Page 80 of Wings of Shadow
I smooth a hand over the midnight silk of my gown, the fabric cool and fluid beneath my fingertips. The bodice hugs my curves like a lover’s embrace, silver beadwork catching the light like scattered stars before spilling into a full skirt that pools at my feet. A daring side slit runs high along one leg, a bold slash of skin that contrasts with the gown’s otherwise classic elegance—an unspoken challenge.
Against my collarbone rests not my family’s heirloom, but the dragon pendant Kaisner gave me—white gold and diamonds that shimmer like captured starlight. Dangerous. Beautiful. A secret pressed close to my skin, its cool weight a constant reminder of him. Of what we are. Of what we risk.
It feels like defiance. Like desire. Like temptation.
Below, the masses surge as another car pulls over, the buzz of speculation reaching a crescendo. The mass of people splinters into distinct groups as they press forward. On the left, men and women draped in amber scarves hoist handmade signs reading “URSA STRENGTH” and “BEAR KING GAVRIIL” above their heads. Several wear imitation claw marks drawn across their cheeks in solidarity with the shifter clan.
Near the center barrier, a sea of black leather and crimson accessories dominates. One pale young woman, her lips painted blood-red, clutches a poster with “IMMORTAL LOVE FOR LOCKHART” emblazoned across a silhouette of fangs. Beside her, a man in a vintage velvet coat holds aloft a Gothic-lettered placard that simply states “BITE ME, IVAN.”
The right flank belongs to the witchcraft enthusiasts, their flowing garments adorned with crystals that catch the evening light. “THE GRAND WITCH LIVES” declares one elaborate sign decorated with dried flowers and intricate symbols. A cluster of young practitioners chant Juliette’s name in rhythmic unison, their hands raised toward the sky as though drawing down her power.
Among them, although harder to spot, are the true supernatural observers—ancient eyes veiled beneath human guises. Witches cloaked in glamour, shifters in tailored suits with restless gazes, vampires whose beauty is just a shade too perfect to be real. Mortals stand beside them, oblivious to the proximity of creatures who could end their lives with a whisper.
When the car door opens, camera phones rise from all sections, the air crackling with excitement as each faction strains for a glimpse of their chosen idol, momentarily united only by their shared belief in the unnatural world that exists just beyond mortal understanding.
I grip the ornate balustrade, leaning closer, eager to see the arrival.
And then, she steps out.
Juliette Deveraux, Grand Witch and matriarch of a dynasty that bends kingdoms to its will. Her emerald gown shimmers with a light that seems woven from magic itself, her red hair crowned with a diamond tiara. Timeless beauty cloaks her like armor, and she wears it well. She moves with the easy elegance of one who knows the significance of her power and wields it like a blade.
“Juliette, share your secrets!” a woman cries, thrusting forward a grimoire for signing. “Teach us the old ways!” another shouts, waving a bundle of herbs that releases a pungent aroma into the night air. “We’ve kept your traditions alive!” calls a silver-haired woman, tears streaming down her weathered face as she presses against the security barrier.
At her side stands Ivan Lockhart. Dark and severe in a tailored tuxedo, his tousled hair lending him a rakish charm that sharpens when set against the cut-glass edge of his jaw. Behind fashionable sunglasses, his gaze burns with the cold hunger of the undead, and though he wears the trappings of civility, it’s the predator I see beneath. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
“Ivan, we’ve waited centuries!” screams a group of women in Victorian-inspired gowns—vampires? A young man collapses in theatrical fashion, hand pressed to his forehead, shouting, “Take my blood, it’s type O negative—the champagne of hemoglobin!”
A flicker of amusement crosses Lockhart’s expression. Flashing a smirk, he turns to whisper into his girlfriend’s ear, a sensual move that earns him a teasing glare from Juliette, a roaring scream from the crowd.
Suddenly, a blur of movement disrupts the red carpet’s careful choreography. A young woman with raven-black hair and a velvet choker vaults over the security barrier, evading the grasping hands of guards with unnatural speed. She hurls herself at Ivan, arms outstretched. My breath hitches as security tenses, ready to tackle her. But with preternatural reflexes, Ivan catches her mid-leap.
“My eternal lord,” she gasps, somehow managing to plant a crimson-lipped kiss on his pale cheek. But just before she’s torn from him by security, I could have sworn she whispered something more into his ear—impossible to catch, but enough to make Ivan’s gaze flicker with sharp, predatory interest.
A secret. A message. Or perhaps… a warning.
Whatever it was, Ivan’s expression doesn’t falter, but something shifts. The barest tension in his jaw, a shadow in his eyes, gone in a blink. He straightens his collar with deliberate elegance, fingers brushing the lipstick mark as though considering whether to preserve it as a trophy or wipe it clean.
The horde hushes as he approaches the crowd again, his stride measured, unhurried. “An admirer with spirit,” he drawls, accent thickening with pleasure. “How refreshing.”
He gestures subtly to the guards, halting them with the faintest lift of his hand. “Gently with the lady. Passion should be rewarded. Never punished.”
The crowd roars its approval, the woman swooning into the arms of her friends, eyes glassy, lips parted as though still caught in the spell of him. Ivan offers a slight bow in her direction before returning his attention to Juliette.
The striking pair pause beneath the red carpet lights, posing for photographs—a portrait of preternatural royalty. Power has a scent, a feel, and it radiates off them.
But his eyes linger for a moment too long, as if haunted by whatever secret had been pressed into his ear.
And I can’t help but wonder—what did she tell him?
Following close behind is Cassandra Deveraux, her dark hair cascading half down her back in soft waves, half over her shoulder. Her gown, a delicate rose gold that complements her fair skin, flows around her like liquid metal. One hand rests protectively over the slight swell of her stomach, barely noticeable to those who don’t know to look for it. Her other hand encircles the arm of the Ursa King himself.
Gavriil towers over Cassie, his imposing figure made even more striking by the crisp lines of his charcoal gray suit. His dark chestnut hair is swept back from his forehead, tied into a sleek low bun. His style balances sophistication with a laid-back vibe, complemented by his neatly trimmed beard, enhancing his rugged, masculine look.
The Ursa King’s piercing maroon eyes survey the crowd with the vigilance of a born predator. Despite the easy smile on his face, I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his body is angled slightly in front of Cassandra’s, as if shielding her from the world.
To the supernatural community watching with keen interest, they present a united front—the formidable Ursa King and his chosen mate. The diamond-encrusted brand on Cassandra’s wrist, visible when she raises her hand to wave, is a clear sign of their engagement. But I know the truth that lies beneath their polished facade. Behind closed doors, their relationship is a tempest of disagreements and unspoken tensions.
And then—Samara. Resplendent in navy silk that hugs her curves before flaring out at her knees. Her chestnut hair is styled to one side, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the glittering diamond earrings that dangle from her ears. She stands tall and fierce beside her brother, Vlad.
