The monster doesn’t land on a human. It hits a vampire—a woman in a shimmering silver gown—and the sound of her ribcage shattering under its weight echoes through the ballroom like a dry branch snapping in winter. She doesn’t even have time to hiss before the creature’s obsidian talons are buried in her throat. The "refined" supernatural guests, the elite of the shadow world who spent the evening sipping blood-red wine and discussing politics, suddenly remember what they are: predators. But for the first time in centuries, they look like prey.
I scream, the sound lost in the cacophony of panicked rosettes and the low, vibrating growls of werewolves beginning to shift. But I can't move. Sade’s hand is a vise around my neck, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin of my throat, right abo
