Chapter seven continued.

Azalie sat next to Azazel on the plush bench seat inside the carriage. Astaroth sat across from them, his usual stoic presence filling the space. She had her scarf pulled up over her head, veiling part of her face, though the see-through material did little to hide her.

Azazel was dressed sharply in his tailored Italian suit, the burgundy waistcoat and tie adding a pop of color. The ‘immortal’ cuff-links she had gifted him gleamed in the moonlight as it filtered through the window. He stared out into the night, his face set in his familiar "thinking pose." It was so like Molch—when Azazel looked distant like this, lost in thought, the resemblance was uncanny. A pang hit her chest. Sometimes, that similarity unsettled her. She wondered if he’d grow to become like Father, cold and domineering, or if he already had, and she just hadn’t noticed.

She glanced at Astaroth across from her. His cream-colored suit was plain as ever, and his head was reclined with his eyes closed, looking as if he were asleep. She knew better. He didn’t need sleep, not in the traditional sense. As an Incubus, he could simply draw energy from those around him. They sat in silence, save for the rhythmic clopping of the horse’s hooves trotting down the cobbled road.

Azalie was relieved that she didn’t feel tired anymore. The fifteen hours she’d slept must have been a great need to her body, but now she longed for distraction from the long and bumpy ride to the Mother of Pearl.

The Mother of Pearl was a blood den that masqueraded as a brothel for the wealthy human elite in Latina, Italy. Molch owned it, along with several others. He had to in order to keep all the vampyres in the state well-fed. A group of witches ran his operations using their knowledge of herbs and healing spells to maintain the women who lived and worked there.

Azalie had visited often, mostly for the enjoyment of the human chatter rather than for any special healing. Unless she counted that time when she’d jumped off the estate’s roof to practice her landing and ended up skewered on a silver-spiked fence. That was fifty years ago, back when they first moved to Rome from Romania.

Molch had his children training since they were barely able to walk. Dante had been their instructor for those long, hard years. He was as ill-mannered back then as he was now. Though, she had once held a healthy amount of respect for him, despite his animosity. But that was before… the incident. The removal of their only dear friend. 

She clenched her fists in her lap, remembering how she and Azazel had fought back against the decision. Dante had instigated the whole thing—she had come to find out—and tried to get in her way. In her outrage she had beaten Dante so badly that no one but Azazel could stop her. Molch was furious with both of them and had punished them as a result. She had been branded with a slave crest and locked in the cellar for two weeks, refusing any blood out of sheer spite, letting her anger sustain her. And even after her release, Dante had practically lived outside her bedroom, monitoring her every move.

It wasn’t the punishment itself that stung, but how it had changed everything. Being placed in confinement was one thing, but being separated from Azazel—that was unbearable.

As further punishment, their father forced them to work independently of each other. It was hard in the beginning, though, eventually, she found enjoyment in the solo work. And once she and Azazel were allowed to work together again, Molch had sent her away to China. Alone.

She unclenched her fists, forcing her focus back to the present. Perhaps it was for the best, she tried to tell herself.

“Lady Azalie.”

Startled, she realized Astaroth had been watching her. His arms were still crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, yet he knew.

“How’s your head?” he asked, his voice devoid as always. 

She didn’t bother checking. “I’ll live.” Her tone came out harsher than she intended. Astaroth’s eyebrows raised slightly. His lack of expression made her irritation seem all the more misplaced. She felt Azazel nudge her sandaled foot, though his eyes remained on the passing scenery outside the window.

Azalie inhaled quietly, relaxing her shoulders to compose herself. “The discomfort has eased, Astaroth. I appreciate your concern, though, I shall recover soon enough.”

Astaroth gave a small nod, seemingly content, though his face didn’t betray any emotion.

She hadn’t meant to snap at Astaroth. Unlike Dante, Astaroth was usually decent to her, in his odd, statically inscrutable way. But he worked directly under her father, which required a measure of restraint. Caution was always necessary, especially with Astaroth’s ability to read surface thoughts and enter people's minds. She knew she could block him out when needed. That, however, came with its own risk—if he noticed her defenses, he might grow suspicious. It was safer to simply redirect her thoughts elsewhere.

The carriage rattled to a jarring stop, pulling her from her reflections. Azazel was the first to slip out, offering his hand to Azalie. She accepted, her lavender gown flowing around her like restless ocean waves. Astaroth followed silently behind, ever composed.

The Mother of Pearl loomed before them. Its façade reminded Azalie of Notre-Dame La Grande in Poitiers, its stone arches solemn against the night sky. The building had once been an abandoned temple project, left unfinished before Molch had purchased the land. He had it torn down and ordered its reconstruction to resemble a church. Humans, he said, seldom questioned the sanctity of churches.

As they approached, a striking middle-aged woman descended the stone steps toward them. She was clad in a salmon-colored dress, its ruffled sleeves resting just off her shoulders. “Welcome, my dears, I am Greta,” she greeted them, her lilting Italian accent soft on the ear.

Azalie gave a polite nod in response, as did Azazel. Astaroth, however, stepped forward and bowed slightly before pressing a kiss to the back of Greta’s lace-gloved hand. She seemed thoroughly charmed, her serene smile lingering as she gazed at him. To Azalie, it was almost laughable—Astaroth exuded about as much warmth as a marble statue.

Yet, in the dim gaslight, Azalie thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile on Astaroth’s lips. But when he turned to signal for them to follow, his expression was flat, his violet eyes half-lidded in their usual detached manner. It must have been a trick of the light, she told herself, brushing the thought away.

“Do come along. My girls are eagerly awaiting your company,” Greta said, her smile still radiant as she led them inside.

They followed Greta up the large stone steps of the vestibule and into the brothel. The interior of The Mother of Pearl bore little resemblance to a church beyond the basic layout of the nave and chancel. Inside, it was lavishly decorated with golden candle holders, velvet drapery, and chandeliers casting a soft glow. Young women, draped in simple white gowns fastened with braided gold cords, sat on chaise lounges, chatting and laughing flirtatiously as they poured wine into cups for the red-faced, intoxicated men.

No one paid any attention to them as they passed through. Greta led them to a heavy oak door off the west transept side, which she unlocked with practiced ease. “Right this way,” she said, pushing it open. Inside, the décor was no less extravagant—a continuation of velvet, gold, and Corinthian columns separating the central area from the private rooms where the soft, echoing moans of pleasure drifted out to meet them. 

As they entered this quieter section, Azalie noticed Astaroth had slipped away, as he often did when they visited places like this. She barely gave it a second thought—this was his favored haunt, after all. Astaroth seemed to belong in this world of indulgence, though she could never quite understand him. He was a paradox, a creature driven by pleasure yet as emotionless as a statue.

“We have a private room already set up for you, Lady Azalie,”  Greta said, guiding her down the hall. “And for the young master, this will be yours.” She stopped at one of the side rooms in the curve of the furthest wall and gestured toward the curtained alcove, drawing back the velvet portiere. 

Azalie watched as Azazel stepped inside the small, intimate room. It was furnished with a heavy wooden bed, its stone walls softened by beautiful tapestries. A woman sat gracefully on the bed, offering him a welcoming smile. He greeted her quietly in Italian before the curtain fell back into place, muffling their voices.

Interesting, Azalie thought.

Greta’s voice called her attention back. “This way, Lady Azalie.”

As they walked further down the hall, Azalie glanced at the drapery. “Are the curtains enchanted?” she asked.

“How very keen you are,” Greta replied, her smile widening. “Lady La Madre and the others spelled them for your family only a few days ago. You’re the first to mention it. If others have noticed, they’ve not spoken of it.”

Azalie nodded, intrigued. “And where is La Madre tonight? I have yet to see her.”

“La Madre is preparing for tomorrow’s full moon. She’s rather occupied with the casting and won’t be in attendance this evening.”

They soon arrived at another portiere. “Lady La Madre prepared this room especially for you, Lady Azalie.” Greta pulled back the drape, revealing the chamber beyond. Azalie peered inside.

The room was modest in size, similar to the one she had seen earlier, though the stone walls were left bare and smooth, lending a cold austerity to the space. Soft candlelight cast a dim orange glow, illuminating an Italian-style rug that covered much of the stone floor. A heavy wooden bed, laid with plush bedding and pillows, sat in the center of the room, its headboard flush against the wall. A young woman in a plain cream-colored tunic sat on the bed, her long black curls cascading over her shoulders. Upon seeing Azalie enter, the woman looked up, her face lighting up with a delighted smile.

“La Madre informed me that you were recently taken ill by the tainted blood,” Greta explained as she gestured to the girl on the bed. “This is Julia. She is our healthiest girl and has never before had her blood taken. Please, do be gentle with her.”

Azalie inclined her head. “Of course.”

Greta drew the heavy drapery closed as Azalie stepped further into the room. Julia’s smile remained, and she spoke in fluid Italian as Azalie approached the bed.

“Are you Lady Azalie? You certainly dress as such. The fineries of a noblewoman, I can only presume.”

Amused, Azalie smiled and replied in kind, “I am indeed Azalie, though I can hardly claim to be a true lady. I merely indulge in the luxuries I prefer.”

The young woman giggled lightly. “That is exactly what a lady would say.”

Azalie took a seat on the bed beside her. Julia had a light olive complexion, marred by a thin white scar that slashed across her chest. “May I call you Julia?”

“You may call me whatever pleases you, my lady.”

Azalie let down her scarf that veiled her face, folding it and placing it beside her. A dull ache still throbbed in her head. The injury she had sustained earlier had finally stopped bleeding but was still far from healed. As she revealed the wound, Julia gasped softly, her eyes widening in alarm.

Azalie raised a hand, motioning for silence.

“Julia, do you know why you’ve been brought here?” Azalie asked after Julia had calmed. She wanted to be certain that Julia had come of her own volition, not spelled, compelled or coerced unwillingly into becoming her donor.

Julia nodded. “Of course, my Lady. I’m here for you–you are in need of my blood.” 

Azalie noted the steadiness of her tone. If the girl had been spelled, she would have been too confused to answer and if she was compelled, her voice would lack such natural expression. Azalie didn’t think she was threatened either. Her voice was too calm and intentional.

“And do you know why I need your blood?”

“I was told a plague is spreading through Roma, and that the vampyres that we normally bottle our blood for, now require our blood, live.”

Plague? It seemed a simplified explanation, though Azalie suspected Julia had just been told a partial truth. There was no benefit in contradicting her.

“Indeed,” Azalie agreed. “As you can see, I am injured and have only just returned home. I am in need; however, I have never taken Live Blood before. I do not wish to harm you, so I must ensure your consent.”

Julia reached over to the side of the bed and produced a wash basin. Wetting a cloth, she wrung it out, then gently pressed it against the wound on Azalie’s head. “Do you believe I fear you, my lady?” Julia asked kindly as she dabbed at the dried blood.

“I believe you might, if I am not careful,” Azalie said, her tone harsher than she intended.

Julia paused, her hands steady as she dunked the bloodied rag back into the water basin and wrung it out again before returning it to Azalie’s wound. “Your concern for my well-being is kind of you. I believe you are a gentle soul, though I have heard otherwise.”

“Then you have heard correctly,” Azalie said coolly, her eyes fixed on Julia’s. “I’m certain any story you’ve heard rings with truth.”

Julia’s hand faltered slightly at the blunt admission. The stories that surrounded Azalie and her brother were no secret. Being the children of a powerful Vampyre Lord meant that discretion was a luxury they could never afford. Azalie would rather the woman understand the truth than maintain the false pretense of civility.

“Is it your wish to frighten me, my lady?” Julia asked, her voice soft, the faint tremor in it betraying her unease.

The pitiful sound made Azalie sigh with sympathy for the girl. She gently took the cloth from Julia’s hand and dropped it into the basin, the water dyed a pale pink. She took Julia’s hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “No. I simply wish for you to know the truth of whom you cater to. I will not feed from the unwilling. So regardless of anything you may have heard, know that this is true. I am not as cordial as I seem.”

Julia’s gaze remained steady, her voice calm and composed as she responded. “I believe you, my lady. La Madre has confirmed as such. Your family’s infamy is no secret, which is why most of the girls refuse to offer their blood live. They fear you.”

Azalie closed her eyes, torn between feeling relief or unease at the admission.

Continue to next part.