Pretty When She Destroys (Pretty When She Dies #3)(87)

“Come on,” the young man with the iPad urged Amaliya, waving her toward him. “Don’t step on the markings.”

Narrowing her eyes, Amaliya ambled on unsteady feet away from the portal. She could hear the thrum of its power and feel the artic coldness that dwelled within it. The black witches were completely silent, their eyes riveted to the gateway. Dressed either in a black shirt and jeans, or a black dress, the thirteen people were of various ages, ethnicities and split almost evenly between the sexes, with women having just one more of their number. Their eyes were utterly black. Amaliya carefully edged between two of the witches and approached The Summoner.

There was no mistaking he was control of Bianca’s body. Cold blue eyes watched Amaliya approach as he was released from his bindings. Lifting his charred wrists, he smiled with Bianca’s sweet cupid mouth as they healed.

“So this is how you keep her from escaping,” Amaliya said, folding her arms over her breasts and cocking her hip. Eduardo had been right.

“It’s effective,” The Summoner said simply.

Glancing over her shoulder, Amaliya saw that the black miasma hovering in the air was now churning violently. Thick bubbles ran along the tendrils connecting it to the witches. Amaliya could feel the power escalating, becoming more dangerous.

“You said you would spare them!”

“They’re closing the portal,” The Summoner answered with a dismissive shrug.

“I don’t believe you!”

“Watch. It’s closing. I can’t have your friends coming through to disrupt our time together.”

One by one, the witches dropped to the floor with loud, painful sounding smacks. The portal swelled outward once, like a large bladder filling with liquid, then it crumpled in on itself, vanishing with a fleshy pop.

“What the hell?” Amaliya stared at the spot where the portal had floated, then at the witches. Blood oozed from their mouths, noses, and ears. “Are they dead?”

“No, no. They’ll recover,” the young man answered, nervously fidgeting with his tablet. He was wearing clothes that looked like something out of an anime film.

Out of the darkness that bordered the room, tall beings emerged to bend over the fallen black witches. Their eyes glowed like red fires in odd faces that were not quite human. Amaliya recoiled, realizing they were demons. The creatures claimed the witches and carried them out of the room. As they filed past the candles, the flames expired one by one, smoke curling upward toward the high ceiling.

“Stark, the lights,” The Summoner said crisply.

The young man nodded, slid his finger over the iPad screen, and the three large chandeliers suspended above their heads came to life. “There you go.”

The Summoner stood. Bianca’s body was clad in a long white dress and white lace-up boots. Her blonde hair was brushed into soft waves around her delicate face. Though the face of the younger woman was youthful and lovely with big blue eyes, sweet pink lips, and rosy cheeks, cruelty lingered just beneath the surface. Bianca had never appeared this way in life. Amaliya stared into the blueness of the other woman’s gaze, seeking out any sign of the other medium.

There was none.

“Your plan succeeded,” Etzli said, her voice raspy. “Now we should move to crush Cian’s cabal.”

Amaliya glared at Etzli. “As if you could.”

“That wasn’t the agreement between me and my prodigal daughter. I have agreed to allow them to live since she has so graciously returned to the fold. It spared me having to bring her back unconscious and bind her in chains.”

Bianca’s fingers were cold, yet enticing against her cheek.

“What if they try to stop us?” Etzli glowered at Amaliya, obviously not trusting her. “What if she tries to stop us?”

“Cian’s cabal is inconsequential. They were amusing pawns in my game to acquire Amaliya, but we are done with it now. All is as it should be.” The exultant smile on Bianca’s lips was cruel in its certainty.

Gregorio returned to the room dragging a young dark-haired woman with him. She was already covered in bloody bites. Sobbing, Etzli’s prey futilely attempted to break free, but the man ignored her clawing fingers. Gruffly, he thrust her into Etzli’s arms. With a loud, hungry hiss, Etzli sank her sharp teeth into the girl’s throat. The fragrance of warm, fresh blood filled the room.

Slipping his arm around Amaliya’s waist, The Summoner escorted her past the feeding vampire and out into a long hallway with a arched ceiling. “Stark, monitor the unrest in San Antonio. We may need to release more of the black magic spells to incite more violence. Trish, make sure to dispose of the body once Etzli is done feeding.”

Amaliya shivered involuntarily as The Summoner escorted her through his haven. The dark power dwelling in the house was heavy and foreboding. The air itself was so thick with black magic it was like walking through a fog. It dampened the light spilling from the wall sconces and overhead chandeliers. Death magic was intertwined with a much blacker, scarier power. Amaliya had to fight not to let it sink into her.

The house was old, but beautifully preserved. Arched doorways, red-tiled floors, and white walls spoke of a Spanish influence, yet it didn’t resemble Santos’s old haven. There was a hint of Victorian opulence in the design.

As they walked, she kept her head slanted downward, her hair sliding forward to shield her features from The Summoner’s gaze. It was difficult to hide her anger, contempt, and frustration. She supposed she should be pretending to be much more subservient, but it wasn’t in her nature. With a growing sense of foreboding, she realized that she may have to give in to her darker nature to actually succeed.