Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Three

Joy

Marsha led me out into the courtyard, her heels clicking against the ancient stones with metronomic precision.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, making me squint after the cool darkness of the mansion’s interior.

Guards patrolled the parapet above us, their silhouettes stark against the cloudless sky.

They moved with the practiced vigilance of career criminals—Maximo’s men, human enforcers from his mafia operation.

Each carried not only modern firearms strapped to their thighs but elaborate-hilted swords at their sides, the metal gleaming wickedly in the sunlight.

According to Maximo, the only way to kill a made vampire like Enzo was by beheading them—a clean separation of head from body.

But a newly turned vampire like my brother could die simply by exposure to sunlight, his flesh burning away until nothing remained but ash.

I doubted Maximo’s men would be fast enough to use their swords on Enzo if it came to that.

Even with their numbers and weapons, they were still just humans facing a predator with centuries of experience.

Enzo could tear through them before they even raised their blades.

But my brother—he was vulnerable. So terribly vulnerable.

I silently vowed to protect him, no matter the cost. Just as I would the other girls trapped in this nightmare. The promise hung around my neck like a heavy pendant, making my head bow.

Some of the guards looked down on us from their positions, and I could feel their lecherous eyes crawling over my skin.

Their gazes lingered, hungry and predatory—these were dangerous men who saw women as conquests.

I crossed my arms over my chest, hating the revealing black gown.

The silk clung to my body like oil, highlighting every curve and contour, though it covered more than the others would have.

Small mercies in a merciless place. I’d seen how Maximo’s men treated the other girls—with a brutality thinly disguised as protection.

In the middle of the courtyard sat a metal box, roughly the size of a small trunk.

Heat waves rippled above the metal container, evidence that it had been sitting in the sun for quite some time.

A heavy padlock secured the lid, its mechanism gleaming new against the weathered metal of the container.

As we drew closer, I thought I heard muffled sounds from inside—scratching, perhaps a whimper.

The hair on my arms rose despite the heat.

“Is there someone inside that box?”

“Yes.” Marsha turned to face me, her perfect red lips curving into a smile that never reached her eyes. She looked up at the sun, shielding her face with one pale hand. “I’m sure it’s very hot inside by now,” she said with clinical detachment, “and the air must be getting thin.”

I ran toward the box, adrenaline thundering in my veins. The scorching metal would burn my hands, but I didn’t care. Someone was trapped, suffocating, cooking alive in that horrific container. My fingers reached for the padlock, determined to find some way—any way—to break it open.

But Marsha’s hand locked onto my arm, her fingers pressing so deeply that I knew they’d leave perfect purple imprints, a bracelet of bruises I’d wear for days.

The faint scent of herbs and something burned clung to her skin—remnants of whatever spell she’d last cast. “That’s not the way you’ll free Zoe. ” Her voice was silky, almost playful.

My blood turned to ice. “Zoe’s in there?”

I struggled wildly, pulling on my arm, clawing at her fingers where strange symbols had been tattooed in dark ink.

“Let me go. I have to free her.” Panic tightened my chest, forcing my words in short, choppy bursts.

From inside the box came a weak thumping, as if Zoe had heard her name and was responding with what little strength she had left.

Marsha’s grip only tightened, her eyes flickering with an unnatural golden light as she watched my desperation grow. “It’s up to you whether she lives or dies.”

I stared at her, momentarily stunned into stillness.

She dug her nails into my flesh, drawing pinpricks of blood that beaded along my skin. As she did, I felt a strange tingling where our skin met, as if her touch carried some arcane current. “Command your shadows to break the lock.”

Her eyes gleamed with something like hunger, but not for blood—for power. For the rare magic she sensed in me that she wanted to draw out and perhaps harness for herself.

From the metal box came a softer sound now—a whimper that might have been my name.

I had to try. If I didn’t, she could die. The certainty of it settled in my stomach like a stone, heavy and undeniable. Zoe’s life balanced on the edge of what I could or couldn’t do.

I closed my eyes, thinking back to the times my shadows had answered my call.

The first time had been pure luck when reading Anton’s book but I’d had no control, the others had been instinct—fear for my life or someone else’s triggering something primal and defensive.

Those times, strong emotion had been the key.

Maybe I could channel that fear again, imagine the danger to myself was immediate.

Or perhaps rage would be more effective—picturing Marsha’s face, her cruel smile as she locked Zoe away to suffer.

I could also try something new—focus on the lock itself, visualize my shadows slipping into its mechanism like skeleton keys, probing and pushing until something clicked.

Whatever approach I chose, I needed to act now. Zoe didn’t have the luxury of time, and neither did I.

I pulled on my arm, my decision made. Rage would be my fuel—the same burning emotion that had called the shadows when Enzo was threatened. I would channel every moment of frustration, every indignity, every flash of rage I’d suppressed in this place.

I gritted my teeth. “Then let go of me and I will.”

“No tricks, little one.” She grabbed my hair and twisted it in her fingers, jerking my head back at a painful angle. Her eyes burned into mine, searching for deception. “Or you know what will happen.”

“Yes, I know.” The words fell from my lips like small, cold stones. I knew exactly what they were capable of.

She released me abruptly, sending me stumbling forward, off balance and disoriented.

I took a deep breath and focused on the whimpering box. The metal gleamed in the harsh sunlight, almost too bright to look at directly. Tears slid down my cheeks at their cruelty, hot tracks that cooled quickly in the slight breeze.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

I closed my eyes and reached for that strange, dark place inside myself where the shadows seemed to wait.

Please help her.

My chest fluttered and my skin tingled. I took a deep breath then opened my eyes. Shadows moved around me in soft swirls as if trying to comfort me, then slid over toward the box. Swirling around it as if confused on what to do.

Marsha pinched my arm hard, her nails digging into my flesh like talons. “Undo the lock, you fool.”

I cried out, the sharp pain radiating up my arm, and the shadows responded instantly—spinning faster around the lock as if sharing my fury.

They whirled like a dark cyclone, tendrils lashing at the air with what seemed like genuine rage.

Beads of sweat poured down my temples, stinging my eyes and leaving salty trails down my cheeks.

My hands shook violently as I drew deeper on the power I barely understood, the effort making my vision blur at the edges.

The shadows slithered into the lock like liquid night, probing and searching, but nothing happened.

The padlock remained stubbornly intact, mocking my efforts.

What? This should be working. My confusion morphed into frustration. The shadows had come when I called them, responding to my anger just like before, but now they seemed useless against the lock.

Damn it! Maybe anger wasn’t the emotion I should have used.

Pleasepleaseplease help her!

The cries from within the box grew dimmer, fading to barely audible whimpers as if Zoe had begun to succumb to the darkness, the suffocating heat, or perhaps even death itself. Each weakening sound felt like a needle piercing my heart.

“Please, let her out.” Desperation clawed at my throat. “I can’t do it.” The admission tasted like ash in my mouth—another failure, another life I couldn’t save.

“No.” Marsha’s eyes hardened, her pupils contracting to pinpoints of cold calculation. She glared at me, not a hint of compassion crossing her perfect features. “What do we care if the girl dies? We can get another one.”

Rage rushed through me—white-hot and all-consuming.

It surged from some hidden well deep inside, flooding every inch of my body until I trembled with it.

The shadows responded instantly, no longer wisps but solid tendrils of darkness that writhed and coiled around the lock with predatory purpose.

They tightened, constricting like midnight serpents, then crushed the metal with a sound like distant thunder.

Fragments of the shattered lock scattered across the courtyard stones.

I shoved Marsha away with strength I didn’t know I possessed.

Her eyes widened in momentary surprise—perhaps even fear—before I turned my back on her and ran to the chest. The metal lid was searing to touch, burning my palms and fingertips with a hiss of flesh meeting scorching metal.

I ignored the pain, barely registering it against the desperate need to reach Zoe.

With a cry, I flung the lid open. Waves of trapped heat billowed out, carrying the sickly sweet smell of human suffering.

Zoe lay crumpled at the bottom, curled into herself like a wilting flower.

She was lying in a pool of her own sweat, her chest barely rising and falling with shallow, irregular breaths.

Her eyes were shut, lashes dark smudges against skin gone frighteningly pale despite the heat.

I reached for her, my burned hands throbbing as I touched her shoulder.

“Zoe, Zoe. Wake up.”

For one terrible heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then she groaned—a paper-thin sound that was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

Her lips, parched and cracked, moved slightly.

Her gown, once a pale blue, was now nearly transparent with sweat, slick and sticking to her like a second skin.

Her red hair pressed against her face in damp tendrils, framing features contorted by hours of torment.

Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. Was she truly alive, or merely reflexively responding?

I couldn’t tell. I gathered her limp form in my arms, not caring about the watching guards or Marsha’s calculating gaze.

I had saved her—at least I thought I had.

But as her head lolled against my shoulder, her breathing ragged against my neck, the victory felt hollow.

I had passed their test. They had glimpsed what I could do but remained blind to how I did it. The hidden knowledge—that my rage, fear, even hate triggered my power—would be my secret weapon. Something I could use against them.