Blood of the Obsidian Queen

EVEET- 16 Years Old -

Eight years had passed since that unforgettable morning. Yet, Anya still dreamt of her mother's body as it lay on the floor of her bedroom. Her black blood slowly creeping towards her. Eventually, it would always end the same. A pair of dark eyes chased her through the hallways as her mother's dead body appeared in every room she ran into.

Anya shivered, thinking of the familiar nightmare. She'd had the same recurring dream for the last eight years. She was sixteen now, and she had spent the last several hours getting ready for her birthday party.

She could hear the music playing in the ballroom downstairs. It thumped through the floor, vibrating the baseboards under her heels. She could almost see the people mingling and laughing.

Most are probably half-drunk, she thought sardonically.

Anya rolled her eyes before looking at herself in the vanity mirror. She was sitting in front of it, practicing the smile she would be expected to wear tonight. It was pretty and brightened her already elegant features.

Her thick lips wore a dark shade of red, and she’d touched her cheeks lightly with some imported makeup that her father had bought her.

Her strong jaw and dark curly hair showcased her father’s Russian blood. She wore it long tonight, and it feathered over her bare shoulders, which framed the delicate straps of her slim black satin dress.

She lifted her shoulders a couple of times, feeling sexy as she twisted sideways to peek at the daringly low back of her dress. A thick gold band hung around her neck, and a long string of pearls rested lightly between her breasts.

When she met her own eyes in the mirror, she couldn’t help but drop the fake smile she wore. She refused to lie to herself.

Hard eyes stared back, and a heavy sigh filtered through her lungs as exhaustion seemed to sap the energy from her bones.

As if she’d said the maid's name, Celestine walked up and placed a petite stemmed glass down on the edge of the vanity.

“The guests are arrivin’, chérie, an’ I tink you could use dis. I don’ tink yo papa would mind." The maid’s rich Creole accent gave her words a slow, melodic drawl, but more than anything, it brought a genuinely rare smile to Anya's face.

“Thank you, Celestine.” Her voice, which was unusually deep for a lady, dragged across her dry vocal cords like smoke. She couldn't help but lightly clear her throat.

Reaching out, she grabbed the crystal flute and drank half its contents to ease the dryness.

There would be dancing and card tables surrounded by girls looking to snag a man. Anya expected fights and blood tonight, even if the Pakhan, her father, had forbidden any brawling, or "roughhousing" as the boys called it.

“You lookin’ mighty fine tonight, chérie,” Celestine said with a warm smile. “Need anythin’ else, or you ready to shine at that party?”

Anya's gaze swung to the maid standing to her right. She heard the unspoken words urging her to get down to the party.

"You're right. Of course." Anya said, almost bitterly, before smiling up at Celestine. "I'll finish my drink and make my way down. Let the Master of Ceremonies know I'm on my way, please."

Anya's heart sped the moment the words left her mouth. This was the moment she dreaded the most. All eyes would turn to her, and she would hold all the attention in the room.

All of that forced attention was almost too much, even though she could already handle herself well enough. Ever since her mother’s murder, training had become her life.

However, hundreds of people looking to her to bear the full brunt of their expectations and relentless scrutiny?

Anya shivered thinking about it, and downed the rest of the sweet drink in her glass.

Standing, she glanced once more at her attire. When she was satisfied, she set the glass on the vanity before making her way to the ballroom.

Anya stood for a moment outside the glass doors that led to the second-story stairwell. Her father had demanded that she use it and not sneak in where no one would notice her.

Through the glass, she could already see the haze of smoke that lifted off from the crowd below. The smell of premium liquor made its way to her, and she scoffed.

The Volkov Bratva owned New Orleans’ underworld, controlling the flow of drugs, guns, gambling, and women, led by Anya’s father, Sam Volkov.

She peeked through the glass at the ballroom below.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, draped with velvet curtains in deep burgundy, lined the walls, offering views of the moonlit bayou that ran behind their estate. Tables laden with top-shelf liquor and Creole delicacies like gumbo and beignets gave the room a spicy aroma.

Movement on the far balcony caught her attention, and she saw a flash of black.

Luca? Or did Father place extra enforcers? Her thoughts came, distracting her from the excitement below.

Luca was her one weakness. A dark storm that battered at her meticulously built walls.

Will he come?

She knew enforcers in dark suits would patrol discreetly all night, blending celebration with underworld power, but was Luca among them?

"Anya Volkov," the Master of Ceremonies announced, pulling her from her thoughts.

"Here we go." She whispered.