“That’s why,” he says, dusting his hands off. The tunnel entrance is nothing special—an older, smaller wooden door painted over with fifty-million coats of white paint—but when I press my fingertips to it, that tingling, singing sensation courses through my limbs, the same as I felt the night we went into the catacombs.
I nod. “This is it.”
“Perfect.” Leo pulls a butterfly knife from his back pocket, flicks it open, and jams the blade into the lock. He jiggles it until we hear a satisfyingclick. “Before we go in…” Leo turns back to face me. “I know I couldn’t take the pledge tonight, but informally, I wanted you to know…” He clears his throat, folds up the knife, and slips it back into his pocket. “I am willing to die for you.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Thank you, Leo. That means a lot to me.”
“Don’t mention it.” Then, he pulls open the tunnel door and disappears into the darkness.
I turn on my phone’s flashlight and step into the unknown.
Orfeo
Every partythese idiots throw is exactly the same. German house music; champagne towers; men in balaclavas with their big, saggy balls out—as if any of them are so important that a grainy photo of them bearing sack would be worth newspaper ink. Vampires spin around poles with their gorgeous, hairless genitalia on display. Or they thrash and gyrate atop lit-up cubes, exposing all their holes. The air smells permanently like bleach, blood, and cum. Through the flashing lights and crash of bodies, I’ll eventually spy some uninspired thrusting.
The second-floor drawing room of the manor is packed with bodies—masked attendees and supernatural servers traveling with mirrored trays lined with bumps of cocaine. I make rounds with bottles of champagne and smile dutifully when women with feathered lipstick slide their hands down the front of my chest.
But tonight I have Davìd at my side. It still feels impossible. But when I look down the bar, there he is. Grinning at me.
“Your woman,” he says to me in Italian, pressing his chin into my shoulder. “That ass of hers is divine. Do you still like to share?”
I smirk. “I don’t think I get to make that decision.”
“My little feminist,” he says, his mouth a hot balm against my ear. “When the demon blood starts flowing, anything is possible.”
“Hey, loverboys.” Misha appears at the edge of the bar, fangs extended and eyes glowing. She lifts her chin toward Davìd and then flicks it back toward the entrance. “Party.”
Davìd heeds the code word, dislodging himself from my shoulder and slipping his mask back down over his face. He melts into the crowd in an instant, just another toned body.
Across the room, the double doors that lead back out into the corridor swing open and Alfo enters. In many ways, he has his own coterie; in many ways, he is exactly like Paolo. A poisonous weed with a root system so strong that even after the head and stem are cut off, we will be fighting it for years.
Standing at his full height, Alfo is almost as tall as Leo and equally as broad. The rumor around the club is that his mother was a living donor with a drug problem, attached to a strigoi who had corrupted her mind. He’d left her to Alfo’s demon father when her blood was too polluted to keep feeding from.
There are moments when I find myself willing to feel sympathy for Alfo. But he is half-human only in name; in his nature, he has given over entirely to demonia. He would do to any woman as his father had done to his mother.
And that makes me want to smash his skull.
I finish a gin and tonic for an impatient woman with enormous breasts and a peacock-feathered mask, then slip out from behind the bar, heading directly toward Alfo and his gang.
“Nis.” I place a hand on the boy’s shoulder, cutting into the edge of the group.
He starts and flinches. “The fuck do you want, bloodsucker?”
“Echidna PD sent in an undercover. He’s trying to blend in but it’s beyond fucking obvious. He’s been trying to get into the library.” I jut my thumb toward Davìd who, as planned, issipping a beer and keeping a suspicious distance. “I think he’s headed there now.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nisos turns to another demon and they immediately fall into their own angry whispered argument.Strategizing. Misha passes by, swinging a police baton.
I slide a hand around her hips and lean in at vampiric speed. My lips glance her ear. “Party.”
She smacks the baton into the palm of her hand with a satisfyingthwack.She lets out a deep, throaty growl. “Party, indeed.”
I abandon the demons and cut across the writhing dance floor to the set of French doors that open out onto a narrow balcony. Through the glass, I spy Sofia and the strigoi in the shadows of the building. I knock softly at the glass using accelerated speed—their signal. Then, I duck behind the bar, pull on my shirt, and tuck my weapon into the waistband of my jeans.
I slide through the crowd, pausing to dance with a human woman in case Nisos has eyes on me. She smells like tequila and onions. It is horrible.
Then, I squeeze through the doors into the library. Davìd is already behind the desk, feet propped up on the surface, the night sky an endless expanse at his shoulder, and Misha is at his side, having abandoned her baton for her sickle. She balances it on a gloved hand, spinning it expertly between nimble fingers.
“Bellissimo.” She smirks. “You made it.”
