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CHAPTER SEVEN

CJ

Pain rips through my consciousness like shattered glass, not mine, but hers.

Isolde’s agony tears across the distance between us, a silent scream that vibrates along connections I didn’t know existed until this moment. The brand on her chest hammers like a beacon, calling to something ancient and territorial in my blood.

I don’t think. I move.

The world blurs, space folding around me as I surrender to my instincts. One moment I’m stalking the corridors of SilverGate, searching for her with growing dread; the next, reality ripples and tears, depositing me in a nightmarish laboratory bathed in silver light.

Blackridge stands over Isolde’s prone form, extracting a glowing barb from the crown of her head.

Six others lie in a velvet-lined case beside him, each glowing with stolen power.

Silver blood leaks from seven puncture wounds along her spine, forming runic patterns on the obsidian altar beneath her.

Rage ignites every cell in my body.

“What have you done?” I growl.

Blackridge looks up, his expression a mask of cold authority. He doesn’t appear surprised by my sudden appearance, merely inconvenienced.

“Mr Aquila,” he murmurs, studying me with clinical detachment. “The connection is stronger than I anticipated.”

I move toward him, my body coiling with barely restrained violence. The air around me crackles with the dragon’s power, screaming to be unleashed.

“Step away from her,” I command.

Blackridge merely arches an eyebrow, places the final barb in his case, and snaps it shut. “She’ll need rest. The integration process is quite taxing.”

Before I can reach him, he gives me a look, knowing, assessing, almost amused, and simply vanishes, taking the velvet case with him. Not teleportation, not concealment, but something more fundamental. As if he’s stepped sideways out of reality itself.

I’ll deal with him later. Isolde is my priority now.

She lies motionless on the altar, her back exposed where her shirt has been pushed up. Six puncture wounds trace her spine, each bleeding silver rather than red. The sight makes me feel sick.

“Isolde,” I say, my voice gentler than I thought possible. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flutter, revealing eyes that now swirl with silver light amongst the blue. Her pupils contract painfully as consciousness returns.

“CJ?” Her voice is raw from screaming. “You’re here.”

“I felt you.” I help her sit up. Each movement causes her to wince as the fresh wounds along her spine shift. “What did he do to you?”

“Runic telemetry,” she whispers, the words slurring slightly. “Seven barbs. Said he was mapping my power, but...” She swallows, her throat working painfully. “He left implants. Tiny runes, embedded in my spine. To monitor me.”

The violation of leaving behind shit we know nothing about in her body ignites fresh fury. “I’ll kill him.”

“You can’t,” she says, gripping my arm with surprising strength. “He’s beyond anything, everything.”

I scan the chamber, looking for anything useful. My gaze lands on a barb next to her on the altar. While Isolde struggles to right her clothing, I pocket it.

“Can you stand?” I ask, grasping her under her elbow.

She nods, but when she tries, her legs buckle. I catch her before she falls, lifting her effortlessly into my arms. Her head lolls against my shoulder, silver still seeping from the corners of her eyes.

“The runes,” she murmurs against my neck. “I can feel them. Like splinters of ice in my spine. Collecting data. Sending it somewhere.”

“We’ll deal with them,” I promise, already calculating the risks of magical extraction. It’s far beyond anything I’ve ever imagined, but there has to be a way.

I use my power to transport us back to Isolde’s bedroom.

William is waiting anxiously. Cassiel stands by the window, his wings manifested in his distress, the ebony feathers rustling with pent-up energy.

“What happened?” Cassiel demands as I lay Isolde gently on her bed, positioning her on her side to avoid pressure on the wounds.

“Blackridge,” I spit the name like poison. “He performed something called runic telemetry on her. He’s embedded monitoring runic implants along her spine.”

William’s rage is palpable enough to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. “That bastard. He tried that on me. I told him where to shove it.”

“I should have, but I thought he could help,” Isolde mumbles.

“And that is why you need to toughen up,” William says, floating over to her. “You are too trusting, too sweet.”

“Not anymore,” she growls, and I can’t deny the bolt of lust it sends through me.

“What does it do?” Cassiel asks, moving to examine the wounds with careful fingers.

“Monitors her data, which I’m guessing is her power signatures,” I start, watching as Isolde’s eyes flutter open again. “Maybe track her abilities, her development.”

“All that and more,” William says. “It’s a failsafe, or so I thought, to take her out if she steps over the line of what is acceptable violence or levels of power at SilverGate.”

The four of us exchange grim looks. Blackridge hasn’t just violated Isolde; he’s installed a way to neutralise her if she steps out of line.

“We need to remove them,” I spit out.

“It’s not that simple,” William counters. “Runes embedded in the spine are interconnected with the nervous system. Removing them incorrectly could damage her. Or worse.”

“Then what do we do?” Cassiel asks, his wings folding tight against his back in frustration.

Isolde pushes herself up on one elbow, wincing. “We learn more. About what he’s done, why he’s done it. About what I am.” Her gaze finds mine, then William’s. “About Sanguinarchs.”

“The library,” William suggests immediately. “The restricted section has texts on blood magic that predate my research.”

“You can barely walk,” I remind Isolde, resting a hand on her shoulder to keep her from trying to rise again.

“So feed me,” she challenges, her eyes flashing silver.

I almost smile. Even violated and weakened, she remains fierce. “My pleasure.” I sit beside her on the bed, offering my wrist. Her fangs extend before sinking into my flesh.

The sensation is electric.

Groaning softly, I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall, just enjoying the pleasure her bite gives me.

When she finally releases me, her colour has improved. The seven puncture wounds along her spine have closed to angry red marks, though I can still see the faint glow of the embedded runes beneath her skin.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods, then turns expectantly to William. Their connection remains powerful, undeniable. After what I witnessed this morning, I understand its significance better. They recognise each other on a fundamental level, Sanguinarch to Sanguinarch.

William drifts closer, somehow becoming more solid as he enters Isolde’s personal space. The excess power she’s absorbed from my blood calls to him, creating a tangible current between them.

Isolde rises swiftly, and we head off to the library. I don’t think we need the restricted section today, even if we could gain access, which seems unlikely. Blackridge probably locked it down tighter than a nun’s cunt after we broke in the last time.

The library smells of age and power, with the scents of parchment, leather, and the metallic tang of blood ink.

“Where do we start?” Cassiel asks, eyeing the labyrinthine stacks with apprehension.

“Blood Magic section,” William and Isolde say simultaneously.

We head deeper into the library, following William’s lead. As a former student specialising in Blood Magic, he knows this collection better than most, even after a century of ghostly existence.

“Liber Sanguinis,” she reads, tracing the title embossed in what appears to be veins rather than ink. “The Book of Blood.”

“My primary reference text,” William confirms, hovering at her shoulder. “Written by Marius Veniz in the 15th century. The most comprehensive work on blood magic ever compiled.”

Isolde opens the tome carefully, its pages crackling with age and residual power. The text is written in multiple languages, some of which I recognise, while others seem to move as I read.

“There,” William points to a passage that glows faintly as Isolde’s attention focuses on it. “Sanguinarch classifications.”

She reads aloud, her voice carrying new authority that makes my markings respond with heat. “The Sanguinarch bloodline manifests in two primary forms: The Destroyer, who can drain life force completely, and The Sovereign, theoretical only, who possesses both abilities in perfect balance.”

“Theoretical,” Cassiel repeats. “Until now.”

“Keep reading,” William says.

Isolde’s eyes scan the page. “The Sovereign Sanguinarch, should one ever manifest, would possess dominion over the very essence of life and death. Such a being would be capable of...” She pauses, her face paling. “Of rewriting the fundamental laws of existence within their sphere of influence.”

“There’s more,” William murmurs.

Isolde looks down again and reads on. “The manifestation of a Sovereign Sanguinarch is considered by many scholars to herald the end of an age. Such beings are drawn to nexus points of power, where their abilities can achieve full expression.”

“You were drawn here,” Cassiel murmurs.

“Or sent here,” I add darkly. “By parents who knew exactly what they were delivering to the nexus.”

“Keep reading,” William insists.

“The creation of a Sovereign Sanguinarch requires three conditions: ancient bloodline heritage, exposure to a dimensional nexus, and a catalyst of extreme trauma,” Isolde finishes reading.

“Trauma,” I repeat, my jaw clenching as I think of everything she’s endured.

“Being locked away your whole life, being shoved into this environment with no warning or preparation. The witches torturing you. Blackridge’s violation.

The constant threat of The Collectors. Take your pick. You’re a walking trauma zone.”

“There’s more,” she says, her voice hollow.

“Listen to this: ‘The Sovereign Sanguinarch will be compelled to gather others of significant power, binding them through blood and desire. These bonds, once forged, cannot be broken save by death. The Sovereign’s court becomes both strength and weakness, as their power is amplified through connection but vulnerable through separation.’”

Cassiel’s wings rustle uneasily. “A court. That’s what we are.”

“Bound to her,” I add. “Through blood and desire.”