Chapter 43: Ruxandra

Lucian wasn’t happy.

First, he heard Silvana’s voice after months of running from her.

Second—she had Francesca.

He stood in the motel room, jaw locked tight, the ceiling fan groaning above him as its shadow cut across the walls. The room was quiet, except for the hum of the fan and the slow grind of his own thoughts.

“How did they get her?” he asked the moment Sebastian stepped in.

“Who?” Sebastian’s brows pinched, confusion plain on his face. He hadn’t heard what Lucian and Silvana said on the phone—he’d only seen Lucian crush the phone in his hand and walk away, silent and rigid.

“Francesca,” Lucian said, his back still turned. “They have her.”

“Oh.”

Sebastian didn’t look shocked. Not because he wasn’t—but because he didn’t know how to show it.

“If Silvana is working with the FBI,” Lucian said, “then that means—”

“The Church has caught up,” Sebastian finished, his tone dropping. The air thickened between them. “We have to leave. Now.”

“Did you not hear me?” Lucian’s voice sharpened, cutting through the hum of the fan. “They have Francesca.”

“Of course I heard you,” Sebastian shot back, tossing clothes into the box on the bed. “But what do you want to do, huh? Go there alone and get yourself killed? Silvana would love that.” He didn’t even glance at Lucian as he packed—he knew better than to look when Lucian’s temper rose.

“She will kill her,” Lucian said, his voice low but edged. “You don’t know Silvana.”

“But you do,” Sebastian replied, turning sharply toward him. “And there’s a reason you ran. Francesca put herself in this. You’ve saved her twice already. That’s enough. You’re not responsible for her anymore.” He pointed toward the window as if Francesca were standing just beyond it. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Lucian’s eyes darkened. He hated this part of Sebastian—the part that sounded so cold, so logical, like no one else mattered but him. He turned and walked out, unable to voice the anger pressing behind his teeth.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Sebastian called after him, slamming the box shut and dragging it on its wheels as he hurried after him.

Lucian didn’t answer. He kept walking.

By the time Sebastian caught up, they were already in the lobby. Lucian didn’t stop. He just kept moving until the motel doors opened and the air outside hit them like a slap.

“Lucian—wait!” Sebastian ran ahead of him and blocked his path. “What are you gonna do? March into a government op and wave at the Church? They know about you now. That’s not just bad—it’s suicide!”

Lucian’s frown deepened, silent but absolute.

Sebastian sighed, exasperated. “They’re trying to lure you, man. Can’t you see that?”

Lucian said nothing. He walked past him, straight to the car, and got in.

Sebastian stood there for a moment, then dragged the box into the trunk and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the key halfway before Lucian finally spoke.

“There is a club down in the Bronx,” he said. “That is where Ruxandra is staying.”

Sebastian froze, hand on the ignition. “Oh, hell no,” he said, staring at Lucian like he’d lost his mind.

“I am not asking, Sebastian.”

Lucian’s tone went cold—flat, final. The kind of voice that didn’t need to rise to make you obey. Sebastian exhaled slowly and turned the key.

\---

The Bronx greeted them like another world.

Even under the same New York sky, the air was heavier here—thicker with smoke, rhythm, and suspicion. The streets pulsed with music that bled from open windows, trap beats and Spanish verses colliding with car horns and laughter that didn’t sound friendly. Men leaned against rusted rails and street posts, smoke curling from blunts and cigarettes. Gold chains glinted against sweat-damp shirts. Children who should’ve been in school chased each other between cars.

Sebastian adjusted his seat, one hand on the wheel, his eyes forward but sharp. The windows were down—enough to blend in, not enough to invite. He kept their pace steady: not too fast to seem nervous, not too slow to draw attention. Still, the car drew eyes. A rent car with clean plates, two unfamiliar faces, and tinted glass—it screamed outsiders.

And it didn’t take long.

A group of men—five or six, sagging jeans, blunts between fingers, laughter loud and sharp—stepped into the street, blocking their path. One of them, broad-shouldered and slick with sweat, leaned into the driver’s window as Sebastian rolled it down.

“Hey, nigga,” he said, voice calm but edged. “What brings you to the Bronx?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Sebastian said evenly, not flinching, his tone as steady as his stare.

“Oh yeah?” The man straightened, grinning wide. “That’s a pretty vague answer, cuz. I’m someone. Hell, even Dunson over there’s someone.”

He pointed to a man behind him who looked barely aware of what was going on. The others laughed—too loud, too long. Then, just as suddenly, the laughter died, and his face hardened.

“When I talk to you, you get your ass out the car.”

Sebastian didn’t move. He just stared, unblinking, his silence cutting sharper than words.

Then, the sound of the passenger door opening broke the tension.

Lucian stepped out.

The men shifted, instinctively uneasy.

There was something about the way he moved—too calm, too quiet. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look afraid. He just walked—measured, certain—until he stood in front of one of the man.

“Hey, hey,” one of the others said quickly, voice dipping. “Leave him alone, man. Let him through.”

The man hesitated, glancing at his crew, then stepped aside.

Lucian stopped in front of him, looking down with eyes that seemed to pull the light out of the air. His eyes changed for a second and the man's face went still.

“Take me to Ruxandra,” he said.

The man froze. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The street grew silent. Even the music from the corner store dimmed, like the whole block had stopped to listen.

Then the man laughed. “What the fuck was that?” he said, but his voice came out wrong—too soft, too polite. He straightened suddenly, smiling wide. “Of course, I’ll take you to her. Please, follow me.”

His friends stared, bewildered, but none of them dared speak.

Lucian turned back to the car, his expression unreadable.

Sebastian watched him quietly as the car rolled forward, following the man through the narrow street.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he felt it—

That familiar weight in the air whenever Lucian said her name.

Ruxandra.

Even the sound of it carried a shadow.

The guy led them through a narrow hallway into a strip club called Hot Bathe.

The air changed immediately. The music was low and slow, heavy with bass that crawled up the skin. The lights were colored—red, blue, violet—spinning across the stage where a few women practiced on poles. It wasn’t crowded, but the smell of smoke still hung thick, like it had settled into the walls years ago and refused to leave.

They stopped before a wooden door at the back. The man knocked twice.

“Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice—sharp, smooth, and coated in a thick British accent.

“It’s Tyrone. I’m here with someone who wants to see you. His name is—”

“Lucian,” Lucian said.

The name sank into the silence. For a moment, no one spoke. Then her voice came again, quieter, slower:

“Come in.”

Lucian turned to Sebastian. “Stay here.”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. The room was dim, cluttered, more furniture than space. The smell hit first—fresh blood. On the floor, a man lay face-down, drained pale and empty.

Lucian barely had time to move before a hand gripped his neck and slammed him into the wall.

“You’ve got some balls showing up here after all the trouble you’ve caused.”

Her voice was low and venomous, her black hair hanging wild over her face, a wool robe barely tied around her. Her eyes burned red.

Lucian didn’t flinch. He drove his elbow into hers, twisting it free, then turned her by the head and kicked her across the room. She crashed through a shelf.

Sebastian heard the sound and moved for the door, but Lucian’s calm voice came from inside.

“Don’t worry, Sebastian.”

When Lucian looked again, Ruxandra was gone.

“I need your help with something rux—”

A plank slammed into his chest, throwing him backward. She pinned him to the floor, the jagged edge buried deep into his sternum. Lucian let out a grunt, sharp and brief.

“I missed your heart by a bit,” she said, crouching down with a faint smile. “Unfortunately, daddy still wants you alive.”

Lucian’s eyes stayed fixed on hers. “I need your help, Ruxandra.”

She ignored him, broke two more pieces of wood, and drove them through his hands, pinning him down like a crucifix.

She stood, brushing her palms, then walked to the kitchen. A jug waited there. She tipped it into a glass, and blood poured out thick and dark.

“That’s for Hansel” she said, walking back with a calm, mocking tone.

“I don’t know who Hansel is,” Lucian said, unmoved.

“A newly turned vampire,” she replied, sitting with her legs crossed. “He was still a Grendel when I sent him. I sent him out for blood, but he never returned. Then I heard you beheaded him in an alley.” She took a sip, the liquid painting her lips. “You own that thing?” Lucian asked.

“He was my marshal when I came to New York. A doctor once. Brilliant. But his obsession with young girls cost him his license… and his family.” She smiled faintly. “He begged me to make him immortal. Humans—so fragile, yet they still think they run the world while gods like us hide in the dark. Isn’t that funny?”

“I need your help, Ruxandra.”

She looked at him, tilting her head. “If you’re asking for help, the least you can do is listen to me. It’s not every day I get to see my big brother crucified like a pig.”

She drained the cup in one slow swallow, her fangs long now, her eyes red with pleasure. She moaned softly as if savoring something forbidden, then licked the blood from her lips.

Lucian sighed, staring at the ceiling.

She stood, untied her robe, and let it fall. Her skin gleamed under the dim light—perfect, pale, cold. She moved with the grace of someone who knew beauty was a weapon. At the wardrobe, she slipped into a black dress with a plunging neckline and high slits, her every movement deliberate. The gloves came next, reaching her elbows. When she sat back down, she looked every bit a queen on her throne.

“Go on,” she said simply.

“Silvana is here,” Lucian began. “And she—”

“Oh, the bitch you ran away with?” Ruxandra cut in, grinning. “I told you you’d regret it.”

“You know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate,” Lucian said, his patience thinning.

“You’re always desperate, Lucci.”

He took a breath, then tore his hands free. The sound of splintering wood and tearing flesh echoed across the room. The holes didn’t close immediately—wood was slow poison. He grunted as he ripped the stake from his chest, his body already beginning to heal.

He stood, towering over her.

“You will help me. I’ll get what I want, and I’ll surrender myself to you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Ruxandra laughed—a sound low and dangerous.

“Bold of you to think I give a fuck about you, Lucian. You still think high of yourself. Guess it runs in the family.”

She rose and looked him dead in the eye.

“Get out. Or the next stick I drive through you will hit your heart.”

“They have something you want,” Lucian said quietly. “You can feel it, can’t you? The urge to get what belongs to you, but you can’t do it alone. Don’t let your pride take what you love.”

The words landed. Her eyes flickered—recognition, then anger. The veins beneath her skin darkened; her claws extended, her fangs bared. But she froze when he said—

“Please.”

Her features softened. Slowly, her claws withdrew. She sat back down, waving a hand.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she muttered. “And tell that little marshal of yours not to cause trouble.”

Outside, two men had already pinned Sebastian against the wall.

“He’s my friend,” Lucian said.

Ruxandra smiled faintly, her voice smooth and cold.

“Of course he is.”