Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

S erenity

The limousine finally pulled to a stop. Balthazar’s hand wound around my waist as the doors opened, drawing me close like I was already his prize. The leather scent of the limo gave way to crisp night air. All I could think of was Angelo. Balthazar could force my body to his side, but he’d never own my heart the way Angelo did.

Gage came up next to me. “One word and you’re dead, bitch.” His voice stole my breath.

I concentrated on the smells around me, desperate for any clue as to my location:

Bubbling water with a faint sulfuric odor—perhaps a hot spring or a swamp?

Damp earth and decaying leaves, hinting at a forested area.

A whiff of smoke, from a distant campfire or chimney.

The unmistakable scent of moss and algae, strong and earthy.

A trace of something floral—magnolias? Their sweet perfume was barely noticeable under the stronger scents.

Musky animal odor—wild, not domesticated. Wolves?

Balthazar’s expensive cologne, mixed with sweat now.

And Gage’s aftershave; cheaper, sharper, with an undertone of gun oil.

All the scents seeping through the burlap sack told a story. I focused on each one, trying to build a picture in my mind of where I was, where we might be going. If only I could see, touch, or hear more clearly. But with my other senses diminished, these fragments of smell were my only connection to the world—my only hope of escape.

Suddenly, someone lifted me into their strong arms. The moment skin touched skin, a jolt of energy surged through me and an unmistakable aura enveloped me, setting every nerve on fire. My blood recoiled yet at the same time was oddly drawn to the conflicting energy.

I struggled against the bare chest, fingers brushing against smooth, unnaturally warm skin. “Put me down.”

“If I do,” Balthazar said, his voice a low rumble against my side, “you’ll sink into a marsh. Do you really want to tramp through mud and water that would go up to your thighs?”

The heat radiating from his body was suffocating, intensifying the humidity in the air around us. I could smell his unique scent—a mixture of brimstone, exotic spices, and something indefinable and otherworldly. It made my head spin.

“N-no,” I said miserably. Why on earth were we walking through the swamp?

The sounds of water sloshing and reeds rustling filled the air. Frogs croaked in an endless chorus, punctuated by the splash of something large sliding into the water. Insects buzzed around us, a constant, irritating whine, while cicadas screamed in the trees. With the bag over my head, every sound seemed amplified, making it impossible to tell direction or distance. The pungent odor of decay and stagnant water assaulting my nostrils was made worse by my proximity to Balthazar's overwhelming presence.

With each step Balthazar took, I felt his muscles shift. My body alternated between wanting to melt closer to him to escape the swamp’s perils and recoiling from the strange energy that simultaneously repulsed and attracted me.

A cool breeze ghosted over my exposed skin, a brief respite from the swamp’s oppressive heat, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers, a jarringly beautiful note in this treacherous environment.

“Watch your head,” Balthazar warned, ducking slightly. I felt something brush against the sack over my head—low-hanging moss or branches.

As we moved deeper into the swamp, I clung to every detail my senses could grasp—the squelch of footsteps through mud, the tang of cypress and stagnant water, the way our path curved left and then right. Remembering each sound and smell might be the difference between escape and captivity.

Heavy footsteps squished through the marsh. “Gage,” an unfamiliar voice said, gruff and low. “The king is gone, off visiting his favorite whore. He won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Good, that makes it easier.” Gage’s voice was like a sleazy pimp’s. “She’ll keep him busy.”

I stiffened in Balthazar’s arms. A whore? That was their grand plan to overthrow the wolf king—thinking he’d be distracted by a woman? Everything I’d ever heard about Trystan painted a picture of cunning and power. Gage’s certainty made my stomach turn. He was either a fool or knew something I didn’t.

“The Luparion Crystal is locked in his office, but I have a key.” The unfamiliar voice paused, and I felt the weight of unseen eyes on me. “Is that the Nephilim?”

“Yes,” Gage replied, his tone clipped and cold.

“Do you think she can really heal the Crystal?”

“She’d better hope so,” Gage said, malice dripping from every word. “If she doesn’t, she’s dead.”

The marshy scent around me intensified, mirroring my rising panic. I tasted acrid fear in my mouth. Balthazar’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around me, whether in reassurance or warning, I couldn’t tell.

Balthazar finally set me down, and my legs wobbled under me like a newborn colt’s. The ground felt solid enough—a pebbled path, judging by the crunch under my feet—but after being carried blindfolded, my sense of balance was way off. And without my sight, every sound, every sensation felt amplified and yet impossible to place.

“I’ve got Trystan’s key and sent the other guards to the east side of the compound so they won’t see you enter Trystan’s office,” said the unknown voice. “Just make it quick. If she fails and we’re caught, we’re going to become a bonfire.”

“Getting cold feet, Ivan?” Gage taunted.

“Just make sure she does it,” the other voice growled.

A chill ran down my spine. Bonfire? God, I hoped they didn’t roast their enemies alive. The casual way he mentioned such a gruesome fate made my stomach churn.

I tried to look down, but all I could see through the small gap in the tie around the neck of the bag were my sandaled feet trying not to stumble on the pebbled path. The stones crunched beneath us, each step a reminder of my helplessness. I wanted to run, but Balthazar’s grip on my arm was relentless. Escape was impossible.

Someone opened a door, its hinges squeaking ominously. I was led up some stairs, the wood creaking under our weight. The scent of wolves grew stronger, musky and wild. I had to be in the compound now. But there were other scents too, creating an unsettling tapestry.

Roasting meat, making my mouth water despite my fear.

The clean, sharp smell of waxed hardwood floors.

And a sweet floral scent—jasmine or maybe bougainvillea—floating on the air. Mom used to have those planted in her garden and I would know them anywhere.

The mix of scents was jarring—the homey smells of cooking and flowers so at odds with the underlying threat of violence. It was as if someone had built a pleasant home over a slaughterhouse.

As we moved further into the building, the temperature dropped slightly. Air conditioning, I realized. Such a strange comfort in this den of wolves and conspirators. The sack over my head rustled with each breath, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

Another door creaked open. Finally, the sack was ripped off my head. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light after the suffocating darkness. We were in a turret study, apparently Trystan’s. It seemed to float in shadows, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through tall, arched windows and the ethereal blue glow from a modern gas fireplace set into one of the walls.

My attention was immediately drawn to the massive oil painting above his desk—a white wolf with piercing blue eyes. Something about those eyes tugged at my memory, familiar yet just out of reach.

The eight walls of the room rose high above me, dark wooden panels climbing halfway up them before giving way to deep burgundy wallpaper that disappeared into shadows near the ceiling. A mahogany desk dominated the center, its polished surface bare except for a sleek computer monitor casting a faint glow. No papers, no pens—just a deliberate, calculated emptiness.

Against one wall stood an ornate floor-to-ceiling bookcase, its shelves filled with leather-bound volumes whose gilded spines winked in the firelight. A small octagonal table, also mahogany, sat in one corner, surrounded by four high-backed chairs upholstered in deep red velvet. Every detail spoke of power and control—exactly what one would expect of Trystan’s private domain.

Balthazar leaned closer to me, his demonic presence making the air feel thicker, heavier. “Welcome to the wolf king’s private office, Nephilim.” He pointed toward the painting, a knowing smile playing over his perfect lips. “Just in case you’re wondering, the painting is of Trystan.”

I stared at the magnificent white wolf, really seeing it now. The massive paws that could crush bone. The powerful shoulders built for tearing prey apart. A memory flashed: Angelo’s face when I first met him, angry red scratches marring his beautiful features. He’d said they were from a “scrape with a cur”—over me. Even Angelo, with all his vampire strength and power, hadn’t walked away unscathed from that fight.

My heart clenched painfully in my chest. If the wolf king could claw someone as powerful as Angelo… What else could he do to him? The thought made my blood run cold.

Gage pulled on a book and the bookcase swung open like something out of a Gothic horror novel. Behind it sat a safe, its metallic surface gleaming dully in the firelight. He twisted the combination lock back and forth, each click echoing in the tense silence.

He opened the safe door and took out a small black velvet case. “Showtime, Nephilim. Heal the Luparion Crystal.” His eyes turned gold. “Or you’re dead.”

Balthazar put his hand on my lower back. I didn’t know what the gesture meant. Was it for reassurance, or was he simply urging me forward?

Gage opened the case to reveal the Luparion Crystal. What might have once been a magnificent stone now lay practically lifeless, its gold and black stripes dulled like a tiger’s pelt left too long in the sun. The crystal’s surface looked almost cloudy, as if a film of ash had settled over it, muting its natural luster. Even in the dim light, I could sense its weakened state—like a dying heartbeat, barely pulsing.

I knew what healing a mystical stone felt like—the Aeternum Stone had nearly drained my life away with its sharp, angular need clawing at me, like a thousand knives scraping the power out of my veins. This was different. Where the vampire stone had been all jagged edges and violent hunger, the Luparion Crystal’s rounded curves were somehow softer as it lay dormant before me.

Balthazar and Gage stalked forward, shepherding me back until the sharp edge of the bookcase dug into my spine. I tried to wriggle away, but Balthazar’s arm shot out, his palm slamming against the shelves next to my head. Gage did the same on the other side, their bodies forming a cage of muscle and menace. The twin scents of wolf and demon surrounded me, closing off any hope of escape.

Gage cocked his eyebrow, one claw extending to trace a burning line down my arm. “I’m waiting. Or do you need some friendly persuasion?”

My skin crawled where he had scratched me, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching. The sharp sting was nothing compared to what he could do—would do—if I failed.

I held my head high and scanned the bayou, wishing desperately that Angelo in bat form would burst into view and through one of the windows. But there were only clouds.

Balthazar met my worried gaze. “That’s it, Serenity. Show him what you can do.”

Were they both delusional? The Aeternum Stone had admittedly been larger than the Luparion Crystal, but both were crafted by witches. Healing the first stone had nearly killed me—my body still remembered the way it had drained my life force. And now Gage expected me to heal another one just so he could overthrow Trystan?

I reluctantly took the black velvet case.

Gage glared at me. “Put your hand over the stone and heal it, just like you did for Angelo. Do it, or the DuPonts die.”

I put a shaking hand over the stone, my fingertips barely grazing its surface, and waited for that rush of power I’d felt with the Aeternum Stone—that surge of energy that had coursed through my veins like liquid lightning, the overwhelming flood of sensations and feelings that had nearly brought me to my knees.

Nothing. No warmth, no pulse, no whisper of magic. Just a cold, lifeless crystal beneath my trembling fingers that felt as dead as any ordinary rock you’d find on the street. My stomach twisted with anxiety. What if I couldn’t do this? What if whatever power that had worked before had abandoned me?

Gage’s claws dug into my shoulder as he shoved me forward. “Are you even trying? You don’t want to find out how creative I can be with pain. I can make death feel like mercy.”

I stumbled back and smacked into the bookcase, the wooden edges digging into my spine. Something heavy tumbled off and hit the floor with a dull thud. A quick glance showed what looked like an old tome—thankfully still intact. Just what I needed, to damage something in this room.

“Yes, I’m trying.” My voice came out smaller than I intended, fear and frustration making it quiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my hands against the crystal until my fingers ached.

Nothing. Not a single tremor of power, not the faintest whisper of magic. The crystal remained cold and lifeless under my touch. Why was this happening? The Aeternum Stone had practically sung to me, its power flowing through me like a river.

Was it because this was a crystal and not a stone? Or was there something else missing, some key to unlocking my power that remained frustratingly out of reach?

My heart slammed into my ribs as I felt Gage’s impatient presence looming over me. Time was running out, and I had no idea how to make this work.

“She can’t do it,” Balthazar said softly, his words falling like a death knell in the quiet study.

“Bitch,” Gage hissed. There was a blur of movement, then white-hot pain exploded across the back of my skull. The study spun around me, the moonlight fragmenting into stars behind my eyes. My arms went limp, useless. As consciousness slipped away, I thought I heard Balthazar sigh. Then I fell into darkness, and knew nothing more.