Page 7 of Consume Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #4)

Noctan

A t precisely the hour prescribed, I step through a portal of my own making and glare at the scene before me.

My distaste isn’t for the ancient trees surrounding me.

It’s not even for the iron gates covered in sigils swinging open as I approach.

No, it’s for whatever lies inside Vaelora’s spell-charmed mansion.

If only I were here simply to hunt and destroy those daggers, but no, it can’t be that simple. I have to mingle at a party while I await my prey. My cadre is probably laughing their asses off at me from the Afterlife right now.

Makim should have been the last one standing.

That asshole loved a good party. Even Liara would have enjoyed this more than me, and she hated crowds.

I’m not as picky as she was. I hate anywhere that has people who don’t serve my immediate goals.

So, basically, I would rather be alone in the wilderness for months than spend five minutes at this ball .

But here I am.

For my fallen brothers and sisters, I suffer.

With a snort, I start forward.

As I walk, the air shifts. Warms. The chill that’s been clawing up my spine disappears as if the mansion ahead is breathing heat straight into the night.

The moon glows full above the estate, casting silver light across the cobblestone driveway and the towers beyond.

I’ll give it to Vaelora. She doesn’t do anything halfway.

The mansion is massive. I knew that from my first visit, but portaling directly inside wasn’t an option tonight.

Apparently, she has wards against it for this event.

Probably smart of her, considering she’s letting all sorts of unknown riffraff into her home tonight.

From the outside, the effect is stunning.

Gothic and elegant, with sharp angles and smooth stonework.

Fog curls around its base like a shield of protection.

A three-tier obsidian fountain bubbles in the courtyard, runes flickering faintly beneath the surface.

Light dances across the surface like fireflies.

It’s inviting, I suppose.

Or it would be to anyone but me.

The moment I enter the house, my inner beast snarls its displeasure at the confinement. I ignore him, knowing he’ll only be satisfied when we’re back underneath the sky. Or when the daggers are destroyed.

The first thing I can think as I look around the space Vaelora has so fully transformed for tonight is: I don’t belong here.

The floors are too polished. The air too perfumed.

The kind of place that stinks of softness and romance—drenched in power that’s meant to dazzle, not defend.

I’d rather be in a cave. Or a forest. Or a battlefield, covered in mud and blood.

Instead, I’m wearing a tailored black jacket, silver-threaded cuffs, and shoes that I think might actually be cursed because they squeak every time I shift my weight. Vaelora said, “Dress appropriately,” which I’m pretty sure meant I better not wear my warrior leathers.

This is the only formal attire I own, and even though I haven’t worn it in a decade, I hate how well it fits. I hate that I look like I belong.

Because I don’t.

Not to this mortal world. Not to Vaelora’s stupid games. And not to the sparkling horde currently twirling around the ballroom, masks glittering, fangs bared in too-wide smiles.

A human in a tux stands just ahead. “Invitation?” he asks in a formal tone.

There’s no reek of fear on him, which is either bold or stupid, considering how outmatched he is in a house full of supernaturals. I hand over my invitation without a word.

“Thank you. Enjoy your evening.” He ushers me onward.

I make it six steps into the ballroom before someone steps into my path.

She’s taller than other females, especially in those shoes. Her long, dark hair hangs down her back in wild waves, her dress thin and clinging. But her beauty is second only to the power radiating from her. A power that smells of death .

“Apologies,” I murmur, ready to step around her.

“You're looking for death… Oh crap, sorry. That came out way more ominous than I meant.” She laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“I get this vibe around you, like death is circling, looking for something. Sometimes the dead are so loud I forget to filter what comes out of my mouth. Occupational hazard.”

She smiles ruefully and turns away.

“I do seek death,” I say before she can go.

She looks back at me, and I note her ears.

“You’re fae,” I say, eyes narrowing at the contradiction of the power she holds.

“Half-fae, full-time ghost whisperer, part-time bad decision maker,” she says with a wry smile. “But in truth, I was gifted with a connection to the afterlife.”

I hesitate, unused to being so open with my own missions. But if this fae can help—and the power I sense in her suggests she can—then I’m willing to try. Maybe Vaelora brought me here for this female’s insight.

“I’m hunting a pair of daggers,” I tell her. “They are made of an ancient magic that predates this world, and they are deadly to anyone they encounter. Do you sense anything like that here?”

“Honestly? Parts of this place reek of death. Many of these people have killed; others are thinking about it.” She glances at the crowd, rubbing her temple like she has a headache.

“Your murder daggers could be right in front of me, and I'd probably miss them in all this supernatural noise.

But hey, if they're that dangerous, I really hope you find them before someone decides to test them out at the party. ”

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying not to be disappointed, as she slips away with a quick smile.

When she’s gone, I head straight for the bar—the optimal vantage point to search for my prey. As I move, the music shifts—something lusty and probably laced with compulsion—but it slides off me like water.

The bartender, a vampire with a smile that makes me want to punch him, eyes me. “What’ll it be? Whiskey, neat?”

“Just water.”

He shakes his head as he pours it. “A real party animal.”

“You have no idea.”

After a hesitant sniff to check for foreign chemicals, I drain the glass and set it on the counter.

“Refill?” the bartender drawls.

“No thanks.”

He walks off, and I scan the room. The rune on my forearm has been smoldering since the moment I crossed the threshold. It’s not just awake—it’s seething. Which means Vaelora was right: The daggers are here.

A threat to every guest at this party unless I get to them first.

Eventually, I leave the bar and slip around the edge of the ballroom, skirting past dancers and glamoured nobles, concentrating on my rune. Letting it pull me closer to the dark magic I’m hunting.

And then—I feel it.

A pulse.

Low. Sharp. Wrong.

The familiar hum of demon magic .

It slides beneath my skin like smoke, slithering up my spine.

I make my way slowly through the room, letting that dark magic call me toward it like a beacon.

It’s stronger than I remember. They’ve grown more powerful in the centuries since I last encountered them.

Or whoever wields them now has significant power of their own.

Not that they’ll be enough to stop me. But it might make for a more interesting fight.

My fae senses prickle as I study the partygoers, contemplating what manner of creature I’m about to face.

But I can’t sense anything beyond the blades’ dark power that hangs like a curtain over the crowd.

And still, my rune guides me onward.

Closer and closer, until the symbol etched into my arm burns with enough heat that it sears my skin. I grab the arm of the nearest suspect, yanking hard. A small intake of breath sounds as they whirl, and I come face to face with a female fae.

The rune on my arm ignites like a brand searing my flesh. But I barely notice the pain—and what that pain means. Instead, my attention is held transfixed by a creature more beautiful than any I’ve encountered.

Golden hair, braided in a crown that glimmers as if it were forged from sunlight itself, frames a face carved with defiance.

A small tiara rests atop her head, glittering with a thousand points of light, every shimmer drawing my gaze downward to the small gleam at her nose.

The dainty piercing should look delicate, but on her, it reads like a blade—unexpected, sharp, a glimmer of rebellion tucked beneath the finery.

And then there are her eyes. Blue—glacier blue.

Cold enough to cut, hard enough to wound.

They slam into me like steel doors locked tight, daring me to try to find the key.

That impenetrable exterior should make her unapproachable, but instead, it tempts me.

Because no one builds walls like that without hiding something inside.

Something worth protecting. Something worth breaking for.

She isn’t just beautiful. She’s weaponized. Every glittering thread, every polished angle is armor—and I can’t stop myself from wanting to know what she looks like when it all shatters. Or who she is underneath.

She yanks her arm out of my grasp.

Our eyes lock.

Time stutters. Then stops.

Everything inside me stills—except the rune, which pulses like a second heart trying to claw its way out of my skin now that I’m no longer touching the stranger.

My breath catches. Not because of the pain—though it’s nearly blinding—but because she is her .

The woman before me is the dagger-bearer.

But worse, so much fucking worse than that, she is also my mate.

Of all the cursed, twisted, ruinous fates in this world…

I take a step toward her, but there’s no intent to harm in the movement. My chest strains with the knowledge that I couldn’t injure this woman if I tried. That I’d sooner let the daggers pierce my own heart and stop it from beating forever than I could harm a single golden hair on her head .