by Sage, May
At least Cat didn’t break her bones when she messed up.
Daughter of Storm
Cat smiled on her way down from Night Hill at ten that evening. She might reprimand Chloe's every mistake and keep a stern brow during their lesson, but that was because pushing the woman was effective. In three months, Chloe had greatly improved; she could no doubt hold her own against most common vampires now.
The slayers, the ancients, and those who owned a house on this hill were another matter. Cat didn’t think she would have a chance against any of them, so she was ill-suited for teaching Chloe how to fight them. For that, Levi would have to take charge of Chloe’s training.
Cat idly wondered if they’d let her sit in on their lessons. She could learn a great deal from the ancient.
If she was still in Oldcrest by then.
She wasn’t naïve enough to think that she’d be allowed to remain here indefinitely.
Cat headed to her right, instinctively holding herself a little straighter, stiffer, as she passed a white house built like the Pantheon, with columns, a flat roof, and walls sculpted with symbols from an ancient, bygone world. Everything about this house was familiar, though she'd never entered it. The third house on the hill was but a miniature Stormhall, built to look just like their residence in Rome.
Cat sighed. She’d been foolish to hope that the shadow of her family would not reach her here.
She sped along the path, greeting the keeper of the gates as she left, then rushed down the road leading to the ancient fortress where the Institute of Paranormal Studies had been built.
Long ago, the castle had harbored a witches’ coven. Seven families on the hill and dozens of witches in the valley—that had been Oldcrest at the very start. Together, they'd sworn to keep Eirikr locked in his tomb, his prison. For centuries, this hill was seen as the seat of immortal powers, where most of the world's politics were decided in the shadows. Despite her efficient memory, Cat couldn’t remember the name of the witch clan, which meant that no one had told her. She filed the question in one corner of her mind, intending to bring it up when she had the opportunity.
Now the witches were long gone and only a few outcasts lived on Night Hill, though members of each family did occasionally pop by.
For Cat, Oldcrest was the perfect hideout. She'd had enough of her family, enough of Rome, enough of suffocating under their rules, their demands, their punishments, but one doesn't simply leave the Stormhales. Abandoning the family without orders was grounds for banishment, if the head of the family was feeling kind.
Or worse.
More than likely worse, in her case. Aunt Dru rarely felt kindness toward Catherine.
So instead, Cat had been clever, planting seeds and biding her time.
She’d started to correspond with the Beaufort heiress, Anika, a professor at the Institute. She'd mentioned Anika's station, the respect the other families had for her, and, of course, she'd also said a thing or two about Levi being single and highly eligible, until she was finally ordered to go to the Institute. Further her education. Fuck a prince.
Even before meeting him, Cat never had any interest in Levi. She had no interest in anyone who'd want to boss her around. Besides, the stories she’d heard about him were horrific. But it wouldn't do to let anyone think that she didn't intend on seducing him. Cat knew she wouldn't have been sent here otherwise.
Now that it was common knowledge that the Leviathan was with the Eirikrson heir, she expected a letter to come any time, ordering her back home. Each passing week without one was a surprise; she wasn’t sure why her aunt hadn’t gotten in touch yet, though it didn’t bode well. But as long as no word came, Cat would enjoy her freedom.
Hearing a clock chime in the distance, she rushed into the night class moments before Fin Varra, their delectable ancient fae professor, entered the room.
In the middle of winter, Fin often showed up shirtless—a pleasure like no other on Earth—but now, in mid-May, when everyone else struggled with the heat, he walked in wearing a dark cloak that flowed to the floor like it was made of mist. The creature was unable to look anything but fabulous.
"You think he’s wearing anything under that?" the woman seated on Cat's left asked.
Cat grinned, admiring Greer Vespian's courage.
Greer, an ochre-skinned, freckled, redheaded beauty with pale green eyes, was the second woman Cat had ever considered a friend. Perhaps not a close friend—she had no reason to trust her—but they had an easy relationship. Greer never asked personal questions, and never revealed anything about herself. Instead, they joked, gossiped, helped each other in class, and practiced yoga together. Their superficial arrangement was perfect for Cat.
Fin had undoubtedly heard every word; vampires’ good hearing was nothing compared to the senses of an Aos Si.
Should the professor not be in the mood to be ogled and objectified, he might spell Greer for months, years, centuries, cursing her entire bloodline with nothing more than a few words.
And Greer just didn't care. Which made her incredibly brave. Or insane.
Cat was wiser; she remained silent, though she did wonder. She couldn't see the hem of any clothing under the cloak.
For a long moment, Fin fixed Greer with a heated gaze.
"I just came out of my bath, Miss Vespian. My skin doesn't tolerate the rough fabric of this world well. This"—he touched his collar—"came from my world. It’s like wearing a cloud of softness."
The witch bit her lip and swallowed a strangled laugh.
"Thank you, sir. That's exactly what women need to hear on these dreary days."
Cat shifted in her seat, feeling rather uncomfortable now that she knew the glorious male was, for all intents and purposes, naked.
"Now, if you're quite satisfied, we can start where we left off last week. It is impossible to spell, hex, or even influence those who carry the blood of the gods, and thus, only one thing can affect them. What is that, Mr. Venari?"
Cat winced and discreetly turned to the back of the room. That was hardly fair.
Sebastian Venari was the newest student in the Advanced Spells class, and Cat suspected he’d picked it only because of the time and attendance. The class ran from ten-thirty to midnight, and mostly consisted of vampires. Greer was the sole student with mortal blood in her veins, and she smelled different than most. Older. Somehow more enticing and less appealing all at once.
To a new vampire, mortals smelled like food. Like prey. Cat had been turned thirteen months ago, and she was still uncomfortable in a room full of regular humans. But strong witches, huntsmen, and shifters were different. A little less like a steak dinner. They had powers of their own, and even the monster buried under a vampire’s conscious mind recognized it.
Sebastian—Bash, his friends called him—had just turned, first into a feral, then back into a regular vampire. He was now subjected to the worst kind of desire. A thirst he couldn’t control.
And he was dealing with it badly.
Asking him any academic questions right now wasn't nice. The guy had bigger concerns.
To her surprise, he grumbled, "Elements."
Correct. Cat’s eyebrows hiked up an inch.
Any magic user knew that, but she hadn’t expected an ex-hunter to be versed in spells. She wondered whether the huntsmen also had classes on craft. Know thy enemy and all that. Maybe they needed to understand how magic worked so they could kill witches and mages more efficiently.
The huntsmen were part of an ancient, elite order of mortal-ish men and women who hunted rogue vampires, immortals, witches, shifters. Anything paranormal that represented a threat to humanity.
She had little love for them and their tendency to kill first, ask questions later. But for all that, Cat had to admit, she felt sorry for the man. A little. No one deserved to be turned against their will. Without preparation.
Until he’d joined the class this week, she'd only seen him a handful of times since it had happened.
And he looked so miserable.
The other part of her didn’t feel sorry at all. To be honest, she was pissed at him for wallowing instead of acting. He was such a waste.
"Indeed, elements,” Fin said. “When you cannot touch the mind or body of your opponent directly, elements are your one defense. Make the ground underneath their feet shake. Make the air blow them ten feet back so they stumble upon their sword. Command the waters to flood their lungs until they drown."
His voice caressed each word, making torture sound far too enticing. Which was so very typical of a fae, come to think of it. Flooding lungs might be Fin Varra’s kink.
“Well, that's the theory,” Fin added. “In practice, in the entire history of time, only a handful of magic users have ever learned to master more than one element. Names? Catherine, it’s been a while since you showed off.”
She immediately named the six recorded multi-elemental mages. Half the class chuckled and the others groaned. She ignored them all.
“Correct, as usual. Now, assuming that you’re no Tatiana, Queen of Fae, you will have one affinity. Each individual, even the most mundane of regular humans, has a link to one specific element. This week, we're going to determine your affinity. Some of you already know your power. Very well. Shut up about it and take notes."
Another dig at her. Cat’s power was air, and storms in particular; it was in her blood, a trait shared by her entire family. But in this class, she was the only one with a clear familial affinity.
"Elemental magic is as volatile as it is powerful, but control it, and no force in this world can stop you. Let it control you, and it will swallow you whole.”
Fin's eyes fell on her, lingering for a moment before he added, “Of course, that’s assuming you wield a decent amount of magic to start with.”
Ouch.
Shot fired.
Mages and Monsters
Bash didn't know why he'd taken this class. He sucked at this. He sucked at everything, mostly because nothing kept his attention. Nothing but blood.
The ache that had been incessantly pounding at the back of his head for months grew stronger as he followed the professor’s instructions and focused on the stone in front of him.
Dammit. How fucking useless.
"You're thinking about this too hard," said a voice he recognized without issue.
His mind—that never stopped these days, even as he slept—only had to hear, smell, or taste something once to know it as well as if he'd known it his whole life.
But this voice in particular rang so very distinct from any other. Probably because Catherine Stormhale, though she was fluent in English, Latin, French, and who knew what else, had the most delightful faint Italian drawl coloring her speech.
He lifted his head and found her looking at him, her pretty face scrunched into a scowl.
She scowled often. Whenever she didn't sneer or roll her eyes.
"I'm no witch," Bash grunted.
"No, you're a vampire," she whispered. "If you had elemental gifts, they would have been awakened when you changed."
"What business is it of yours?” he bit back.
Cat's eyes weren't expressive at all. The opposite. She was so very great at seeming indifferent that he put it down to years of training in the art of being a lady vamp. A predator with a tongue and mind as sharp as her fangs and claws.
But now, he would have sworn she was a little hurt. He refused to feel sorry. He just wasn't her problem.
"None," she replied with a shrug before turning back to her own desk.
He redirected his attention to the blue elemental crystal before him, focusing as hard as he could.
Then, she spoke again, quieter if possible.
"I felt something when you worked on the earth crystal."
Bash glanced at her back. She held herself so damn straight, it was frustrating to watch. Come on, everyone slouched, dammit.
He put the blue stone down and grabbed the brown one beside it.
She was right. Concentrating on that one felt easier, more natural. Although it wasn't doing anything. But at least his head no longer felt like it might split open.
"That's epic! Can you help me too?" Greer, the witch beside Catherine, whispered.
Before she could say a word, their professor answered. "I think not, Miss Vespian. You'll do your own homework. Catherine, that's quite enough flaunting for one day. Behave. If you concerned yourself with your affairs rather than everyone else's, you may have noticed an oddity with your own results."
"I know I respond to water as well as air, sir," she replied. "But that's minimal."
"Does that make it irrelevant, my lady?" he asked her.
Bash could tell Catherine was uncomfortable with this line of questioning, and his instincts were to rush to her defense, do something to help her. That was who he was, and becoming this…thing hadn't changed that, at least.
The professor walked away from Catherine, who relaxed, to Bash’s relief.
These days, protecting people wasn't his primary desire. Even now, he smelled everything, everyone. Catherine, Greer, the other students, even Fin Varra. The vamps had told him he'd want human blood. To hunt and drain people. They hadn't said he'd want everyone else's too.
His new instincts cautioned him against the powerful creatures around him. They told him that every person in this room was a fellow predator, not easy prey. But that didn't stop them from smelling delicious.
The very thought made him sick to his stomach.
He was a monster.
His fingers trembling, he dug through the satchel he had to carry everywhere for one of the dozen plastic bags full of blood.
Plain blood that smelled so very boring. Nothing like the scent of actual people.
But it did the trick. At least for a while. After draining the contents of the bag, he could think.
He redirected his attention to the crystal, and, to his surprise, the thing levitated a few inches above his palm.
Quite suddenly, Fin Varra appeared in front of him.
The man made him extremely uncomfortable. He smelled better than anyone else, but Bash knew that even thinking about his blood could be suicide.
"Well done, fledgling. It appears you have more control than anticipated."
Bash had to laugh at that. Yeah, right. Him. In control.
“I just drank blood,” he explained. “That must be why it worked.”
The professor tilted his head. "And taking what you need negates your accomplishment somehow?"
Bash wondered how often the man complimented anyone. He certainly hadn't heard him do so before. So, he said, "Thanks."
"You are doing well, child. I expect great things of you. Do not disappoint."
Now why did that sound like a threat?
At midnight, Bash met Luke at the Institute's entrance. The brown-skinned, handsome, and slender man who'd been Levi's assistant since sometime around the seventeenth century had been kind enough to volunteer as chaperone when he needed one.
"Ready to go?" the man asked as Bash slid into the passenger seat of his Audi.
He nodded, and without another word, Luke was off.
Just about anyone else would have asked why he hadn't at least brought a change of clothing. Bash was scheduled to spend the weekend with his family.
But he knew he wouldn't. One night, fortnightly, was as much as he could stand. He used to be so close to them, spending all of his spare time with them. Another thing he’d lost, along with his job, when he’d died.
Things could have been worse. He had to keep telling himself that right now so he could manage to appear cheerful when he arrived home.
The drive from Oldcrest to Edinburgh might have taken anyone else around two hours, but Luke did it in one, his fancy, tuned-up car flying down the road. Bash might have said something about the speed had they not both been immortals. The speed limit, like any other law of man, didn't apply to vampires. Besides, his reflexes were considerably faster th
an any human; they weren't likely to get into an accident.
They parked in a private hangar and flew straight to London in a private jet, treatment Bash wasn't about to get used to. Bloodsuckers, particularly new ones like him, shouldn't be locked in with a bunch of mortals who smelled like snacks for any extended amount of time. But still, they could have just driven there.
Bash tried to consider himself lucky. Actually, he knew he was the most fortunate fucker out there. Come on, he'd been bitten by a feral. Normally, that was a one-way ticket to the madhouse, as well as a clear death sentence. The huntsmen would have been forced to kill him. Maybe his friends would have had a hard time doing it, but in the end, they would have done their duty and cut his head clean off. Instead, he'd been saved, brought back to as near a state as possible to what he'd been before the attack. He was himself, mostly. Still liked jazz and blues. Enjoyed reading novels. He could think.
But while his mind had returned to him, the thirst hadn't diminished.
Vampires were the responsibility of those who turned them. As he'd been changed by a long-dead piece of feral filth, he could have been left to his own devices. Instead, Levi and Chloe had taken him under their wing. Levi had power, money, and servants like Luke who facilitated everything he needed. Chloe gave him something even more valuable: friendship. She always had a smile, a joke, wanted to know about his day. It didn't even feel forced.
She’d also offered him a job, of sorts. Chloe had asked if he wanted to be part of her household, an Eirikrson knight. That, he’d refused. He was in no state to be useful to anyone. Or to hold such a prestigious position.
Bash knew why they were so kind: guilt. He'd been hurt when their home had been attacked by vamps who'd wanted to get to Chloe. Somehow, they thought his turning was her fault. Ridiculous. Bash had been a huntsman. Protecting people from danger was his vocation.
Had been.
Now, he was one of the things huntsmen preyed on.
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