Chapter 59 Chapter Fifty-Nine
The vampire led them down a shadowed corridor, where the walls shifted to polished black marble veined in crimson.
The double doors at the end were tall—arched, lacquered black, and inlaid with intricate silver filigree. When they opened, the room beyond whispered of old wealth and older power.
Lazarus’ study was cavernous but not cold. Heavy velvet drapes lined the walls, pooling like spilled ink across the floor. Gothic candelabras flickered with blood-colored flame, casting long, shifting shadows across ornate bookshelves, skull-topped hourglasses, and ancient tomes bound in cracked leather.
A fireplace crackled low in the background, its flames casting a ruby glow over the centerpiece of the room: a wide mahogany desk carved with serpentine details, sharp enough to draw blood if one weren’t careful.
Behind it sat Lazarus.
He lounged—not with laziness, but with complete ownership—on a high-backed gothic chair upholstered in jet-black velvet. A deep red silk robe, loosely tied at the waist, clung to his frame like liquid sin. The collar was open just enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone and a hint of tattooed script winding down his chest.
To the right, Sebastian reclined in a tufted antique armchair, elbow propped against the armrest, the side of his face resting lightly in his hand. He said nothing, but his eyes—cool, unreadable—were fixed on the two Lycans now standing before them.
Neither of them spoke.
The man who’d led them in moved past with practiced ease, making his way to a drink table nestled beside a glass cabinet of rare spirits and preserved relics. He bent to open a discreet fridge, pulled out a blood bag labeled O negative, punctured it with a gleaming silver spike, and began pouring the contents into two crystal wine glasses.
The blood was still settling in the crystal glasses when Lazarus finally spoke.
“Please,” he said, his voice rich and unhurried, “have a seat.”
Julian and Jace moved cautiously toward the two chairs set across from the desk—deep mahogany with clawed feet and blood-red upholstery that matched the candelight’s glow. They didn’t sit so much as perch, alert and wary, like they were waiting for the chairs to bite.
The vampire who had poured the blood stepped forward and placed the glasses before Lazarus and Sebastian, who each accepted them with the ease of ritual.
“Do you care for any refreshments?” Lazarus asked smoothly, lifting his glass and swirling it once before taking a long, deliberate sip.
Julian watched as Sebastian followed suit, closing his eyes as if savoring the vintage.
The smell—thick, coppery, alive—hit the Lycans like a punch to the gut.
Both men straightened slightly, their expressions neutral but taut. That curdled feeling in their stomachs tightened, instinctive and unshakable.
“No, thank you,” Julian said, voice clipped but polite.
Sebastian laughed softly, eyes gleaming over the rim of his glass.
“We do have other refreshments, you know,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Things that bleed a little slower.”
Julian’s jaw flexed.
“We’re fine,” he said firmly, nodding once. “But thank you for the offer.”
Lazarus’s smile was faint, almost unreadable. He set his glass down with a soft click.
“Then let’s get on with it.”
His gaze flicked to the candelabras, noting the inching flame.
“Sunrise is nearly upon us… and we’ll need to retire soon.”
Julian leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his thighs.
“We came here because of a map,” he said. “Ancient. From a time before packs… before kingdoms… before anything resembling order.”
Lazarus tilted his head, interest flickering in his crimson eyes.
Julian continued.
“It’s called the Veilrender Cartograph.”
A breath.
“It shows four gates—north, south, east, and west. Each said to lead to realms not tethered to this one.”
He gave a dry huff.
“I’d show it to you, but it’s back in the jeans I had to strip off downstairs.”
Lazarus gave a low hum, not quite a chuckle.
“No need,” he said, folding one hand over the other. “I’m familiar.”
His gaze sharpened just slightly.
“What is it you wish to know?”
Julian leaned forward, eyes fixed on the vampire king.
“Are the gates real?”
For the first time, Lazarus hesitated.
He exchanged a glance with Sebastian—brief, unreadable, but charged.
Then he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling beneath his chin.
“What if they were?”
Julian didn’t blink.
“Then I need to know if one of them leads to the Fae realm.”
That earned a subtle lift of Lazarus’s brow.
A glint of amusement flickered in his gaze.
“Oh?” he said, voice rich with curiosity. “Taken an interest in Fae lore, have you?”
Julian’s body tensed just slightly.
“Something like that,” he said.
“My mate… is a Fae hybrid.”
The silence that followed was instant and absolute.
Lazarus stilled.
Sebastian sat up straighter, his hand falling from his cheek.
Lazarus’s gaze sharpened, red eyes narrowing faintly.
“That’s impossible.”
His voice was quiet, but the weight of it was undeniable.
“The Fae have always been fiercely protective of blood purity. They rarely leave their realm—let alone invite others in. And they certainly don’t mix their bloodline with outsiders.”
Julian didn’t hesitate.
“Well, one Fae did… with a Lycan.” He let the words hang for a beat.
“My mate’s powers awakened a few weeks ago… and she unknowingly teleported into the Fae realm.”
Sebastian shifted, interest flickering behind his sharp gaze.
“And how exactly do you know she ended up there?”
Julian met his eyes, voice low and resolute.
“Because she told me. Tonight—when she dream-walked.”
That gave them both pause.
Sebastian leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but fascination.
“Interesting,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
Lazarus studied Julian for a long beat, then exhaled—slow and thoughtful.
“Realm-walking,” he said, almost to himself. “An exceptionally rare gift.”
His voice dipped lower, threaded with the weight of memory.
“I’ve only known it to manifest in three places: among the most powerful mage clans… in Fae descended from ancient royal bloodlines… and in one other immortal being—one who holds power that most minds can’t begin to comprehend.”
Julian sighed, then lifted his gaze.
“Unfortunately… I’m not a realm-walker. Which is why I need to know how to reach the gate that leads to the Fae realm.”
Lazarus didn’t respond right away.
His expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed felt colder. He shifted slightly in his chair, one brow lifting in something between pity and warning.
“You’ll die before you even make it there.”
The words hung in the air—blunt. Final.
Jace stilled beside Julian, tension coiling in his shoulders.
But Julian didn’t back down.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Lazarus was a bit taken back.
“This isn’t a ghost story, boy,” he said softly. “The gates aren’t just old myths told around a fire to scare the curious.”
He leaned forward, voice dipping low with the weight of ancient truth.
“They’re real. And they’re very much guarded—by ancient beings. Sentinels. Their sole purpose is to keep the unworthy out. One strike from them…”
A slow, chilling pause.
“…and you’re marked for death.”
Julian’s voice cut through the stillness, low but unyielding.
“Then tell me how to get past them. How to trick them. Distract them. Something.”
He rose from his chair, eyes hard.
“You’ve lived over six thousand years—you’ve seen what most only whisper about. Don’t tell me you’ve never uncovered a weakness. A crack. A way through.”
Lazarus’s expression darkened, the amusement gone from his eyes.
“I will not help you orchestrate your own death.”
His voice, though quiet, held the weight of finality.
“Your time is up. It’s time you left.”
Julian stood his ground.
“I’m not leaving.”
His voice was calm, but unshakable.
“Not until you tell me what I need to know.”
The tension shifted like a crack splitting the floor beneath them.
The double doors opened, and two towering men stepped in—bear shifters, thick-necked and stone-faced. They approached without a word.
Julian barely had time to react before they seized him—one at each side.
He struggled, teeth clenched, feet skidding across the floor as they dragged him backward.
“So all that charity you do for hybrids…” he snapped, voice low and hard.
“It’s just a bunch of bullshit, isn’t it?”
Lazarus didn’t react.
Julian’s voice sharpened, hitting the edge between restraint and fury.
“My mate is a hybrid. In a realm you just implied would rather see her erased than accepted.”
“A realm untouched by outsiders for centuries. A place that prides itself on blood purity. A place that sees her as a mistake.”
He twisted in the grip of the bear shifters, jaw clenched.
“She’s alone. Surrounded by people whose true intentions we don’t even understand. And she may not even know how to come back home.”
A breath.
Then quieter—like something raw had split open:
“You say you give people like her a second chance.”
“Then help me give her one.”
That’s when Lazarus moved.
His voice didn’t rise.
His hand simply lifted.
“Wait.”
The bear shifters halted mid-step.
Julian yanked free of their grip, his movements sharp with tension. He straightened his shoulders, a flicker of defiance in his eyes—like he dared them to try again.
Then he turned, locking eyes with Lazarus.
The vampire king regarded him in silence for a long moment… then slowly shook his head.
“You are one stubborn bastard.”
A breath, just shy of a scoff.
“Willing to knock on death’s door and demand it open.”
Julian’s voice was quiet—but resolute.
“For her?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
His gaze shifted, pointed, as he motioned subtly toward Sebastian.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Lazarus turned his head.
Sebastian hadn’t moved, but his eyes met Lazarus’s—and in them was an answer neither of them had to say aloud.
When Lazarus looked back to Julian, something had changed.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
“But understand this—”
His tone darkened, grounded in something ancient and grave.
“I can’t promise you’ll make it back alive.”