The flick of a Zippo, the suck-and-crackle of a cigarette, and they all turned to see Cole in the shadow of the alcove, stark naked and covered in blood and dirt, his clothing in tattered rags at his feet.
“You good, wolf?” Gabriel asked with a laugh. “You look a bit… bedraggled.”
“Like I said.” Cole took a long, deep, drag, then blew it out slowly. “Anytime you Redthornes are ready to pack it in on the supernatural shitshow, I got yer backs. Team Regular Family Bullshit, at your service.”
“I’ll see about ordering some matching T-shirts,” Aiden said.
“Flamethrowers,” Cole said. “Much more practical for this fucking bunch. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with my bed and an entire brick of Mary Jane guaran-damn-teedto wipe the last two days outta my memory, and I don’t wanna hear another word fromanyof you tonight unless you got a lead on some cheap American whiskey, a beautiful woman lookin’ to make an honest man outta me, or…” He narrowed his eyes and took another drag, then shook his head. “Nope. That’s all I got.”
“Whiskey and women,” Dorian said as they watched the retreating form of Cole’s bare ass disappear into the darkness. “Looks like the wolf is back to his old self—no permanent damage done.”
Jaci wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. One look at the Redthorne vampires, and she saw the horrible truth flashing through their eyes like a blazing neon sign.
The permanent damage was all theirs.
And it was about to hit every one of them, hard and fast.
Chapter Eleven
The Redthornes were exhausted.
For the past few weeks, they’d done a bang-up job pretending otherwise, but when they left the crypts and the adrenaline rush finally subsided, not a single one of those broody, commanding vampires could keep up the act.
The curse was tearing them apart inside, and the battle with Viansa had taken a heavy toll—mentallyandphysically.
They were back in the kitchen, once again gathered around the breakfast nook. Only now, there were no stacks of rich, buttery pancakes, no coffee cups waiting for a refill, no piles of crispy, cooked-to-perfection bacon.
Just blood.
Bottles and bags of it, most of Dorian’s on-hand supply spread out on the table as Jaci and Isabelle triaged the rapidly weakening vampires. Dorian and Gabriel were the worst off, so shockingly pale they looked like wraiths. By the time Jaci had gotten them situated in their chairs, they could barely hold up their own heads.
Colin was in slightly better shape, but he still needed four bottles of blood before he could even speak again. And Charley and Aiden, who’d yet to show any definitive signs of the curse, were suddenly overcome with ravenous hunger and a painful sensitivity to the daylight that had Isabelle scrambling to draw the blinds.
Whether it was the fight with Viansa, the curse finally knocking them for a loop, or something else entirely, Jaci couldn’t be sure.
All she knew was they needed blood. A lot of it—and fast.
She and Isabelle worked in silence, clearing away the old bottles as quickly as they passed out new ones, keeping a close eye on the vampires for signs of further deterioration as they sucked down bottle after bottle, bag after bag.
Twenty minutes later, the vampires were finally showing signs of life again, the color returning to their faces, the conversation picking up where they’d left off in the crypts, all of them trying to figure out what to do about Viansa—especially now that they’d lost Renault’s heart.
“That potion,” Jaci said, rinsing out a few bottles and passing them to Isabelle. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I could literallyfeelViansa fleeing the scene. It reminded me of shining a flashlight on a bunch of cockroaches.”
“That’s precisely the idea.” Isabelle arranged the clean bottles in the drying rack on the counter. “Think of it like a magical flash-bang. Liquid explosives inside a glass receptacle, both charged with devil’s trap sigils.”
Jaci laughed. “And Aiden thinksI’mspooky.”
“You are spooky,” Aiden said. “Both of you. Think I’ll start referring to you as the Spooky Sisters.”
“How does that even work, though?” Charley asked. “I get that a regular devil’s trap sigil—like, the ones you paint on the ground—can trap demonic essences. But liquid splatters everywhere—doesn’t that just dilute the effect?”
“Yes, and that’s precisely why it worked,” Isabelle said. “Viansa is an original demon. A devil’s trap could never hold someone so powerful, but it can still cause a visceral reaction to the perceived danger. When this one blew, it scattered the trap over a wide area, sending her essence into sensory overload. She couldn’t tell where the threat was coming from, so she panicked and fled. Self-perseveration at its finest.”
“Brilliant,” Dorian said.
“Maybe so,” Isabelle said, drying her hands on a dishtowel and joining them at the table. “But it’s not a permanent solution. She’ll be back as soon as she regroups and realizes the threat’s gone.”
“Can you make more?” Gabriel asked.
