I scratched my beard as I turned the corner down an alley on my way to Celia’s apartment. I didn’t like to go long with her out of my sight. Athan had told me to observe her. Pay attention. And I had. The last week her appearance had changed a bit. I’d noted the bags under her eyes, the lines of fatigue around her mouth, and the stiff way in which she walked. She was tired, and with a low growl, I told myself not to feel bad for her.
Athan said she might not know about her parentage or that she was human/vampire hybrid. I found that hard to believe. Why would the Valarian king keep his daughter in the dark about her heritage? It didn’t make sense. I thought he was hiding her in Mission as a human to protect her. He should have hidden her farther, then, because horrible things lived in Mission—including me.
Most humans were not aware of our existence, with only a privy few who had the knowledge of us in select government positions. It was a truce our elders had made with humans centuries ago, and our clan—along with many others—honored that. The Valarians did not. Which seemed at odds with the king’s fondness for his half-human daughter. Why hadn’t he turned her yet? Athan and I had been born dhampirs, as well, and our father had turned us when we were teenagers, like most dhampirs. Celia was twenty-five. Waiting this long to turn a dhampir was just not done—as the vampire within began to eat away the mind until the dhampir lost it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I held it up to my ear. “Yeah.”
“Idris,” Athan’s voice rumbled in my ear. “You didn’t call today.”
Right. I was supposed to check in, because he still didn’t trust me not to fuck this up. He was mostly right not to trust me, so I didn’t fault him. I had a penchant for acting before thinking. Also, I wasn’t going to do what he said. He didn’t know that, though. “On my way to her apartment now.”
“We’re close. Another couple of days. The Valarians seem to have settled, and we have a line to her father to get a hold of him.”
Ever since we’d thwarted their plan to overthrow our clan and force humans into lives as blood slaves, the Valarian clan had been in hiding. I leaped over a fence and landed with a thump. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Quellen are still mobilized,” Athan muttered. “I feel something coming, brother.”
I knew enough to trust his new sense. “I hear you.”
“Be safe and alert. Check in tomorrow.”
“Will do.” I hung up the phone.
Athan had always been the one who listened to his gut, who paid attention. Who knew things. It should have been glaringly obvious all along that Athan was to be king. We were both born to different human mothers, raised by our common father, Connell—the king of the Gregorie vampire clan. We’d always been told our roles. As the oldest son, I was to be king, and the prophecy was that a human—the tenth of her generation—carried blood in her veins that would make me the most powerful vampire alive. Athan, as the youngest, was to be her bodyguard.
Except, when Athan found Tendra and traveled with her to our compound outside Mission, they fell in love. When Athan became injured, he had to feed from her to stay alive. And despite the prophecy that said only I would be affected by her blood, Athan grew wings, and developed immunity to the sun.
It was then our father confessed that he’d groomed us from birth, killing our mothers and lying to us. Athan was the older brother, the one destined to be king. As the younger—and what he saw as the weaker—brother, I was manipulated by our father in an attempt to let the Valarians overthrow us, and live in a world where humans lived as our slaves.
Athan defeated our father, killing him, but what was left in his wake was confusion and anger. Scratch that; I was fucking livid. I didn’t want the crown anymore—I wasn’t sure I ever wanted it. Athan was twice the king I’d ever be. But while he found his purpose, I floundered. What was my destiny? What was my role in his burgeoning war?
As I approached Celia’s apartment, I scanned the parking lot for her car. It wasn’t there, which meant she wasn’t there. But I had a pretty good hunch where she was. I quickly made my way to an even dingier part of Mission, where the apartment buildings looked one step away from condemned. There, I spotted her car outside a five-story brick building.
I scanned the side, spotting the window I knew would be open a couple of inches.
A little boy lived in that room. Charlie, Celia called him, and she visited him at least once a week, sometimes twice. I didn’t know why he was there, or what connection Celia had to him. I knew he was unwell, though. I’d crept up the fire escape one time, and I could smell him. Something was off, ravaging his body. He seemed to be fighting it, but I didn’t know much about human diseases.
Celia talked to him a lot. She told him about the cat she fed outside her apartment. She told him about her job, and the boys and girls she saw in the emergency room. They talked about video games—something called Minecraft.
His parents lived there, too. And Celia talked to them sometimes. She seemed friendly with the mother. But she went there for Charlie. She visited the sick boy no matter the weather, often bringing him gifts and treats.
Tonight I decided to listen in. I crawled up the fire escape and crouched down under the window.
“Next time I’ll bring one. I promise,” Celia was saying.
“Mom said that you’re busy and I should tell you that you don’t have to come every week.” The boy’s voice lowered to a whisper. “But I want you to come every week.”
Celia laughed, the sound pretty and musical. “Of course I’ll come every week. Don’t be silly. You’re my friend! I have to come and visit my friend.”
“What are your other friends like?”
There was a beat of silence that stretched longer than it seemed appropriate. Finally, Celia said, “They’re not quite as much fun as you.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel good!”
More laughter, and a ch-ch-ch sound. I peered inside. She was…tickling him. He was rolling and laughing and her face was split into a wide grin. “You better not be calling me a liar!”
“No, no, uncle!” the boy cried.
Celia stopped tickling him, and he sputtered, red-faced and giggling. “Okay fine, so I’m your favorite friend?”
“You are.” She yawned. “I gotta get going now, though. Okay?”
“Okay, Celia, and next time—”
“I know. I know! I promise I’ll bring him.”
I tucked down just as Celia stood and turned to grab her bag off the chair she’d been sitting on.
I leaped back down onto the street floor and made my way back to Celia’s apartment to wait for her. Every time she visited Charlie, my chest got tight. This was the woman I’d be taking away from Mission. A nurse and a woman who visited sick little boys. But she was also half Valarian. This could all be a cover.
I slipped through a hole in the wire fence and hid under a staircase opposite her apartment. She hadn’t drawn down her blinds, so I could see inside—right into her living room. The couch with the blanket, a small TV, and a stack of books on her coffee table. When I first saw her apartment, I’d been struck at how sparse it was. Not that I lived surrounded by many possessions, but I saw how other humans lived. Roxy, who didn’t have much money, had an apartment full of…things. Pictures on the walls, a calendar full of appointments taped to the inside of her cabinet. Papers and magazines and receipts lying around. Celia’s apartment was bare. No pictures on the walls. Her books were always stacked neatly.
It was like the place she was staying wasn’t home, like she could pick up and leave any minute, like she wasn’t letting herself settle, grow roots. That made me suspicious.
A figure moved in front of the window. She’d changed into a tank top, which fit snug against her breasts. Her arms were over her head as she pulled her long h
air into a ponytail. The dark strands brushed her freckled shoulders. I swallowed, content to settle down and wait for her to turn out the lights.
And I didn’t miss the fact that when I looked at Celia—I felt like I had purpose. What worried me was that I wasn’t quite sure where that purpose would lead either of us.
Chapter 2
The trees were screaming.
I covered my ears as I ran to muffle the shrieks, but that barely did anything to lessen the noise. My ears were probably bleeding along with the trees.
My bare feet pounded the earth, pain shooting up my legs as I landed on rocks and tripped over roots. But I couldn’t stop, didn’t dare, because something was after me. I could hear its panting, feel the heat from its body as it drew closer. I wasn’t going to make it this time. Whatever was chasing me was too fast. The trees knew it. I knew it. And when something tangled in my hair and yanked, I began screaming, too.
I awoke with a start, my throat raw and my screams still echoing off my bedroom walls. My ears throbbed, and when I lifted a trembling hand to my face, my cheeks were wet with tears.
I needed to see a therapist. A psychiatrist. Who did I need to see about this? Uh, hi, hello, I need to make an appointment to talk to someone about my recurring bleeding tree dream where I’m convinced I’ll die in my sleep. I’m sure it’s nothing.
I rolled over with a groan and gulped down some water I kept on my nightstand. I lowered the glass, and right before I set it down, my skin flooded with goose bumps. I had that feeling again, the same one I’d had in the parking garage a week ago. Someone was watching me.
I set my water down and then didn’t move, paralyzed with fear. Was this my life now? Scary dreams and paranoid delusions I was being watched? Something had to give. I couldn’t live like this.
My shades on my bedroom windows were drawn, and my bathroom door was open with the nightlight on inside, just like always. Nothing lurked in the corners of my room, and there was nowhere to hide. My closet didn’t even have a door, and clothes, shoes, and other things were spilled out onto the floor as usual.
I drew back the covers and swung my legs to the floor, placing my bare feet on the cool, scarred hardwood. After taking a few deep breaths, I stood up and headed toward my bathroom. I’d investigate there, make sure nothing was hiding in the shower. Then maybe I could get back to bed.
I shuffled inside, then flicked on a light. My own face stared back at me in the mirror, dark circles under my eyes more pronounced than ever. Ugh, I was a train wreck—a twenty-eight-year-old who looked ten years older. These were times that I wish I knew my family history. Maybe mental illness ran in the family, because this had to be my brain chemistry fucking with me.
I yanked back the shower curtain, but the tub was empty. I exhaled and ran my hands over my face. “Get it together, Celia,” I muttered to myself.
I pulled the shower curtain back and left the bathroom, flicking the light off with a yawn. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, I was too damn shocked to scream.
A figure stood in my bedroom, and I registered pale skin, bald head, and eyes completely white except for small black pupils in the center. My panic was so extreme, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I apparently had zero self-defense instincts because all I could do was stare at this…this thing in my bedroom. This thing that was now moving its mouth, pulling its lips back into something that was maybe supposed to be a smile, revealing white teeth with sharp fangs. Fangs.
I tried to scream, to push the sound up from my diaphragm, but nothing was leaving my lips, no sound other than gasping, as if the presence of this creature in my room had rendered my vocal cords useless.
The thing raised an arm from its side, and clutched in a milk-white clawed hand was a knife. A hiss left its throat.
I had no weapon, and I was wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts. I stared at the creature. “You’re a dream,” I whispered, my voice finally working. “This is a dream. It has to be. Because you’re not real. You don’t exist.”
The figure reached out with its other hand and grabbed my hair, tugging me closer. As the pain lanced through my scalp, I waited to wake up. I always woke up when I was grabbed.
But nothing changed. I was still staring into the soulless eyes of this creature, and its hand was still locked in my hair. Then it raised the knife over my chest.
“No,” I gasped.
It hissed again, and the knife descended. I waited for the pain, for the smell of my blood to scent the air, for my heart to burst when the sharp point punctured it. This was it; this was how I died. Except the weapon never made it to its destination. I felt no steel blade plunge into my chest. Instead a whistling filled the air, and the creature shrieked as it pulled away, grasping at its wrist. Where its hand had been was now nothing but a severed limb spouting black liquid. The disembodied hand fell to the floor, landing on my foot while the knife clattered inches away from my toes.
I glanced up to see a second hulking figure surrounding the pale creature. A blade flashed, and the monster that held a knife to my throat seconds ago fell to the floor of my bedroom. His head? Oh, yeah, that was now rolling toward my door. What stood in its place was an even larger figure, shaped like a man, his head nearly touching my ceiling, holding a larger knife.
And now, now I finally opened my mouth and screamed.
A gloved hand clapped over my mouth, silencing me, and a strong arm wrapped around my middle, fingers digging into my bare skin. I began to thrash. If this man holding me now had beheaded…whatever that had been, then I was toast. This wasn’t a dream. This was real. My bare feet were slipping on the blood on the floor, and my toes kicked the lifeless body. I was out of my mind with terror.
A voice penetrated the fog of fear. A deep rumble coming from the man holding me. “You need to stop. That Quellen was certainly not alone, and if we don’t get out of here now, a whole bunch of them will be on our heads.”
Quellen? What the fuck was a Quellen? I tried to screech around his hand, but he wasn’t letting up. He shook me a little. “Do you understand me, Celia? I’m going to drop my hand. I need you to be silent and come with me.”
How did he know my name? The dream with the screaming trees was paradise compared to this. Slowly, his hand dropped.
I began to scream again.
“Goddamnit!” He clapped his hand over my mouth again and began to pull me toward my door. No! He was taking me to a second location. All the crime shows said to never let your attacker take you to a second location. This was bad, so so bad….
A rattling sounded from outside my window, and his head went up. I caught a glimpse of dark eyes. Facial hair on his jaw. Straight nose and full lips. He looked down at me. “They’re coming. We need to move now.”
I moved my lips and he loosened his hold on my mouth. “What are they going to do to me?”
“Pretty sure that one wasn’t going to ask you on a date.”
Oh, he had jokes? For real? “What about you? Are you going to hurt me?”
His lips curled back into a grimace, and his eyes darkened. “Whatever I’d do to you, they’d do a million times worse.”
And that was when I saw it. His fangs. He had goddamn fangs. I opened my mouth, but before I could make a single sound, he swore and passed his wrist in front of my face. My vision blurred, and then the world went black.
* * *
—
I slept a dreamless sleep. It was when I woke up that the nightmare started.
I inhaled damp, stale air and blinked at a concrete ceiling. I was lying down, in a bed, and while I was still wearing my thin tank top and boy shorts, a blanket lay over me, pulled up to my chest.
Someone was in the room with me—I could hear breathing along with a soft scraping sound. The sense of being watched was overpowering now. All the hair on my body was on end
, my skin a sea of oversensitive nerves.
I turned my head to the side to find a large man sitting in a chair, sharpening a large knife on a stone.
Sharpening. A. Knife.
So to recap. I was in a windowless concrete room, lying nearly naked on a bed next to a man, three times my size, who was currently honing a weapon. Good. Great. Everything was fantastic.
I thought about screaming, but what the fuck would that do? The walls were goddamn concrete, and the one door in the room was steel. There was also the giant man with a knife to consider.
The man turned his head, and dark eyes met mine. My mind flashed back to my bedroom. That pale thing with a knife above my chest. Then his head rolling on the floor. That hadn’t been a dream, because I wasn’t in my bedroom and this man in the room with me…this man was the one who’d saved me from being stabbed.
And then I remembered his fangs.
“Who are you?” My throat felt like it’d been scrubbed with sandpaper.
He laid his tools carefully on the table in front of him, then stood up. Christ, he was tall. Over six-five for sure. Massive torso with broad shoulders, and hands like grizzly bear paws. Half of his face was hidden behind a short beard, but I could see a square jaw, straight nose.
He handed me a glass of water and motioned for me to sit up. I didn’t want anything from him, but I was dying of thirst, so I raised myself to sitting slowly, not wanting to startle him with sudden movements, then gulped down the offered water.
He took the empty glass from me, then moved his chair so he sat down beside the bed, facing me.
I couldn’t control my trembling. I wasn’t cold, but my teeth were chattering. I was used to blending into the background. It’d been how I got through foster care, nursing school, and my job with minimal confrontation and drama. I kept attention off myself, and I was damn good at it. But I had nowhere to run here. The man didn’t take his eyes off me, and I couldn’t figure out if he was planning to kill me, rape me, or just stare.
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