Chapter

Twenty-Four

E nzo

I knelt next to Angelo, still sprawled out on the cold stone floor, too still for even a vampire. The candlelight caught the sheen of sweat on Angelo’s forehead, and I put my palm over his nose, barely feeling an exhale of his breath. The demon’s blade had left its mark. His blood spilled onto the floor. Black veins spider-webbed down his neck. I unbuttoned his torn shirt, and the marks were visible spreading slowly toward his heart.

I glanced up at Rose. She worked at the altar, grinding obsidian into fine powder. The scent of dragon’s blood and wolfsbane permeated the air, making my nose burn.

Outside the crypt, I could hear the others—Trystan coordinating the wolf shifters as they tended to the wounded, Angelo’s enforcers securing the perimeter, and Keir’s quiet voice as he worked his healing magic on Dimitri and the other critically injured.

We’d split up by necessity—someone had to prepare the ritual while the others dealt with the aftermath of the battle. “Rose, there are strange marks on Angelo’s neck. The poison is getting worse. How much longer?”

Rose didn’t look up from her work, her hands steady as she measured the crushed obsidian. “The base potion needs to simmer for exactly one hour. According to the spell, we have to place the hallowed ground essence at the witching hour—3 a.m.” Her tone reminded me of a professor who knew there was no room for error.

I glanced at my watch, my stomach knotting. Just past one in the morning. We had less than two hours until the witching hour, our only chance to collect the hallowed ground essence. The thought of failing and losing Angelo made my hands clench into fists.

I scanned the books and jars cluttering in the crypt’s dark corners, already knowing the answer but needing to ask. “I take it that last ingredient isn’t in the crypt?”

“No.” Rose’s shoulders tensed as she shook her head. “I’ve looked everywhere and it’s not here. I’m assuming it has to be a fresh ingredient.” With trembling fingers, she picked up the vial that contained Pascal’s blood when he was possessed. She added it to the mixture, then held up the second vial containing pure demon’s blood. It seemed minuscule, dark oil moving against glass.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Will this be enough?”

“It has to be.” Her silver rings caught the candlelight as she reached for another ingredient. “We can’t exactly go back and ask the demon for more.” The bitterness in her voice couldn’t quite mask the fear underneath.

I crossed my arms. “So where is this hallowed ground essence?”

Rose’s finger traced over the spell requirements again. “The text isn’t specific. Something that captures the sacred energy of consecrated ground.” She finally looked up, her eyes flickering with an unnatural amber light—her witch side showing through. “You need to find somewhere older than this church. Somewhere the holy energy has had centuries to seep into the earth itself.”

A harsh laugh escaped me. “You want me to go cemetery hunting at this hour?”

“St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has been consecrated ground since 1789.” She didn’t wait for my response, already gathering supplies into a black velvet bag. Crystals clinked against glass vials. “The oldest cemetery in New Orleans. If there’s anywhere in the city that would have what we need, it’s there. Marie Laveau’s tomb alone has enough residual energy to power a hundred spells.”

I raked my fingers through my hair, letting out a heavy sigh. “How will I know what this hallowed ground essence looks like?”

“I suspect it has something to do with the amulet,” she said, tying the bag closed with practiced fingers. She finally met my eyes, and I could see the uncertainty there despite her confident tone. “The spell book doesn’t say, but my gut tells me that’s what you should be looking for.”

I looked back at Angelo, at the black veins creeping ever closer to his heart. I had no choice. I needed that essence, whatever it turned out to be.

“Then I’d better get moving,” I said, reaching for my jacket. “The witching hour won’t wait. But what about Dracula? We need to heal him from his possession.”

“He hasn’t been pierced with a hellish blade,” Rose said, touching the white stone with its carved star that had helped us capture the demon blood earlier. “The stone cast out the other demons—it will be strong enough to free him too. Right now, healing those wounded by the blade takes priority. We need Angelo at full strength to help fight Balthazar. I don’t think Dracula will be powerful enough to rescue both Julienne and Serenity.” Her voice cracked at Serenity’s name. She didn’t say it, but if we didn’t get Serenity out of hell, her mate would die.

Trystan suddenly blocked the doorway, his massive frame casting a shadow into the crypt. He’d shifted into his naked human form, and my stomach turned at the sight of him. His hair was matted with blood. I couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. Deep claw marks and cuts scored his body, probably from the hellhounds. Raw flesh gleamed in the candlelight as he lunged forward and grabbed my arm, desperation etched on his face. “I’ve got wounded here.”

My throat tightened. “From the hellhounds?”

He shook his head, nostrils flaring. “No, the hellish blades. Will that potion she’s making be enough to heal my pack?”

Rose stirred the potion, the acrid smell making my eyes water. Her hand trembled slightly as she glanced at me uneasily. “I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “It might not even be enough to heal one person. We don’t have enough demon blood or possessed vampire blood.”

Trystan’s fingers dug into my flesh until I could feel bruises forming. The familiar rage of an alpha burned in his eyes. “So you’re saying vampires are more important than wolf shifters?”

I set my jaw, fighting the urge to throw him off me. We didn’t have time for centuries of prejudice to surface now. “If you don’t let me go, Trystan,” I said through clenched teeth, “then I won’t be able to find the hallowed ground essence. Then everyone dies.”

I drew on vampire speed and shot out of the crypt, urgency burning through my veins like fire. Trystan was right—and admitting that left a bitter taste in my mouth. The scene before me would have broken a lesser vampire: wounded wolves whimpered along with naked men who had shifted back, their skin gleaming with sweat in the moonlight. We’d beaten back the demons, but at what cost? My jaw clenched as I surveyed the damage we’d had to inflict.

Dimitri still lay unconscious where he had fallen, and regret coiled through my chest like a cold serpent. His face was even paler than Angelo’s. Strange black spiderweb marks had spread across Dimitri’s face like cracks in porcelain. My fists tightened at my sides. I had a feeling he was succumbing faster than Angelo since he was a born vampire, and watching someone under my protection fall like this went against everything I stood for as an enforcer.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of demon ichor. I picked my way through the aftermath, past broken tombstones and scattered offerings: beads, coins, and dried flowers crushed into the dirt during the battle.

I raced through the French Quarter’s narrow streets, my supernatural speed turning the tourist crowds into colored blurs. The wrought-iron balconies and gas lamps flew past as I covered the ten miles to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

The cemetery rose before me like a small alabaster city. Its above-ground tombs, necessary in New Orleans’ waterlogged soil, created narrow “streets” between rows of family crypts and society tombs. Decades of tropical weather had stained the white stone to varying shades of gray and cream. Crosses and angels watched from their perches, while the humid air trapped the scents of old stone, dried flowers, and lingering incense from tourist offerings.

The tomb itself was easy to spot, marked by countless X’s scratched into its surface by those seeking the queen’s favor. Red brick peeked through crumbling plaster, and offerings of beads, coins, and candles crowded its base. I wasn’t sure what the hallowed ground essence looked like and had to go by instinct.

White star flowers dotted Marie’s grave. The same shape as the star carved into that amulet—the one that had banished the demons. My hand shot out toward the blooms, Angelo’s fading pulse driving me forward.

I snatched a bunch of the star flowers and instantly regretted it. White-hot pain seared through my palms. “Shit!” The flowers scattered across Marie’s tomb as I jerked my hands back. Angry red blisters were already forming on my skin. Damn it, either the flowers were cursed or—the thought hit me like a punch—this was what happened when vampire enforcers touched holy ground. My hands trembled with aftershocks of pain, but I forced them steady. Angelo was slipping away with every second I wasted. I’d have to endure it. One more grab, no matter how much it burned. I wouldn’t lose him, not like this.

I yanked my shirt over my head and bundled it around the damned flowers. Even through the fabric, pain pulsed up my arms like acid in my veins. I shot through the empty streets, gritting my teeth against each wave of burning. The usual blur of vampire speed felt agonizingly slow, every second of contact with those flowers a fresh torment. The French Quarter’s gas lamps cast dancing shadows as I wove between buildings, back toward the crypt and Angelo.

St. Christopher’s graveyard hadn’t changed—wounded and dying still cluttered the grounds, their moans carrying through the heavy air. I headed for the Nightshade Crypt where Trystan stood guard in his wolf form, his white fur ghostly in the darkness. The flowers seared through my shirt, making me stumble as I reached the steps. Trystan’s growl rumbled through the night, but I pushed past him into the crypt.

Then I realized that growl wasn’t meant for me. His massive head was turned away from the entrance, hackles raised, facing something out there in the darkness. Something that wasn’t our ally.

Rose raced over to me, her eyes widening. “Enzo, what’s burning?”

“Me. The damn flowers are cursed.” I tossed my shirt onto the altar, the white blooms stark against the black fabric. “Be careful. Apparently Marie doesn’t care for vampires.”

“I don’t have time to be careful.” She snatched up the white blooms into the mixture without hesitation. Then she paused as she examined her unblemished hands. “Maybe it’s because I’m part witch.”

“Maybe,” I grumbled, still feeling the phantom burns in my palms.

White smoke spiraled up from the concoction, filling the crypt with the sweet fragrance of lilies.

Rose looked at me. “It’s ready. I just hope it works.”

If it didn’t, then the family business fell to me. Something I wasn’t ready to take over.