Page 16 of Cry of Blood and Joy (French Quarter Vampire Enforcer #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Joy

I thought about using my shadows to help us move faster, but my confidence in controlling them was shaky at best. The memory of what I’d done to Serenity made my stomach clench with nausea, and I could feel the dark tendrils stirring restlessly beneath my skin, eager to be released.

If I hurt Rocco, we would obtain another enemy—one whose father commanded an entire vampire kingdom.

That was something I couldn’t risk, not when we were already drowning in enemies.

Enzo’s warm hand found mine, his calloused fingers intertwining with my trembling ones. “I have to carry you again.” I could hear the underlying strain of someone trying to keep it together when everything was falling apart.

“Maybe I should—” The words died in my throat as he moved with vampiric efficiency.

He didn’t wait for me to finish, sweeping me up into his arms like I weighed nothing at all. The familiar scent of leather surrounded me while his warm breath brushed over me like a protective blanket. Despite everything, I felt safer pressed against his chest. “Rocco, lead the way.”

Rocco sped into the night like the wind, his figure becoming nothing more than a dark blur against the dim streetlights.

Enzo moved just as fast, his supernatural speed making the world around us dissolve into streaks of amber light and deep shadow.

The rush of air against my face was sharp and cold, stealing my breath away and making my eyes water.

My hair whipped around us both like a dark banner, and I pressed my face against Enzo’s shoulder to shield myself from the biting wind.

What seemed like seconds later, we were there, coming to an abrupt stop that made my stomach lurch slightly. The sudden stillness felt jarring after the rush of movement.

The decrepit hotel was begging for a complete renovation.

The exterior was a faded pink stucco that had turned an unfortunate shade of gray brown, with rust stains bleeding down from broken gutters.

Weeds pushed through cracks in the parking lot asphalt, and a few of the windows were boarded up with weathered plywood.

But it was the sign that made me want to laugh despite our dire circumstances.

The neon sign for “The Bourbon Nights” was blinking erratically, several letters completely dark, so it read “The Ourbon Nits” in sickly yellow letters that buzzed and flickered like dying insects.

The pathetic display cast an intermittent glow across the cracked pavement, and the sharp scent of electrical burning mixed with the aroma of garbage and stale cigarettes that seemed to cling to the building like a permanent cloud.

Steve chuckled, the sound carrying a sharp edge of nervous energy that cut through the night air. “Bourbon Nits? That doesn’t sound reassuring. It’s like the place is advertising it’s got bed bugs.” His shoulders shook slightly with barely suppressed laughter.

Rocco’s cheeks reddened in the flickering neon light, the harsh fluorescent glare making his embarrassment look even more pronounced.

He ducked his head and kicked at a loose piece of asphalt with the toe of his flour-dusted boot, the scraping sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

“It’s all I can afford right now,” he muttered.

The admission hung in the air like smoke, acrid and uncomfortable.

Enzo scowled, his dark brows drawing together in a thunderous expression that could have frozen blood.

His grip tightened around my waist, his protective instincts flaring as he watched Rocco’s humiliation unfold.

“Steve...” The single word came out like a warning growl, low and dangerous, carrying the controlled irritation of an enforcer.

My brother shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, his eyes slightly tightening, which meant he knew he’d crossed a line. He slid his hands into his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels with forced casualness.

The awkward silence stretched between us, broken only by the erratic buzzing of the dying neon sign and the distant sound of traffic that seemed to come from another world entirely.

Rocco tilted his head toward the building, his dark hair catching the intermittent glow of the failing neon sign. “My room’s this way. It’s only got one bed.” He winced slightly as he said it, like he was bracing for another cutting comment from Steve.

Enzo glanced up at the flickering “VACANCY” sign that buzzed and sputtered above the main office, casting erratic shadows across his sharp features. “Looks like there’s a vacancy.” His jaw clenched and I could see he was already calculating the tactical disadvantages of splitting up.

“Surprise, surprise,” Steve muttered under his breath. The bitter scent of his disdain seemed to mingle with the stale air around us, and Rocco’s shoulders tensed even further.

Enzo turned to me, his dark eyes searching my face with that protective intensity that always made my heart skip.

His hand lingered on my arm, warm and reassuring despite the chaos surrounding us.

“Go with Rocco. I’ll see if we can get another room.

” The look in his eyes said he didn’t want to let me out of his sight, not here, not when we were so vulnerable.

My stomach clenched at the thought of being alone with Rocco. What if my shadows lashed out again?

I took a step forward as if to follow Enzo, but he shook his head. This place had too many hiding places—rooms, shadows, even the roof—places where vampires could wait and attack. What if Rocco was leading us into a trap?

But something in his broken posture called to every protective instinct I had. Despite the memories that still haunted me, I couldn’t ignore his pain.

My brother and I followed him down the cracked concrete walkway that smelled of mildew and cigarette butts, our footsteps echoing off the peeling stucco walls.

He stopped at a door marked with tarnished brass numbers and fumbled with a key on a rubber key ring in the shape of a bourbon bottle.

This place really was still in the Dark Ages.

Most hotels had key cards, not actual keys.

The door swung open with a groan that sounded like the building itself was in pain, revealing a room that made my stomach sink with dismay.

Ugly brown shag carpet stretched across the floor like some diseased animal pelt, matted and stained with substances I didn’t want to identify.

The tan walls were peeling in long, curling strips that hung down like dead skin, and the brown bedspread looked like it had stories to tell—all of them sad.

The entire space reeked of stale smoke, cheap disinfectant that had failed in its mission, and something musty that might have been mold.

It looked like brown water had been sprayed over every surface, leaving everything the color of old coffee stains and forgotten dreams. The single window was covered with curtains that had probably been orange once but had faded to the same depressing brown that seemed to be the room’s only decorating theme.

Steve sat down on a worn green leather chair with stuffing spilling from the armrests. “How long have you been staying here?”

Rocco sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the old mattress springs groaning under his weight like they were protesting one more indignity. His shoulders hunched forward, and he stared down at his flour-dusted hands as if they belonged to someone else—someone he didn’t want to recognize.

“Since I left Fandor Citadel.” The words came out flat and hollow, echoing slightly in the dingy room. The silence that followed felt thick and suffocating, thick with unspoken pain.

My heart clenched with sympathy, and I took a tentative step closer, the ugly carpet squelching slightly under my feet. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Your mother?—”

“Forgave me if that’s what you’re wondering.

” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“But what I did to her…” He shook his head violently, his dark hair falling across his handsome face like a curtain he could hide behind.

His hands clenched into fists on his knees, knuckles going white with strain.

Steve shifted beside me, the floorboards creaking under his movement.

“You were possessed,” he said quietly. “Like I was. There’s nothing you can do when you’re a puppet and someone else is pulling your strings.

” The understanding in his tone was raw and genuine—the kind that only came from living through the same nightmare.

“You didn’t torture anyone, especially your mother,” Rocco countered, his voice rising with desperate anguish.

The words came out sharp and jagged, like they were cutting his throat on the way up.

“I can’t look at her. Can’t look at my dad or my brother.

” His breathing had become shallow and rapid, and the sharp scent of his panic mixed with the room’s stale air.

Something in his broken posture called to every protective instinct I had. I moved closer, the dingy carpet muffling my footsteps, and gently placed my hand on his rigid shoulder. His muscles were drawn tight as steel cables under my palm, trembling with suppressed emotion. “They exiled you?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled into his chest, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it. A single tear escaped despite his efforts, cutting a clean track through the flour dust on his cheek before dropping silently onto his clenched hands.

I wanted to erase his pain and tell him everything would be all right.

My heart ached watching him crumble under the weight of his guilt, every fiber of my being screaming to comfort him the way I would comfort anyone who was hurting.

But then the memories crashed over me like ice water, vivid and unforgiving.

I was there. I saw what he did.

My hand trembled against his shoulder as the images flooded back with sickening clarity.

When he beat his mother, it looked like he was enjoying every hit, every scream that tore from her throat.

The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed in my memory, mixing with her desperate pleas and his cold, inhuman laughter.

I could still see the way his eyes had gleamed with malicious pleasure, the smile that had curved his lips as she begged him to stop.

My stomach churned violently, and I had to swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.

The scent of stale cigarettes and mold in the room suddenly felt overwhelming, making it hard to breathe.

I pressed my free hand against my chest, feeling my erratic heartbeat as the phantom sounds of that night played on repeat in my head.

I know it was the demon. I repeated the words like a mantra, trying to convince myself as much as I could.

My rational mind understood the concept of possession, knew Rocco hadn’t been in control of his own body.

But the image of his face twisted with sadistic glee, the way he’d moved with such calculated cruelty—it was burned into my retinas like a brand.

It was hard to erase, no matter how desperately I wanted to forget.

No matter how much I tried to convince myself it was the demon who committed those acts and the logical part of my brain insisted it hadn’t been the man sitting beside me now, broken and ashamed, my body remembered the terror, the way I’d been frozen in horror, the sick certainty that I was watching someone enjoy inflicting pain on his mother who loved him completely.

Not the man, I told myself firmly, but even as I thought the words, I could feel doubt creeping in like poison, making my hand shake against his shoulder.

But then I thought, Maybe that’s how Angelo saw me.