The bass throbbed through the walls of Velvet Abyss like a second heartbeat. The club occupied the basement of a deconsecrated church in Hackney—ironic, considering the sins unfolding inside. Strobe lights sliced through smoke and fog, turning bodies into flickering silhouettes. Leather booths lined the edges, VIP sections cordoned off with velvet ropes and bouncers who looked like they bench-pressed cars for fun.
Lilith and Seraphina moved through the crowd like sharks in shallow water.
Lilith wore black leather pants that hugged every curve, a cropped top of sheer mesh that left little to the imagination, and stiletto boots that clicked with purpose. Her long raven hair was pulled into a high ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck where the faint silver veins from absorbed souls pulsed faintly under the lights.
Seraphina opted for dark red—a tight halter dress that ended mid-thigh, knife strapped high on her inner leg, platinum hair slicked back. She looked like trouble wrapped in silk.
They'd come for one name: Irina Volkov. Twenty-four. Russian-born. Last seen working as a "hostess" for Elias Crowe's private parties six months ago. In the soul-flash from Crowe, Lilith had glimpsed her—bruised cheek, defiant eyes, slipping out a back door after one too many "requests." If Irina had survived Crowe's world, there was a chance she'd awakened the same way they had.
The plan was simple: find her, talk, recruit. If she wasn't here… well, there were always other marks in a place like this.
They split up at the bar. Seraphina took the dance floor, using her new speed to weave through the press of bodies, scanning faces. Lilith headed for the VIP stairs, flashing a smile at the bouncer that made him step aside without asking for ID. The power from Crowe's soul still lingered—charisma dialed up, eyes that could convince stone to melt.
Upstairs, the music dulled to a low pulse. Private booths, crystal decanters, girls in lingerie circulating with trays. No Irina.
But there was a mark.
A man in his late thirties, tailored suit, gold watch that cost more than most people's rent. He lounged in the corner booth with two bodyguards—ex-military types, earpieces, hands never far from concealed holsters. His name came unbidden from the soul-echoes still whispering in Lilith's mind: Marcus Kane. Money launderer for several Eastern European syndicates. Liked to "sample the merchandise" before letting it go to clients.
Lilith's lips curved. Not Irina, but close enough. A warm-up.
She approached, hips rolling, eyes locked on his. Kane noticed immediately. His gaze raked her from boots to ponytail, lingering on the mesh top.
"Seat's taken," one bodyguard growled.
Lilith ignored him, sliding into the booth beside Kane like she belonged there. "Not anymore."
Kane chuckled, low and oily. "Bold. I like bold." He signaled for champagne. "What's your name, gorgeous?"
"Lilith." She leaned in, letting her breast brush his arm. "And you're Marcus. I know people who know people."
His smile tightened—just a fraction. "Do you now?"
She traced a finger along his collar. "I know you like control. I know you take what you want. Tonight… I want to play."
The bodyguards shifted, hands inching toward weapons.
Kane raised a hand. "Easy, boys. She's harmless." To Lilith: "Private room?"
"Lead the way."
He stood. The bodyguards flanked them as they moved down a short hallway to a soundproofed suite—red velvet walls, king bed, mirrored ceiling. One guard stayed outside the door. The other followed in, closing it behind them.
Kane turned, loosening his tie. "Strip."
Lilith smiled. "Make me."
He lunged—fast for a man his age. Hands grabbed her waist, shoving her back toward the bed. She let him think he had her, then twisted—using the new strength from Crowe to flip him onto the mattress. She straddled him in one fluid motion, pinning his wrists above his head.
"Feisty," he grunted, bucking up. "I like that."
She ground down hard—once, twice—feeling the thread snap into place. His soul was thick, tar-like, reeking of blood money and broken lives.
The second bodyguard drew his gun.
"Boss—"
Seraphina exploded through the door like a shadow given speed. She'd slipped past the outside guard—knife already out. One slash across the wrist; the gun clattered. A knee to the solar plexus dropped him gasping.
Lilith laughed—dark, thrilled. "Took you long enough."
"Had to deal with the one in the hall," Seraphina said, wiping the blade on the fallen guard's jacket. "He's napping."
Kane struggled beneath Lilith. "You crazy bitches—"
She leaned down, lips brushing his ear. "Shh. This won't take long."
She rocked against him—slow, deliberate—building friction through fabric. His body responded despite the fear in his eyes. The thread thickened.
Seraphina moved behind him, pressing a knee to his spine to keep him still. "Share?"
Lilith nodded.
They worked in tandem. Lilith unzipped him, guided him free, sank down in one smooth glide. Kane groaned—half pleasure, half terror.
Seraphina's hand pressed to his chest. "Now."
Lilith clenched. The thread tore.
Kane's eyes bulged. Soul poured—dark, viscous, carrying flashes of wire transfers, shipping containers full of girls, silenced pistols in back alleys.
The orb emerged—larger than Crowe's, edged in sickly green.
They drank it together. Power slammed through them like lightning. Lilith's vision sharpened to razor edges; Seraphina's movements became a blur even to her own eyes.
Kane convulsed once—then went limp. Empty.
They dismounted. Breathing hard. Skin glowing faintly.
But the room wasn't quiet.
A low growl echoed from the corners.
The mirrors cracked.
Black smoke poured from the seams, coalescing into something humanoid—seven feet tall, skin like cracked obsidian, eyes burning sulfur-yellow. Horns curled back from a bald skull. Claws flexed.
A demon.
Low-tier, but real. Its voice rasped like gravel in a blender.
"You steal what belongs to the Sovereign. You feed on His crop."
Lilith stood, legs still shaky from the harvest. "Then tell your boss we're open for business."
The demon lunged—claws raking air where Lilith had been a heartbeat before. Seraphina moved faster—new speed from the shared soul letting her dart around it, slashing at tendons.
Lilith felt the power surge. She didn't think—she acted. She leaped, higher than humanly possible, landing on the demon's back. Arms locked around its throat. Legs clamped its waist.
It roared, slamming backward into the wall. Plaster cracked. Lilith held on, squeezing.
Seraphina darted low—knife flashing—severing the tendon behind one knee. The demon staggered.
Lilith felt the same thread she'd felt in men—thinner, alien, but there. A soul. Or what passed for one in a creature like this.
She pulled.
The demon shrieked—high, unearthly. Black ichor sprayed. Its essence unraveled—not clean like a human soul, but jagged, burning.
Lilith absorbed it anyway.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. Visions: endless voids, screaming faces, a throne of bones, a crowned figure wreathed in shadow.
Then silence.
The demon collapsed into ash and smoke.
Lilith dropped to her knees, gasping. The silver veins on her chest flared brighter—then dimmed.
Seraphina knelt beside her. "You okay?"
Lilith nodded slowly. "Stronger. But… I saw something. Someone. Watching."
Seraphina helped her up. "We need to move. Security will be here soon."
They slipped out the back—past unconscious guards, through service corridors, into the rain-soaked alley.
Behind them, the club's bass still pounded.
Ahead, the city waited—full of marks, full of monsters.
And somewhere in the dark, Irina Volkov might still be waiting too.
But now the hunters had teeth.
And the hunted were starting to notice.