Page 71 of Violence and Vice

The body keeps growing.

Hair sprouts from the scalp. Skin stretches across bone like paper being unrolled. Orbs start forming in the eye sockets, wet, round blobs of goop.

I feel a scream building in my chest.

Ares is trembling, barely restrained.

The creature’s chest rises and falls.

And then he speaks.

It’s in a language I don’t understand. But still, the words chill me. The voice is wrong. It vibrates through the air. It rattles my bones and reaches into my chest.

James and his brothers drop to one knee. “Father,” they utter at once, reverence in their voices.

Juliet grabs Roman’s arm. He doesn’t even flinch.

"We have to stop this," she hisses.

Ares breathes through his nose, and slowly, he withdraws his dagger.

Sysco leans in beside me. "We’re out of time. We have to do something. Now."

Below us, the Blood Father turns his head in our direction. He sniffs the air once.

And then he smiles.

It is a smile that knows hunger. And savage power.

Ares whispers, "Now."

Ares straight up jumps over the edge of the balcony, immediately followed by Roman, then Juliet, then Sysco. I hesitate for just a moment, but I know this new Made vampire body of mine can handle it.

I jump.

Markus doesn’t see us coming.

James does.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowing just as Ares slams into the nearest brother with bone-shattering force. The man doesn’t even scream—just crashes into the wall with a crack.

Juliet throws a blade across the room. It hits the second brother in the leg, staggering him. Sysco follows in a blur, fists and fury.

Chaos explodes.

I take my closest opponent. James.

“No!” James shouts as he sees everything erupt into chaos.

He launches toward Markus, trying to protect the nightmare unfolding before us, but I cut him off mid-sprint with a low tackle, slamming my shoulder into his ribcage. We hit the stone floor hard, but I recover faster—roll, mount, and hammer my elbow into his jaw.

He snarls, blood flashing in his mouth.

I go for an armbar, twisting to lock in a submission—but he’s strong. He wrenches free, his fist crashing against my ribs. I grunt, bones protesting, but I’ve taken worse. And I am not so fragile anymore.

He scrambles up. I follow.

We circle, breath ragged in the thick, metallic air. In the background, I hear a bone snap—Ares or Roman, maybe Sysco. No time to look.