Dante stood rigid at the front door of the estate as Azazel approached. His expression was tightly controlled, but the fury in his eyes betrayed him. Azalie could already hear the impending lecture ringing in her head.
Azazel’s grip tightened, clutching his twin closer to himself. The sensation was stifling, but reassuring. She trusted Azazel. He always did what was best for her.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Dante hissed. Azalie thought for a moment, trying to focus, but her senses felt jumbled, making it impossible to tell time. She didn’t dare look up, not under Dante’s sharp gaze.
"It’s nearly six in the morning," Azazel responded coolly, brushing past Dante as he entered the estate.
Six in the morning? Azalie’s heart lurched. He had carried her for eight hours. The reality struck her with a cold dread. What would have happened if she hadn’t called him? If he hadn’t found her in time?
I could have—No, don’t think about it, she scolded herself.
Dante's narrowed eyes flicked between them, his annoyance palpable. His stare lingered on Azalie, as if only just noticing her weakened state, before following Azazel down the hall.
“What happened?” Dante demanded, though his tone lacked genuine concern.
"I’ll explain everything to Father," Azazel replied icily, cutting through Dante’s questioning. Azalie’s lips curled faintly into a smile, pride swelling at her brother’s sharp dismissal. Dante muttered something under his breath, clearly irritated, but Azazel didn’t even glance back.
Azalie let out a soft groan as they reached her room. "How humiliating," she murmured once Dante was out of earshot. Azazel lowered her onto the bed, suddenly aware of how drained she was. The heat from his fur coat, clung to her like a heavy shroud. She shrugged it off, handing it back to him. With a practiced motion, he slung it over his shoulders like a cape—his usual manner of wearing it, even when unnecessary.
He moved closer and sat next to her on the bed. “Will you be alright if I leave?”
Azalie offered a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, Frate. I’ll freshen up and look presentable for Father. I must look a wreck… I certainly feel like one." She blew out a long breath and rested her forehead against the fur of his coat. The sensation comforting. She knew he wasn’t one for outward affection, though he didn’t seem to mind this. Then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her in silence for several minutes. She froze. Afraid that any sudden movement might startle him away.
After what felt like an eternity, Azazel pulled back and stood from the bed. "Come to Father’s study when you're ready. I’ll speak to him first, give him the essentials."
Azalie nodded, watching, still dazed, as he kissed the top of her head before leaving. She blinked, caught off guard.
Azazel had kissed her head?
She couldn't recall him ever doing that before. It was a gesture she had seen humans do, something she had casually adopted herself over the years. She had kissed Azazel many times—on the cheek, on the forehead—despite his initial protests. She remembered the first time, how he had looked like he’d have a heart attack. But eventually, he came to accept it.
Still, kissing was a human habit, one she only shared with her brother and… one other. She quickly pushed the thought aside. What could it mean for Azazel to return the gesture? He must have been truly worried, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.
“What in the world is going on?” she whispered to herself.
With a sigh, Azalie rose from the bed. She cleaned up as quickly as her exhausted body allowed, the cold water on her face helping her regain a sliver of composure. She slipped into a light pink nightgown trimmed with lace at the high collar and sleeve. Over it, she draped a silk dressing gown adorned with Japanese cherry blossoms. Her long, silver hair fell loosely down her back, but she brushed it over one shoulder, the simple action a small comfort. Slipping on peach-colored house slippers, she paused.
It wasn’t proper formal attire her father would expect for a meeting, but it was late, and exhaustion weighed heavily on her. This would have to suffice.
Her stomach clenched painfully with hunger, and a dull throb pulsed behind her eyes. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The thought of Lucius briefly flickered through her mind, unbidden. She shoved it away immediately, unwilling to let it distract her. Any trace of him in her thoughts during her meeting with her father could unravel her composure.
With her mind sealed tight, she headed to her father’s study.
Azalie knocked on her father’s door. Dante greeted her with a scowl and gestured her inside. The air felt stifling, and she immediately caught changes she hadn’t noticed before when she first arrived. Wallpaper now adorned the side walls, where once bare stone stood. Dark scorch marks marred the stone where the wallpaper ended, though faded, as if someone had tried scrubbing them away. Even her father’s desk was different. Gone was the regal mahogany she remembered. Now replaced by a smaller, dark red oak one.
Molch sat behind it, his chin resting against his knuckles, his elbow on the desktop. His clothing rumpled and unchanged from the previous day. Fatigue clung to him like a shadow. To his left stood Astaroth, immaculate in a white suit, his violet eyes sweeping the room with his usual impassive attentiveness. Azazel leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, the blue waistcoat bunching at the creases, though his expression remained calm.
Azalie stepped forward, the heavy weight of expectation in the room pressing on her. Dante went to stand at Molch’s right side as she waited for permission to sit.
“Sit,” Molch ordered.
The twins obeyed, drawing chairs closer. Azalie perched at the edge of hers, keenly aware of the eyes on her.
“Azazel told me what transpired, but I want to hear it from you, Azalie. Speak,” his tone firm with authority.
She felt the familiar tug of exhaustion again as she began to recount the events. She kept the details as she had when speaking to Azazel earlier, glossing over the incident with the dog and the wardrobe. Her father didn’t need to know everything.
When she reached the part where she had vomited the black blood and collapsed, she concluded quietly, “That’s why Azazel carried me home.”
Molch leaned back in his chair, his fingers rubbing his temple as if deep in thought.
Dante, who had been leering at her the entire time, finally spoke. “How unbecoming,” he said coldly, “To be swaddled and carried home like a newborn.”
She heard the vaingloriousness laced in his words, though his face betrayed none of it. She kept her own face calm, refusing to let his words sting. But she wouldn’t let them pass unchallenged, either.
“Indeed,” she replied coolly, “though I would rather suffer that humiliation than be left for the sun to claim. Besides, Azazel wouldn’t have needed to carry me if Von or you had answered your Calling Stones.”
Molch’s gaze snapped to her, anger flashing in his eyes. It took all of her will not to shrink back. She had been bold to challenge Dante, but it was the truth. She wouldn’t apologize for that.
“Explain,” Molch ordered.
Azalie straightened. “Azazel told me he called both Von and Dantalion for the carriage, but neither responded.”
Molch turned to Azazel, who nodded. “It’s true, Father. I tried many times, but I got no response.”
For a fleeting moment, Dante’s smug expression faltered. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his Calling Stone. The once vibrant object now lay dull and lifeless, its energy completely depleted.
“Oh dear,” Astaroth said softly, his voice barely audible. Azalie could have sworn a brief smile twitched at the corner of his lips. She blinked and saw nothing but his usual placid expression. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it was tempting to think he found amusement in Dante’s folly.
Azalie bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a smile while pinching the back of her hand to keep herself in check. Dante’s mistake was foolish, and he would feel its sting. But now was not the time to gloat. There would be opportunities later during their training, assuming he still cared to train with her.
She wasn’t Dante’s biggest fan and hadn’t been for some time now.
Dante swallowed, his posture stiffening as he tucked the stone back into his pocket. He turned to Molch, subdued. “Forgive me, Lord Molch. I have made a grave error in forgetting to have my Calling Stone recharged. I thought—”
“Enough, Dantalion!” Molch's voice cut through the air, his hand swept dismissively, silencing Dante's plea. "I will hear no more. Your negligence could have cost Azalie her life!"
The room went still, the tension thickening as Molch turned his gaze on Azazel. "It was fortunate she could contact her brother, and Azazel did well to bring her home."
Relief washed over Azalie, the knots in her stomach loosening as she noticed Azazel also relaxing in his seat. But Dante, ever the opportunist, wasn't finished.
“My Lord,” Dante began, spreading his arms in a gesture of humility, "though I accept my error and any punishment that follows, I believe you exaggerate the threat. Azalie’s life wasn’t truly in danger. Even if Azazel hadn’t found her, the sun is but a minor irritation to the twins. They don’t burst into flames upon daylight’s touch."
Azalie and Azazel shot Dante cold glares. While his words held some truth, they didn’t capture the entire reality. The sun didn’t burn them like lesser vampyres, but it was far from harmless. Most purebloods could endure sunlight longer than the Changed, who would blister and burn within minutes. But even the strongest purebloods could be gravely harmed with prolonged exposure.
“Dantalion, you know full well there is more dangers than just the sun,” Molch’s voice was low, dangerously quiet. “When Azazel got sickened, he lost all control of his magick abilities!”
Azalie stifled a gasp, glancing at her twin. That explained his recent overprotectiveness. He must’ve been terrified that she, too, would lose control, and encase the world in a third ice age. She swallowed, the weight of his fear settling in her chest.
Molch’s tone grew harsher. “Azalie was sickened, the same as Azazel. Even if she had remained conscious, in her weakened state, she would’ve been powerless. Defenseless. If something had attacked, or if she had been found, she could’ve been abducted.”
Kidnapped? What an odd thing for her father to be suddenly worried about. With the rune stone necklace she always wore, no normal human would even notice her presence, much less try to take her.
As if sensing her confusion, Astaroth leaned forward, his voice a soft murmur in Molch's ear. “My Lord, I do not believe Azalie has been informed about the recently absconded.”
Azalie's eyes widened slightly. Her gaze flicked to Azazel, whose hand rested lightly near her thigh. He tapped against her skin—once, twice—a signal in their secret code: I don’t know either. First I’m hearing of this.
She gave a slight nod in return before turning her attention back to Molch and Astaroth, who continued whispering, leaving Dante to simmer in uncomfortable silence.
Summoning her courage, she spoke. “Father… if I may ask, what do you mean by ‘abducted’?”
For a moment, she feared her question would spark another wave of anger, but Molch merely shook his head, a gesture of finality. “That is not your concern for now, nor yours, Azazel. The matter is being handled.”
Azalie wanted to push further, to demand answers. But her father had already shut her down, and to question him now would only invite trouble. Still, a thought nagged at the back of her mind. Why hadn't he told her about the danger earlier? He’d seen her the moment she arrived in Rome, yet he said nothing about the blood, nothing about the risks. Dante had known, too—he'd watched her drink the bottled blood before she left. This all could have been avoided if they had simply told her.
The frustration gnawed at her, but she forced herself to remain silent. Her father’s word was law, he had already silenced her, and she couldn’t defy it. But she couldn’t help the growing pain in her stomach, the sharp dryness in her throat, each swallow like sandpaper scraping against her esophagus. The blood she’d had this morning tasted normal, so how was she to tell which was safe and which wasn’t?
"Father…" She hesitated. "What blood is safe to drink?"
Molch leaned forward, his elbow bearing his weight on his desktop as his eyes locked with hers. "Live Blood."
Azalie’s mind reeled as she processed her father’s words. Live Blood. The thought of it made her stomach churn. She had heard the horror stories—vampyres driven mad by the intoxicating rush of fresh, unfiltered blood. It was something Molch had banned centuries ago, turning it into a strict taboo. Anyone who dared to drink directly from a human risked death on the spot.
“How are we going to drink Live Blood?” she asked, her voice sounding distant in her own ears.
“Very carefully,” Molch replied. “Astaroth has arranged for willing donors from the Mother of Pearl. The main branch will feed on Live Blood. The rest of the Others will be given fresh bottled blood to avoid the risk of contamination.”
Azalie nodded, though a flicker of unease settled in her chest. It didn’t seem entirely fair—only the main branch being allowed to drink Live. But she knew the reasoning behind it. Molch was trying to reduce the risk of vampyres going Rogue and protect the Others from tainted blood. She couldn’t argue with that.
“Father,” she ventured again, her voice hesitant, “what about my failed assignment?”
Molch’s crimson gaze shifted to her, his eyes unreadable. “That assignment will be postponed. In fact, all assignments for you, Azazel, and the others are on hold until this blood crisis is resolved.”
Azalie blinked, her breath catching in her throat. No assignments? Father had never postponed their duties before. Her mind buzzed with confusion and disbelief, but she couldn’t find the words to respond.
Azazel tugged gently at her sleeve, pulling her from the fog of her thoughts. She glanced up to find Molch watching her closely, something akin to concern flickering in his eyes.
“Azalie,” Molch said again, softer this time.
She blinked, trying to focus. “Yes, Father?”
He paused, as if weighing his next words, but then he simply shook his head. “No, never mind. Azazel, take your sister to her room. Make sure she drinks something.”
Azazel stood without a word and extended his hand to her. Her fingers trembled as she reached for him, her hand shaking uncontrollably. She clenched it into a fist, willing the tremors to stop.
Dante and Astaroth filed silently out of the room, their expressions unreadable. Azalie leaned into Azazel, her body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. He wrapped his arm around her, steadying her as they left the study, his presence a comfort in the storm of confusion swirling around her.
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