Page 47 of Cry of Blood and Joy
Angelo stood there panting like a wild animal, his chest heaving with unnecessary breaths. His fangs gleamed crimson inthe dim light—red with my blood, droplets of it still clinging to the sharp points before falling to the floor with tiny plip sounds. His usually immaculate dark hair hung in disheveled strands across his forehead, and his expensive shirt was torn and soaked with our combined blood.
A slender form glided up beside him with ethereal grace, her pale hand finding his muscled arm. The sight froze me as if ice water had been thrown into my face.
Serenity.
She was alive! Whole. Standing there as if she’d never been trapped in that hellish coma at all.
How? How was this possible?
Her golden hair was pulled up into a messy bun, soft tendrils escaping to frame her heart-shaped face. She wore a simple blue T-shirt that perfectly matched her bright blue eyes—eyes that were alert and aware, not the vacant stare I’d expected from someone who’d been unconscious for days. Her jean shorts revealed long, unblemished legs without a single bruise or mark of trauma.
She looked... normal. Healthy. Like she’d just woken up from a peaceful nap instead of a supernatural coma that should have killed her.
But then again, she was a Nephilim.
“Serenity,” I panted, her name falling from my lips in a whisper heavy with confusion and disbelief. The word echoed through the destroyed room, hanging in the air like an accusation I couldn’t quite form.
“You’re damn lucky she’s alive,” Angelo snarled. His hand shot out and clamped around my throat like a vice. His fingers squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter, cutting off my air supply with methodical precision. The pressure built until I could feel my windpipe threatening to collapse, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
My hands clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron-strong, fueled by maker’s blood and centuries of supernatural power. The taste of copper filled my mouth as I struggled for breath that wouldn’t come.
“You’re lucky she woke from the coma,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, breath hot against my skin. “Very, very lucky. Because if she hadn’t...” His grip tightened another impossible notch, and black dots blurred my vision and my strength faded.
“Angelo, release him.” Serenity’s slender fingers wrapped around Angelo’s muscled forearm.
His grip loosened incrementally, his fingers uncurling from my throat like reluctant serpents. The pressure released in agonizing degrees until finally, blessedly, air rushed back into my starved lungs. I gasped desperately, each breath feeling like fire as oxygen flooded my system. My hands flew to my throat, feeling the tender, damaged flesh.
I shook my head violently, trying to clear the black dots dancing across my vision like swarming gnats. The world swam in and out of focus—the ornate crown molding blurred into wavy lines, the polished hardwood floors seemed to tilt and roll beneath my feet. Crystal fragments from a shattered vase caught the light from the elaborate chandelier overhead, creating rainbow prisms that danced mockingly across the bloodstained Persian rug.
Through the haze of oxygen deprivation and rage, I managed to zero in on Serenity’s face like a lighthouse cutting through fog. The elegant sitting room—with its antique furniture and oil paintings in gilded frames—felt surreal as a backdrop from our brutal fight.
She moved with fluid grace, stepping in front of Angelo as if she were made of silk and moonlight. Her positioning was deliberate—a protective wall between us in this hallway that now reeked of blood and supernatural fury. The blue fabric of herT-shirt was like a patch of clear sky against the dark burgundy painted walls.
“Angelo, why did you attack Enzo?” Her blue eyes searched my face with genuine concern, the same expression she’d worn countless times in quieter moments in rooms just like this one.
“I didn’t attack him,” Angelo blurted. Blood still trickled from the claw marks on his throat, and his usually pristine appearance was a study in violence. “This traitor attacked me.”
Serenity’s gaze flickered toward Angelo from the corner of her eye—just for a split second—but she didn’t turn away from me. Her focus remained steady, unwavering. “He’s not a traitor. And Joy didn’t try to kill me.”
How could she know that? How could she be so sure when she’d been unconscious, trapped in that supernatural coma?
Angelo wiped the blood dripping from his arm onto his already ruined sleeve, the dark stain spreading across the expensive fabric like spilled wine. His movements were sharp, angry. “Release him,” he growled to Lorenzo and Pascal.
But Serenity held up her palm—small, delicate, yet commanding absolute attention. “Stand down, Enzo.”
The familiar gesture—one I’d seen her use countless times— sent a pang through my chest. I forced my shaking legs to stand firm, fighting against the tremors that threatened to buckle my knees. My whole body felt like it had been hit by a freight train, but I couldn’t show weakness. Not now.
“Where is she, Serenity?” I rubbed my neck, my throat raw from Angelo’s chokehold. “Please tell me.”
Her expression softened, genuine pain flickering across her features like candlelight. “Enzo, if she was here, I would tell you. Joy is my best friend, my sister.” The words carried absolute truth, and hope died in my throat. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here.”
I still didn’t quite believe anyone. Angelo might not have told Serenity that he was holding Joy prisoner. “But someone sawDimitri drive away with her in his Corvette. Where else would he take her?”
Angelo frowned. “His black Corvette? That was stolen.”
His words cut into my heart. I could feel the blood drain from my face. My legs nearly gave out, and I drew on my vampire strength to keep from falling over.
Stolen.
