Page 36 of Cry of Blood and Joy
But it was the massive black wings that erupted from his back with a sound like thunder that sent panic sweeping through me in a tidal wave of pure terror. They spread, wide and magnificent, each feather gleaming with an oily darkness that seemed to absorb light itself, casting shadows that moved independently of their source.
I stepped back, fear bursting inside me like a bomb. “Who, what are you?”
He bowed slightly. “I’m Ari, the Dark Demon. You’ve been my prisoner before sweetheart. You thought Maximo Barone was your captor.” He winked. “But it was me. I wore his face for some time. I fooled all the mafia kings, along with your precious enforcer.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face and black dots were floating around me. “This can’t be happening.” But it was. I was broken, betrayed, and bound in silver that burned like the fires of damnation, and I was his prisoner.
“You’re my slave once again. You escaped once, but you won’t escape again.” His gaze gleamed with the kind of cruel anticipation that promised unspeakable horrors. “If your hero comes here, he’ll never make it out alive.”
His smile was a slash of pure malevolence across his beautiful, terrible face—and it was the last thing I saw before the world exploded into darkness and despair. The silver bracelets pulsed with burning agony, sending waves of fire up my arms that made my vision blur and my knees buckle.
Even through the haze of pain, survival instinct kicked in. I forced my eyes to scan the shadowy interior of the desecrated church, hunting desperately for the familiar figure of thevampire mafia king. Surely Angelo would emerge from behind the crumbling altar or step out from the confession booth that had probably heard more sins than absolutions. But the sacred space felt wrong, empty of his commanding presence.
“Where’s…Angelo?” I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pulsing pain, my throat clicking audibly in the oppressive silence. Was he on some gruesome errand, turning the bayou red with someone else’s blood while his enemies moved against him?
Ari’s hand shot out like a striking snake. His fingers seized my cheeks in a biting grip, his nails digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks. Pain bloomed across my face as he pinched with deliberate, calculated cruelty, his supernatural strength making my bones creak ominously under the pressure.
“Angelo had nothing to do with this, you naive little mortal.” His breath was cold against my face, carrying the scent of sulfur and ancient malice.
My cheeks burned where his fingers pressed, and my tears threatened to spill from the combination of physical pain and crushing despair.
“He’s as much in the dark as Enzo. Soon, I’ll bring them both down.”
His grip tightened until I was sure he would shatter my jaw, his blue eyes blazing with megalomaniacal fervor that made my blood freeze. The black wings behind him rustled with anticipation, each feather catching the filtered sunlight and reflecting it back like obsidian mirrors.
“I’m just getting started,” he whispered, and the absolute certainty in his voice—the complete absence of doubt or fear—was more terrifying than any threat he could have made. In that moment, staring into those pitiless blue depths while his fingers branded pain into my face, I wasn’t just trapped in a web of supernatural politics.
I was caught in the schemes of someone who truly believed himself to be a god.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Enzo
Keir’s driver had taken the scenic route past the New Orleans Police Department, slowing just enough for me to catch sight of the imposing brick facade and the squad cars lined up like sleeping predators in the late morning sun. The timing was too deliberate, too calculated. I didn’t think that was a coincidence—nothing with Keir ever was. Every move was orchestrated, every gesture laden with meaning. What game was he playing this time, and more importantly, what piece did he think I was on his board?
Keir took another leisurely sip of his white wine, the crystal glass catching the light filtering through the tinted windows of his luxury sedan. Château d’Yquem, if my nose didn’t deceive me—leave it to him to drink something fancy while delivering threats. He looked over the rim with those calculating green eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, studying my reaction with the patience of a spider watching its web vibrate.
“I have discovered some rather... interesting news that Rocco Palazzo has been nosing about the police department.” Hepaused to swirl the golden liquid in his glass, letting the silence stretch until it became a weapon in and of itself. “And I would like to know why.”
The threat hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable. I could smell the expensive leather of the car’s interior, the faint cologne that probably came from the Elder Dimension, and underneath it all, the cold scent of cruelty that always surrounded Keir like an aura.
“One of my associates has intercepted him.” Each syllable rippled with the threat of what would happen if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Not captured—intercepted. As if Rocco were merely a piece of mail that had been rerouted. The casual way he delivered this bombshell, as if discussing the weather or the quality of his wine, made my blood run cold.
I could feel his eyes boring into me, searching for any crack in my facade, any tell that would give away my true thoughts. He was waiting for me to lose my cool—waiting for the explosion of rage or the desperate bargaining that would tell him exactly how much leverage he now held. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm against the leather armrest, like a lion patiently toying with its prey.
But I had centuries of keeping my composure, decades of playing these deadly games where a single misstep could mean destruction. I’d learned long ago that showing weakness to creatures like Keir was tantamount to signing your own death warrant. So I kept my breathing steady, my heartbeat controlled, my expression as neutral as carved marble even as my mind raced through possibilities and contingencies.
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire, ready to snap at the slightest provocation, while outside the tinted windows, New Orleans rolled by in all its oblivious, mortal glory—completely unaware that in this very car, the fate ofsupernatural New Orleans was being decided one careful word at a time.
The limousine glided to a stop in front of Po’boy & Pour Over Café with the silent precision of a hearse arriving at a funeral. The irony wasn’t lost on me—Keir owned this charming little establishment, with its cheerful yellow awnings and hand-painted signs advertising fresh beignets and locally roasted coffee. It was the perfect front for his operations, hiding supernatural business behind the mask of New Orleans hospitality.
Keir’s driver emerged from the front seat with mechanical efficiency, his black suit crisp despite the sun climbing toward its midday peak. He moved to open the rear door, standing at attention like a sentinel of doom while the real drama unfolded across the sidewalk.
I swore underneath my breath as Rocco and one of Keir’s enforcers emerged from the café’s cheerful interior. The contrast was jarring—tourists and locals continued sipping their café au lait at wrought-iron tables, completely oblivious to the supernatural drama playing out mere feet away.
Rocco came out with his head held high; gone was the weariness he previously carried in the shoulders, the careful restraint that normally defined his movements. His dark eyes that were normally sharp with intelligence and quiet strength—even beneath the guarded tension he imposed on himself—were now glazed with a distant, almost dreamy quality that made my stomach clench with dread.
Had the Unseelie enforcer given him something? Something that worked against vampires? The Unseelie wielded powerful magic that could bend even the strongest minds, and seeing a vampire prince reduced to this hollow shell of compliance was more terrifying than any direct threat Keir could have made.
