Page 41 of Cry of Blood and Joy
I immediately dropped my hands as if she’d burned me. The prostitute stumbled backward, rubbing her arms where my fingerprints would undoubtedly bloom into bruises.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Dimitri Dragan. The name rolled down my throat like a bitter tonic. I staggered back a step. My vision tunneled, the edges going dark as rage—pure, incandescent rage—flooded my system. I dragged my fingers through my hair, pulling hard enough that strands came away in my grip.
All his blustering that he wouldn’t betray us had been a big fat lie. When pushed into a corner, he rolled over on his back like a good hound dog and handed over his prize to Angelo Santi.
All my calculations to keep Joy safe burned up. Angelo had the one thing that mattered.
Damn it! I never should have left her. Never should have trusted that she’d be safe, even for an hour. Fury erupted inside me like a raging volcano. My fangs extended, my control finally burning away like ash.
And where the hell was Steve? He was supposed to come back and protect her. She was his sister.
When I got my hands on him, he’d find out exactly why people whispered my name in the dark. Why even the oldest of our kind crossed themselves when they heard I was coming.
He’d learn that there were worse things than death.
And I was one of them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Joy
Steve dangled from the chains like a broken marionette, his knees having collapsed beneath him hours ago. The metallic clink of the links was the only sound in the suffocating silence, each slight movement sending tiny echoes through the dank chamber. I could smell the foul, acrid stench of black demon blood—thick and oily like burned tar—that had coated his own crimson life force, creating a nauseating cocktail that made my stomach churn. The copper tang of human blood was familiar, almost comforting, but the demon ichor carried something else: decay, sulfur, and an otherworldly wrongness that made my skin crawl.
Dark veins spiderwebbed beneath his pale skin where the demon blood had seeped into his wounds.
He needed healing magic—and fast, or he’d die. The thought sent a spike of panic through my chest, sharp and unforgiving.
Serenity was out of the question; I’d burned that bridge to ash and cinders. But maybe Unseelie magic could heal him. My mind raced through possibilities, each one more desperate thanthe last. Surely, Keir Rankin would have some kind of potion to combat demon blood poisoning. He wasn’t someone who let anything happen by chance—every move calculated, every contingency planned. So far, he’d been willing to help Enzo when he needed him. I just prayed he was still in the same frame of mind, that our tentative alliance hadn’t crumbled while I’d been chained here like a common prisoner.
Through the jagged remains of what had once been a stained glass window—now just twisted lead and shards of colored glass clinging desperately to the rotting wooden frame—the Louisiana sky bled from amber to deep crimson. Ancient oak trees draped in Spanish moss swayed like ghostly sentinels outside, their gnarled branches scraping against the crumbling brick walls of the abandoned church with each humid breeze that rolled off the bayou.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of decay and stagnant water, mixed with the musty smell of centuries-old wood and stone slowly surrendering to time and moisture. Somewhere in the distance, a night heron called out across the dark water, its cry echoing through the cypress groves that had long since reclaimed this forgotten sanctuary.
The sun was finally setting, sinking like a dying ember into the murky waters beyond the tree line. Golden light filtered through the Spanish moss in ethereal beams, painting the ruins in shades of amber and shadow. As darkness crept across the bayou, Steve would be safe from the sun’s burning touch.
He could escape through the maze of waterways and twisted roots, slip through the gathering dusk like the shadow he’d always been, and make his way back to civilization—back to Enzo. Enzo would know what to do. How to save him. Until then the bayou would hide him, protect him, the way it had always protected those who knew its secrets.
If he could just find the strength to move before our captors returned to this godforsaken place.
But first, I had to break through these damned binding cuffs. The cold iron bit into my wrists, already raw and bleeding from my earlier struggles. If I could just get one hand free, I could summon my shadows—feel them writhing beneath my skin, eager to be released—and they could unlock Steve’s manacles with their ghostly fingers.
I wiggled one wrist, the movement sending fresh waves of agony up my arm. The metal scraped against bone as I twisted and turned, trying to compress my hand small enough to slip free. The manacles dug deeper into my flesh with each desperate movement, and a burning sensation—like liquid fire—ran up my arm where the iron touched my supernatural skin. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, the metallic flavor sharp on my tongue, refusing to cry out and alert my captors.
Ari and Marsha had stepped outside ten minutes ago, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor before fading to nothing. They were obviously confident my brother and I couldn’t escape, that these ancient bindings would hold us until whatever grisly fate they had planned came to pass.
Arrogant fools.
Sweat broke out across my brow, trickling down my temples in cold rivulets despite the chill in the air. The salt stung my eyes as I pulled and pulled, my muscles screaming in protest. My thumb joint popped—a sickening sound that made me grit my teeth—but then, finally, blessedly, my thumb slipped free.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Blood slicked my palm where the iron had torn skin, but I was one step closer to freedom. One step closer to saving my brother.
Hold on, Steve. Just hold on a little longer.
I gritted my teeth until my jaw cramped, trying desperately to work my index finger through the narrow gap my thumbhad created. But it was as if the cursed manacle had sensed my escape attempt—some dark magic woven into the iron itself. The metal band constricted, tightening and tightening around my wrist with deliberate malice, the edges biting deeper into my already torn flesh. My pulse hammered against the unforgiving iron as it nearly cut off my blood supply entirely.
Excruciating pain gripped me like a sadistic, twisting tourniquet. White-hot agony shot up my arm in waves, each pulse making my vision blur at the edges. I could feel my fingers going numb, the tingling sensation of oxygen deprivation creeping up from my fingertips. My hand was turning an alarming shade of purplish blue.
