Page 21 of Curses and Casualties (Hunters Hollow #3)

Ryan

T he alley Amara’s portal dumped us in reeks of piss and rotting garbage, but after the blood and smoke of the úlfhéenar settlement, it might as well be perfume.

My wolf is still on edge, hackles raised from the fight, and I have to force myself not to shift when a drunk human stumbles past the alley mouth.

“Everyone intact?” I rasp, helping Georgia to her feet. She nods, but through our bond I feel more than exhaustion—there’s a deep, gnawing guilt that makes my chest tighten.

“Define intact,” Scarlett mutters, pressing a hand to her ribs. “That enforcer got in a good hit. Pretty sure he rearranged some internal real estate.”

“You need someone to look at that?” Ethan asks, hovering near her.

“I’m fine,” she says, then winces. “Mostly fine. Just sore and royally pissed off. Those assholes interrupted a perfectly good feast where I was finally starting to enjoy giant wolf hospitality. Shifting completely destroyed my buzz.”

“At least the úlfhéenar are on our side now,” Georgia offers, but her voice cracks slightly.

I pull her closer, feeling her tremble. “Hey. Talk to me.”

“They’re dying back there,” she whispers. “Right now, they’re dying because of us. Because of what we are.”

“No.” I turn her to face me, tipping her chin up. “They’re fighting because the Elders violated sacred law. Because they believe in what we represent.”

“Pretty words don’t change the fact that blood is being spilled for us,” she counters, her green eyes bright with unshed tears.

Mate grieves, Kane observes. But battle was honor for old wolves. They chose this.

Before I can relay Kane’s words, Amara steps forward. “The úlfhéenar have been waiting centuries for a cause worth bleeding for. You gave them that. Don’t dishonor their choice by drowning in guilt.”

Georgia takes a shaky breath and nods, but I can still feel the weight of it through our bond. I squeeze her hand, a silent promise that we’ll make their sacrifice worth something.

“We need to find this vampire club before more enforcers track us down,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “The úlfhéenar bought us time, but not much.”

“Sangre Noir,” Amara says, checking the moonlight filtering between buildings. “It’s about six blocks from here, in the heart of the supernatural district. We have maybe three hours before dawn.”

“There really is an entire supernatural district?” Georgia asks, wincing as she adjusts her weight to favor her good leg.

“Every major city has one,” Darius explains, attempting to smooth his torn jacket. “Places where others like you can exist without constantly maintaining glamors. Neutral ground, theoretically. Though with vampires...” He trails off meaningfully.

“With vampires, everything has teeth,” Scarlett finishes. “Got it. No pun intended.”

I pull Bjorn’s wooden token from my pocket. The wood is almost black with age, and the carved runes seem to shift in the dim light. When I run my thumb over them, I feel a pulse of old magic that makes Kane stir uneasily.

Blood and ash, he mutters. Death-memory in the wood.

“He said to mention a blood debt from Prague,” I say aloud.

“That’s oddly specific,” Amara muses, eyeing the token with new interest. “Prague, 1868, was when the last great vampire war ended. If Bjorn was involved in that...”

“He didn’t look a day over twenty,” Ethan points out.

“Appearances with the úlfhéenar are deceiving,” Darius says. “They age differently when they spend most of their time in wolf form.”

We move through streets that transform with each block.

The graffiti shifts from gang tags to symbols that hurt to look at directly.

Shop windows display impossible things—bottles filled with captured moonlight, mirrors that reflect different faces than those looking into them, books whose pages turn themselves.

“Holy shit,” Georgia breathes, stopping at a window where a taxidermied raven suddenly blinks and caws. “How is any of this possible?”

“Same way you have an ancient wolf spirit sharing your body,” I remind her gently. “Magic doesn’t follow the rules you learned in geology class.”

She shoots me a look that’s part exasperation, part wonder. “You’d think after everything I’d stop being surprised, but...” She gestures at a food truck where the vendor appears to be serving something that glows. “My brain is having a meltdown.”

A businessman in an expensive suit walks past, talking loudly on his phone about market projections. He doesn’t even glance at the shop selling what are clearly human skulls labeled ‘Ethically Sourced.’

“The glamor is strong here,” Darius explains. “Humans see what they expect to see. A quirky neighborhood with some alternative shops, maybe a bit rougher than they’d like, but nothing that challenges their worldview.”

“But you see the truth?” Georgia asks.

“Darius wears my witch’s mark,” Amara puts in.

“It grants him vision… and protection.” She touches a gently glowing finger over the back of Darius’s hand where an intertwined symbol of sun and moon pulses faintly.

Their bond isn’t soul deep—nothing is, compared to mine and Georgia’s—but it’s a comfort to see them so attuned, even in the midst of this mess.

We continue, keeping to the pools of shadow, dodging streetlights and the occasional squad car. There’s a tense energy in the air, even though this part of the city is home to monsters, we’re more than aware we’re the ones being hunted.

At last, the street opens into a wide boulevard lined with clubs.

Neon signs shimmer and blur. At the far end, Sangre Noir squats like a predator waiting to strike.

The building is all sharp angles and black glass that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.

The neon sign pulses red like an arterial spray, and even from here I can smell what waits inside—blood, fear, and something else that makes my wolf bare his teeth.

Be wary of blood drinkers, Kane warns. Some of them keep wolves as pets.

A line of patrons snakes around the building. Most are human, dressed to impress and completely unaware that the pale, beautiful people interspersed among them aren’t using makeup to achieve that ethereal look.

“Jesus,” Scarlett mutters. “It’s like a buffet line. And they have no idea they’re on the menu.”

Two bouncers flank the entrance. The human one looks bored, checking IDs with mechanical efficiency. The other...

“Troll,” Ethan murmurs. “Half-blood by the look of him.”

The troll’s eyes track our approach, nostrils flaring. When we bypass the line, several humans complain loudly. The troll silences them with a look that probably appears as a stern glare to them but makes every supernatural in line step back.

“Private party?” he rumbles, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

I hold up Bjorn’s token. The effect is immediate—his small eyes widen, and he takes a step back.

“Prague marker,” he breathes. “Shit. Haven’t seen one of those in...” He shakes his massive head. “Wait inside. Touch nothing. Speak to no one unless spoken to first.” His eyes find Georgia. “And you, little wolf-carrier. Whatever you do, don’t stare at the feeds.”

“The feeds?” Georgia starts to ask, but I’m already guiding her through the obsidian doors.

The assault on my senses is immediate. Blood—so much blood I can taste it in the air. But underneath, lavender and mint, probably to keep the humans calm. The lighting is dim, all reds and shadows, and everywhere I look, beautiful people move with inhuman grace.

Kane snarls. Too many death-drinkers. Cannot fight all.

“Steady,” I murmur, both to him and to Georgia, who’s pressed against my side.

That’s when I hear it—the music. It starts as a low throb in the floorboards, bass that syncs with my heartbeat. But there’s something else woven through it, something that makes my thoughts go soft around the edges.

“Ryan,” Georgia’s voice comes out dreamy. “Do you hear that? It’s beautiful.”

Her hand loosens in mine as her body begins to sway. Around us, I watch others doing the same, their eyes glazing over as they drift toward the dance floor like leaves on a current.

“No,” I growl, trying to shake off the pull. But it’s like fighting quicksand, and the more I resist, the deeper it drags me down.

Fight! Kane roars, but even he sounds distant.

The melody wraps around my mind like silk scarves, each note a gentle tug toward surrender. Georgia’s already moving, her hips swaying as she pulls me with her. Her eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide, and when she presses against me, I can feel our bond humming in time with the music too.

“Need you, mate,” she murmurs against my neck. “Need to move with you.”

And god help me, I do too. The rational part of my brain—the part screaming that this is wrong—gets smaller with each beat.

Around us, bodies writhe in perfect synchronization.

I glimpse fangs at throats, see humans tilting their heads back in ecstasy as vampires feed, but it all seems so natural, so right. ..

“Ryan!” Scarlett’s voice cuts through like a blade. She’s fighting her way toward us, her face twisted with effort. “It’s the music! It’s in the fucking music, and it’s messing with the human in you!”

But I can barely process her words. Georgia’s mouth is on my neck now, and all I can think about is how good she feels, how right it is to lose ourselves in this moment. The bond between us flares white-hot, feeding off whatever magic is woven into the melody.

“So beautiful,” Georgia sighs, and I’m not sure if she means the music or us or everything.

Through the haze, I see Ethan stumbling through the crowd, his usual controlled demeanor completely gone. He’s stalking a human woman like prey, his movements liquid and predatory. That should worry me. Why doesn’t it worry me?

WAKE! Kane’s roar finally breaks through, just for a second. This is hunter magic!

I blink hard, trying to focus, but the music adapts, becomes more insistent. It’s not just sound—it’s magic, old and refined, designed to turn predators into willing prey. My fangs ache to drop, my wolf wants to hunt, but not in the way he should. This is wrong, twisted, but?—

Silver light explodes across my vision.

Amara’s hand is on the back of my neck, her magic searing through the compulsion like acid through paper. I gasp, stumbling backward as reality crashes back. Georgia blinks rapidly beside me as Amara touches her too, breaking the spell’s hold.

“What the fuck,” I manage, my voice rough.

“Vampire compulsion,” Amara says grimly. “Woven into the sound system itself. Ingenious, really. Makes the humans compliant.”

“But we’re not human,” Georgia argues.

“You’re vessels.”

“Oh…”

I look around with clear eyes now and feel sick. The humans aren’t just dancing—they’re being fed on, their expressions blissful as vampires take what they need. The supernaturals who aren’t feeding are standing guard, or just enjoying the show.

“That’s revolting,” Georgia whispers, pressing her face into my chest.

“Where’s—” Scarlett starts, then, “Oh, fuck no.”

We spot Ethan across the floor. He’s got a blonde human pressed against a pillar, his face buried in her neck like he’s about to mark her.

And while it isn’t unheard of for wolves to mark humans, not all humans survive the mark and the look in his eyes says he isn’t in control.

The music thrums, holding him suspended in hunger.

Only the glint of wetness in his eyes—anguish beneath the mask—tells the real story.

“Ethan!” Scarlett’s voice snaps like a whip. She pushes through the dancers, shoving a vampire aside so hard he hisses and recoils. Her hand seizes Ethan’s shoulder; her other claws the air, ready to rake his face if she has to.

He doesn’t even flinch. The compulsion is too strong. His jaws are open, his teeth dangerously close to the girl’s throat. His hands are trembling on her arms—not holding, but trying desperately to hold back.

Scarlett reaches up and slaps him, hard. For a second, nothing changes. Then Ethan gasps. His body jerks. And the human girl stumbles away with a dazed, drunken giggle.

“Snap out of it, soldier!” Scarlett shouts over the music.

His head whips around to her. For a half-breath he looks ready to attack, then his eyes clear. Then Amara catches up and touches his neck and the compulsion shatters. Ethan slumps, hands braced on his knees, panting like he’s just finished a hundred-mile sprint.

“Motherfucker,” he says, voice raw. “That was like… I don’t even know, but I never want to do that again.”

“You OK?” Scarlett demands, her claws slowly retracting as she seems poised to catch him if he collapses.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, just… let’s not split up again in a place like this.”

“Agreed,” she says, and her hand briefly finds the back of his neck. “That was scary.”

Before we can all full compose ourselves, a perfectly groomed vampire appears at my elbow. This one’s old. I can feel it in the way the air goes cold around him.

“The master will see you now,” he says, his voice carrying its own subtle compulsion. “Do try to keep up. He dislikes tardiness.”