Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
At the far end of the room, a chandelier hangs like a crown of rubies—faceted crystals that catch the reddish light and scatter it into blood-colored sparks. The whole place smells faintly of old roses and incense…until another scent hits me.
It’s metallic and sharp—copper and salt. It can only be one thing—
Blood.
My stomach turns as I glance down…and my breath catches in my throat.
A vast pentagram has been drawn in blood across the obsidian floor—the lines thick and gleaming, every edge precise. It looks wet…it looks fresh. The sight of it is so surreal—so wrong and ritualistic—that for a second my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Then I see Lucian.
He stands near the center of the ballroom, huge and immaculate, like he stepped out of a dark fairy tale. Whistler is with him, slouching the way he always does like none of this is impressive, but he’s being quiet and looks more alert—like he can feel the stakes humming in the air.
Lucian’s gaze snaps to me the instant I enter, and something tightens in my chest. He lifts one hand and motions for me to come to him.
“Come, my darling—we must hurry while the blood is still fresh.”
His voice is low and controlled but I can hear strain under it—like he’s holding something back with sheer force of will.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
“That's an awful lot of blood,” I say faintly. “Whose is it?”
His eyes flick briefly to the pentagram, and then back to me—steady and unflinching.
“Mine, of course—for I will be calling this portal into existence. With the help of Whistler, of course.”
He nods at the Realm-Hopper who nods back respectfully.
For a second, I just stare at the pentagram—so much blood, all spilled for me.
Lucian bled himself—bled himself enough to paint the floor with it—because of me. And because of Hanna.
Because he’s letting me go.
My heart fists in my chest. This isn’t a casual gesture. Does he really want me gone?
“Oh…of course,” I say at last. I still can't quite believe that he bled so much just to send me home, but before I can ask any more questions, Lucian draws himself up to his full height and I feel the unspoken presence of his blood magic drawing in around us—like storm clouds filled with lightning rolling in.
Hanna sways beside me, her green eyes unfocused, as if the room is too bright and too dim at the same time. Whistler steps closer to her, ready to catch her if she goes down. My protective instincts kick hard, and I slip my arm around her once more.
Get her home. Just get her home, I think.
Lucian lifts both hands—palms upward, as if he’s offering something to the air itself—and his voice drops into a register that doesn’t sound quite human anymore.
“It is time,” he rumbles and the small hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise.
His eyes glow faintly as he speaks, chanting what sounds like a rhyming spell that seems to engrave itself on my memory as he says each line.
“By blood that binds and blood that buys,
By shadow’s throat and starless skies—
I name the seam between the spheres,
I call the gap that feeds on fears.
By iron vow and velvet night,
By thirst made tame, by fated bite—
Unravel, world, your stitched disguise,
And show the road where nowhere lies.
Let hinge of Nothing swing and sigh,
Let silence open, laws deny—
For what is torn cannot be sewn,
And what is crossed is crossed alone.
Depths unseen, lend me your flame,
Unknowable, I speak your name—
Not to command, but to implore:
Make me a door…
Make me a door.”
The last line lands like a bell tolling and for a heartbeat, the ballroom goes utterly still.
Even the chandelier seems to stop glittering. Even my breath catches as if the air itself is listening.
Then…
A single spark appears above the center of the pentagram.
It’s tiny at first, like the first firefly of summer. It flickers and dances and then it starts to swell—fed by something I can’t see but can feel—power rippling outward in waves that prickle across my skin.
This is Lucian’s blood magic, stretched to its outer limits. He is willing this portal into being—using all his strength to make me a way home.
The spark grows into a bright bead of energy. Suspended in midair, it hums like a living thing. It expands again, and then again, until it becomes a swirling vortex—light spiraling in on itself like a tornado—white-hot at the core and red-gold at the edges. The air around it warps in almost invisible waves.
It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time and it feels hungry.
Lucian’s jaw clenches, a vein standing out at his temple. His shoulders lock as if he’s physically holding the vortex in place with muscle and will alone. The pentagram is still immaculate, but the room smells strongly now of blood and ozone and something like burned roses.