by scream. Until the world forgot he ever existed.

I’d leave his skull at the threshold of the Veil and let it rot beneath the weight of what he tried to touch.

Dorian knew the world wouldn’t survive unless monsters like Kreed Elias were erased, utterly, mercilessly, and without a trace.

I haven’t fed in three days.

I didn’t mean blood. I meantdeath.

I’ve stalked rooftops and courthouse parking lots, picked off vermin with names the system chanted in defense.

But even when their lungs collapsed and their skulls caved in beneath my hands, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I needed to know who she was.

The speakeasy was buried beneath a long, defunct bookstore on the Lower East Side. No password. No name. Just blood on the back of your tongue and a knock that echoed wrong in the bones.

Inside, the air was heavy, salted with sin, old coin, and the perfume of things that shouldn’t breathe. Vampires lounged against witches. Skinwalkers passed cigars to demons. Everyone pretending not to notice the demons in the mirror.

I took my usual booth, back to the wall, eyes on the exits.

Cassian Black slid in across from me like a ghost slipping into his own skin. Sleek as oil. Jacket tailored like sin. Same feral grin. Same scent of ozone and aftershave and something ancient beneath it all.

“Well, well. Dorian fucking Vale,” he said, voice low and amused. “Didn’t think they let you out of your cathedral of self-loathing.”

I didn’t bother to smile. “You still bitter about Berlin?”

He lifted a brow. “You took my mark and my car.”

“You had sex with my secretary in 1947.”

“Her husband challenged me to a duel,” Cassian deadpanned. “I won. Fairly. You were just pissed because you liked her handwriting.”

I leaned forward, resting a velvet box on the table and opening it with a click. Shadows spilled from within, curling like smoke, and formed the image I’d burned into my memory.

Her.

Blood on her cheek. Eyes lit with something more than fear. Something almost divine.

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