Page 3 of Heal Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #5)

Penny

C old forest air kissed my cheeks, sharp with pine and something sweet that made my mouth water against my will.

The ground beneath my heels was packed earth and old stone.

Lanterns bobbed to life along a path I couldn’t see until I stood on it, pale flowers blooming at my feet in a glow that felt like moonlight caught and saved for later.

Behind me, the portal sighed shut, a seam stitched by invisible hands as the night held its breath.

“Okay, Penny. In and out. Preferably alive,” I said to no one, the forest the only one who listened as I trudged forward.

The music reached me first, low and liquid, like a siren had taught a cello to sin. It brushed along my skin and nerves, inviting without insisting. The path curved and the trees gave way as the fog thinned.

The mansion revealed itself by degrees, not a jump-scare but a slow, inevitable unfurling: cobblestone walls drinking the moon, towers throwing long knives of shadow, but it was the windows that gave me pause.

Each one black as night, I’d believe the party had been canceled if it wasn’t for the line of people waiting for entrance at the gates.

The temperature lifted with every step, not heat so much as comfort, and I hated how well it worked to loosen my muscles.

Magic rolled from the grounds in a tide, lapping at my ankles, tasting and moving on. There wasn’t a ward to keep me—or anyone else—out, a welcome I hadn’t asked for and didn’t want.

The iron gates opened without so much as a squeal. In the center of the circular drive, a fountain sang—a three-tiered thing of obsidian and runes that pulsed lazily like a sleeping heart. Colored lights flickered beneath the water, catching the mist and throwing it back as tiny, perfect stars.

Pretty.

Purposeful.

Off on the periphery I spotted a Fae I knew named Kasha, staring at the mansion with the same disdain I felt.

She was a friend of Spencer, who was a member of the pack, and she was around often enough that ignoring her BFF would not only be considered rude, the pregnant Spencer would try to kick my ass.

Dressed in a shimmering black ball gown, Kasha radiated apprehension, and I couldn’t blame her. I doubted she knew why she was here any more than I did. I gave her a wave, glad there was at least one friendly face in this crowd of strangers.

She threaded through the crowd, taking the spot next to me. “Can you believe this place?”

I narrowed my eyes at the monstrosity of a house, spouting off facts that probably would have been found in an ancient issue of Architectural Digest .

“Three stories, probably over twenty thousand square feet, and surrounded by enchanted fog? I’m more curious how none of us knew this was where that Fae was living this whole time. ”

The worry that this would be another “Crimson Roses” situation did nothing to calm my nerves. The Crossroads was just settling down. The last thing we needed was another player on the board trying to stir up trouble.

No. Styx would have told me. She would never send me into an ambush, and I trusted her sight more than anything. Still, I had the strangest urge to run from this place and never look back.

I kept pace with Kasha for a few more moments as we approached the entrance, my reluctance yanking a sigh from deep in my chest.

“Time to get this over with,” I muttered. “See you in there.”

Kasha cleared her throat, her trepidation matching mine. “Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.”

The scent of a lie fell from her skin, but I decided not to push it. If Styx wouldn’t kick my ass six ways to Sunday, I’d be exiting stage left before she could blink.

The front doors stood tall as I climbed the final steps, the feeling of being watched and measured needling my skin.

Inside, warm air erased the winter from my bones. The foyer was a cathedral to excess—white vaults and a chandelier that scattered light like coins across black marble veined in gold. The magic here was not a hum so much as a purr—content, poised, aware.

An older gentleman in a tux stood beside a pedestal and smiled a butler’s smile that told me nothing and everything.

“Invitation?” he requested, his voice human-soft or a very good imitation.

I pulled the parchment from my clutch, passing it over.

He inspected it before handing it back. “Welcome, Miss Blackwell. Entertainment to your left, food to your right, bar just ahead.”

“Bar,” I said, because it was the quickest place to get a vantage without being forced to dance.

“If I may,” he added, eyes flicking—politely, professionally—to where a blade was strapped to my thigh, likely clocking the weapon before pretending not to, “the Moonlit Venom is a house specialty.”

“I’ll risk it,” I muttered, my gaze darting around the entrance, assessing it for threats.

He inclined his head. “As do we all.”

The arched halls beyond the foyer branched—two in shadow, the middle lit and pulsing with music.

On a petty impulse, I reached for one of the dark doors.

The knob shocked my palm with a clean, warning snap, not a punishment so much as a reminder.

I smiled despite myself. Someone had a sense of humor and boundaries.

I let my fingers rest on the invitation in my clutch as I stepped toward the light, the serpent pressed under my palm, unfamiliar and watching.

Somewhere across the room, laughter cut through music, bright and edged.

Somewhere else, the faintest thread of a scent lifted the tiny hairs along my arms—iron and spice and a midnight memory of a witchy shop I’d walked out of without my mugwort.

Vampire.

I didn’t stumble. I didn’t bare my teeth.

I did what I always did.

I kept walking.

I angled toward the bar out of habit. It was the kind of tactical decision that lived in my bones: high-traffic, good sightlines, and easy access to whatever passed for potable in a place like this. But halfway there, the press of bodies hit me like a wall.

Not the friendly, tipsy kind of crowd. This was a crush—shoulder to shoulder, wings brushing wings, horns glinting under pulsing light.

Magic threaded the air in visible swirls, a shimmering haze of glamour, intoxication, and intent.

The bass rolled up from the floor into my calves, all heartbeat and grind, the kind of rhythm that made strangers forget their own names.

Fae laughter cut like broken glass through the music—high, sweet, edged.

My wolf didn’t bare her teeth, but she rose in me, a solid weight pressing against my ribs.

She didn’t like the closeness, the smell of magic-heavy cocktails fizzing with spells I couldn’t place, and neither did I.

The air near the bar tasted too sweet, syrupy with enchantment.

I let my trajectory bend—a casual pivot, like I’d never meant to go there in the first place—and scanned the room for higher ground or at least a patch of floor where I could breathe.

The edge of the dance floor wasn’t much better.

Fae moved like they owned the concept of temptation, hips rolling, hands sliding over sequins and silk.

The lights caught their movements and fractured, spraying the crowd with gold and rose and poisonous green.

My skin prickled under it, every hair along my arms and neck standing in wary salute.

Then I spotted a stretch of wall with a few high tables near one of the towering columns—not completely deserted, but sparse enough to give me space.

From there, I could see the bar, the double doors to the foyer, and the sweep of the ballroom without anyone at my back.

My heels whispered against marble as I cut through the flow of bodies, catching the occasional whiff of perfume, candle smoke, or something sharper—teeth hidden under charm.

I was three steps from my post when a woman slid into my path.

Not a guest, a server—her gown slit to the thigh, stars inked down her spine, the curve of her smile practiced but sharp. She balanced a tray of glasses that fizzed with amethyst light, each one crowned with a curl of silver vapor.

“Compliments of the hostess,” she purred, her gaze heavy enough to leave fingerprints as she set the glass on the table.

On the napkin beneath the nearest glass, the serpent seal winked at me in gold—Vaelora’s insignia. I didn’t so much as touch it.

“Give Vaelora my appreciation,” I said, keeping my voice even as I placed the drink back onto her tray.

Something flickered behind her smile—offense, amusement, or maybe both—before she melted back into the crowd, the purple haze of the drinks trailing after her like perfume.

And that was when I felt it.

Not a strike, not even a shove, just a thread—clean iron and warm spice—winding through the air, brushing against my senses with deliberate slowness. My wolf’s head lifted.

Alert. Interested.

I told her no with a thought. She didn’t listen.

The crowd shifted like a school of fish, a slow turn I couldn’t control. It opened a lane. I caught a glimpse of broad shoulders in a suit that fit like it was made for him and probably was, dark hair, a mouth made for trouble. Then he finally gave me his eyes.

Blue, but not any blue I’d seen in a decade of winters. They were steel when you looked at them; warmer when you didn’t. The pull under my ribs snapped tight. My hand went flat on the table to keep from reaching for anything, anyone, including my blade.

The music threaded itself around the moment as if it had been waiting. The scent was him, exactly. Iron and spice and clean. Vampire, my brain supplied, like naming a storm helped fuck all when it decided to hit.

And I knew that scent. It had been haunting me since that fucking apothecary, threading through dreams that refused to leave me in peace.

My wolf rose. Not a growl, exactly, but a lean forward. I stopped her in her tracks.

I pivoted off the stool before he could own the position, body angling toward the entertainment room, toward noise and light and distance. I didn’t flee. I relocated. There was a difference.

The lit hallway hummed beneath my heels. Sconces breathed cool blue as I passed. I skimmed the edge of the shifting mural—the current scene was night surf, moon-torn. Funny. I hadn’t ordered that, either.

I felt him before I heard him. Presence like a palm against the air, large enough that my body knew to make space or brace. I chose brace. Shoulders loose. Chin level. Hand clear of the thigh sheath.

Footsteps matched mine, not hurrying, not hesitating. The crowd eddied obligingly. Magic was helpful like that, when it wanted something. But he didn’t cut me off. He drifted into my periphery and let me see him. Smart. Or arrogant. Maybe both.

He was taller up close. The suit was black as midnight, the shirt onyx, the tie a dark wine that caught when he moved. No obvious weapons, but I doubted he’d need them. His gaze hit mine like a switch being thrown.

The room narrowed to a line between us.

My mouth was dry. My palms were not. My wolf pressed into my ribs, steady and very, very awake.

I looked up, met him head-on, and said the only thing that wouldn’t undo me, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it was rude to stare?”

His voice lanced straight through my middle—low, smooth, a scrape of velvet over fang. “She did. But she also told me I’d know when I was looking at something I shouldn’t walk away from.”

My breath left, not because I forgot to take it, but because my body had just decided this was the first inhale that mattered.

My whole world tilted, and I fought the urge to growl.

The threads knot tonight.

I was going to fucking kill Styx.