Page 9

Chapter Eight

Joy

Fierce protective instinct blazed through me, a warm current of courage that chased away the chill of fear.

This was what I was meant for—standing between the darkness and the innocent.

My blood sang with purpose, a melody of hope despite our dire circumstances.

I wouldn’t let anyone hurt these girls. My lips curved into a defiant smile despite the sting from my cut, the pain nothing compared to the fire of resolve burning through my blood.

Something happened inside me—a fluttering in my chest like a thousand butterfly wings beating in unison, gentle at first, then stronger, more insistent than when it had happened in my room.

The sensation traveled through my limbs, a current of energy seeking release.

I arched my back, my spine curving like a drawn bow, and raised my hands.

The shadows from every corner of the room responded, pulling free from their anchors and racing toward me.

They gathered around my body in a dark aura before flowing to my fingertips, swirling around the room in ribbons of living darkness.

They twisted and writhed with purpose, cool as night air against my skin, bringing with them the scent of rain-soaked earth and lightning-charged skies.

The darkness responded to my will like an extension of my own body, eager and alive.

Without conscious direction, the darkness spread between the girls and the door, thickening into a barrier that pulsed with protective intent. I stared in wonder at what my emotions had created—a shield born of instinct rather than skill.

The door crashed inward with a deafening boom, hinges ripping free from the frame as if it was made of paper.

Enzo DiSalvo stepped into the room, blood dripping down his chin and splattering his white shirt in a grotesque constellation of crimson. The room’s chatter died instantly, replaced by the thundering of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Those haunting eyes—not red as I’d first thought in my fear, but a deep amber that seemed to glow with inner fire—found me immediately among the crowd of girls.

The Renaissance angel of death I’d been both dreading and secretly anticipating had materialized from the shadows he commanded so well.

The same conflicted fascination I’d been fighting against for days surged through me with renewed intensity.

His long curly black hair flared over his shoulders like a dark halo, framing features too perfect to be real.

The intensity of his gaze made my breath catch painfully in my throat, exactly as I had imagined it would in those moments when I’d found myself unconsciously checking over my shoulder at the slightest sound.

Yet now, with nowhere to retreat, I stood frozen as that same gaze sent a treacherous warmth spreading through my veins.

His tailored suit clung to his tight muscles, outlining a body built for both elegance and violence—the living embodiment of the contradiction that had been tormenting my thoughts.

With blood still wet on his lips, he smiled slightly when our eyes met—a private acknowledgment that stirred both dread and an electric thrill within me.

He moved through the room with lethal grace, confirming every rumor of his deadly skill, yet I couldn’t look away from the elegant hands that had dealt death so efficiently, now casually straightening his blood-spattered cuffs.

My conflicted feelings twisted inside me like snakes—disgust at my own fascination, fear of his purpose, and beneath it all, that undeniable curiosity about the man behind the monster.

He was like an angel of death or a devil incarnate—I couldn’t decide which, and that uncertainty made my heart race with a confusing mixture of fear and forbidden attraction that shamed me even as it deepened.

My throat closed with panic as I imagined what someone like him might want with me. Even as a treacherous curiosity flickered beneath the terror, my survival instinct screamed at me to run, hide, disappear.

My fingers trembled violently at my sides, my legs weakening beneath me as his predatory gaze held mine captive. Whatever my conflicted feelings, one truth remained crystal clear—I was prey, and he was a hunter who never failed.

He rushed over to me, moving with inhuman speed—a blur of motion that my eyes couldn’t fully track. My heart seized in my chest as instinct screamed danger. I tried to back away, a strangled gasp escaping my lips, but my legs betrayed me, frozen in terror.

Before I could even draw breath to scream, he flung me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing.

The sudden shift sent blood rushing to my head, his shoulder digging painfully into my stomach.

My lungs emptied in a whoosh, panic clawing up my throat.

I thrashed against his iron grip, my fists pounding uselessly against his back, my legs kicking wildly in the air.

“Put me down!” I squirmed against the rising tide of primal fear—the kind that freezes prey even as the predator’s jaws tighten.

The room spun sickeningly around me as I struggled, the other girls’ horrified faces flashing before my eyes.

My fingers scrambled desperately for purchase, for anything I could use as a weapon, but found only the smooth fabric of his jacket.

I closed my eyes and reached deep within for my shadows, willing them to rise to my defense.

But instead of the familiar cool tendrils wrapping around my fingertips, there was only a faint tingling sensation that withered against the tide of my terror.

The brutal reality of my helplessness crashed over me like a wave—no amount of fighting would break his hold. His supernatural strength made my struggles as effective as a butterfly beating its wings against a hurricane.

“The girls—please, don’t hurt them!” I gasped out between desperate breaths. Even in my terror, my thoughts flew to Zoe and the others. What would happen to them without me there? Who would protect the youngest ones?

Through my panic, I caught a glimpse of Zoe’s stricken face—eyes as huge as the moon, skin drained of color, lips parted in a silent scream. The fourteen-year-old with braces was sobbing uncontrollably now, clinging to another girl.

“Let me stay with them!” I slammed my fists even harder against his back. “They need me!”

“Joy!” Zoe screamed as she reached for me, her fingers grasping at empty air, her face contorted with desperation. But Enzo moved like the wind, his supernatural speed making the room blur around us.

The shadows I had summoned dissipated like smoke, my concentration shattered by Enzo’s sudden appearance and the chaos he brought with him.

Zoe ran toward the door, her white gown billowing behind her like a flag of surrender.

A guard shoved her back inside with brutal force, sending her stumbling backward.

He pulled out a revolver, the metal catching the light as he raised it.

He fired. The bullet whizzed past us with a sound like angry insect wings, close enough that the displacement of air brushed against my cheek. Enzo didn’t even flinch, as if death itself couldn’t touch him—the casual dismissal of mortality making my heart skip a beat.

Through the chaos, my vision tunneled on a figure in the corner. Time seemed to slow, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, drowning out the screams around me. The room tilted sickeningly as my brain struggled to process what my eyes were seeing.

My brother was bent over a man’s throat, his mouth latched on with predatory hunger. Blood pulsed between them, hypnotic and impossible.

“Steve?” It came out as a choked whisper at first, my throat constricting around his name.

Then louder, ripping from my chest like a physical wound.

“STEVE!” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat raw.

I thrashed wildly over Enzo’s shoulder, my fingernails digging into his back through his jacket, clawing desperately as if I could tear through the fabric to reach him.

My legs kicked with renewed desperation, my entire body electric with shock.

Steve’s head snapped up, his eyes—our mother’s eyes—now ringed with an unholy crimson glow.

Time crystallized in that moment of recognition, a fraction of a second that contained an eternity.

He dropped his victim with casual disregard, the man’s body hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed in my bones.

Blood trickled down Steve’s chin in rivulets, a grotesque parody of the cherry popsicles he loved as a child.

His blue shirt—the one I’d given him for his birthday last year—was soaked through with red, the fabric clinging to his chest like a second skin.

The metallic scent of blood mingled with his familiar cologne, creating a nauseating cocktail that made bile rise in my throat.

“No,” I whispered as tears scalded my cheeks. My chest spasmed with each ragged breath. The room spun around me, reality fracturing at its edges. “This isn’t possible.” I placed my hands over my mouth, trying to erase what I’d seen by sheer force of will. “You can’t be a vampire. You can’t be.”

The Steve who taught me to ride a bike, who threatened my high school bullies, who called every Sunday without fail—transformed into something out of nightmare.

The cognitive dissonance hit me like a physical blow, leaving me gasping and lightheaded.

My entire world collapsed and reassembled itself in those few seconds, nothing familiar remaining except crippling horror.