“Halloween has always been sacred for our bloodlines. My bride would probably tell me no if we didn’t have it on that day.”
Misha claps me on the shoulder. “You are probably right. Let’s get out of here so you can go check on your little psychic murder wife.”
I peer down to the body at my feet. My reflection wavers in the blood pooling beneath him, distorting my image enough that I look exactly what I am—monster and man.
“Let her try to come for my bride. She will choke on her own blood before her hands reach her.”
Misha studies me with an unreadable expression. “You’ll need to tell her about the rest of it soon.”
He’s talking about me and Venatori Nocturnus. About telling her the truth of our bloodlines.
Instead of answering him, I reach down and grab Oleg’s feet. Misha takes the hint and grabs the other side. We drag Oleg’s body to the barrel our men have set up outside and toss him in. The flames catch quickly, lighting the night in hungry orange. The heat licks at my face, smoke curling into the sky like a signal flare.
The bond kicks sharply as Cressida responds to the anger inside me.
She feels the storm rising.
The Bogeyman is awake, and he’s done chasing shadows.
eighteen
Cressida
Five Nights to Samhain
Lucettamakesmeholdthe knife until my palm cramps.
“Again,” she orders.
My shoulders burn with strain, but I grit my teeth to power through it. My spine’s damp with sweat, my cotton tank glued to my skin beneath the aged and scuffed leather jacket I refuse to peel off. This warehouse is a tomb, and my bones do not forget the cold.
She taps the flat of her blade against my wrists, sharp enough to sting but not to break skin.
“Guard up.”
“Iamguarding,” I grumble.
“You’re posturing.” She cocks her head. “Now, put your guard up.”
I roll my eyes and bring the knife higher, getting into position for the . . . however many fucking times today. The concrete under my boots is chalked with lines from our drills. Circles, X’s, and a crude map of the little deaths I should be trying to deliver if this were real.
It’s not yet, but with Giselda going on her damn mad sprees, there’s no telling when it could happen.
Sunniva lounges on the crate she’s claimed as her own in this place with another lollipop between her teeth. Her thumbs are flying over the mobile as she tracks three dead-drops. “You two look fucking hot. Like cute little murder ballerinas planning your next target.”
Lucetta’s mouth twitches at Sunni’s commentary. “Feet.”
I shift my stance, and she whips her blade at me in a blur. Mine meets hers, metal screaming as they clash together. Shock snaps up my arm, and I grin because it feels damn good to hit something I can actually see.
“Better,” she says and shoves forward until I have to push back.
We don’t talk about the calendar Sunni’s placed on the wall. The five black X’s that are left before the circle around October thirty-first says enough. Sunni has drawn a little crown above the date and written ‘BLACK DRESS, BLACK HEART’ underneath. Lucetta, bless her, has crossed out the heart and replaced it with ‘VEIL’. As if they believe I need a reminder for my rebellion.
I can already hear my brother’s disapproving sigh in my head.
Lucetta pivots and slides her blade back into its sheath. “Water and then we’ll go again. Drink before your hands shake.”
“They don’t shake,” I reply.
