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Love is … not how I imagined it to be. I never anticipated these little gestures of kindness that she brings out in me. There’s something about them that disturbs me, like I’m losing a bit of my edge.

But then I remember that there’s a teacher out there who needs to be taught a lesson, and suddenly, my edge is back.

With one final look at Callie’s sleeping form, I slip out of the room and into the night.

Time for vengeance.

January, 7 years ago

It doesn’t takelong to find Mr. Whitechapel. I lurk in the shadows, watching him as he heads out of a local pub.

Callie’s instructor is tall and lanky, his thin brown hair mostly absent from the top of his head. He has a trustworthy look about him—non-threatening. It probably has something to do with his mousy features. Even his magic tastes unassuming and subservient.

His shoes tap against the rain-slicked pavement as he walks down the street, his hands in his pockets. He has no idea the night stalks him.

Halfway down the road he begins to whistle like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The fucker scarred my mate earlier today and he has the gall to whistle.

That’s the straw that breaks me.

I manifest in front of him, darkness billowing about me like smoke. He startles, taking a step back. It takes him a second to recover.

“Whoa there,” he says, “you scared me.”

I stride towards him, making no move to placate his fears, the darkness rushing forward with me. It could consume him in seconds, but that would be too easy an end.

His eyes widen.

Yes, now he realizes that I’m no benign stranger.

He raises his hands. “My wallet is in my back left pocket. Take it, it’s yours.”

I don’t stop stalking towards him. If I gave two fucks about a wallet, it would’ve disappeared long before now.

When he realizes that he can’t just talk it out, he begins to back up.

But it’s too late.

I grab him by the throat and shove him against a nearby wall.

“What do you want?” he asks, the first note of fear entering his voice.

To make you bleed.

“Do you believe you’re a good person?” I ask.

He chokes rather than answering.

I squeeze his throat tighter, my magic leaking out of me, forcing him to give up the truth even though he barely has air to do so.

“Y—yes, I guess.”

I feel my upper lip tick. “Wrong answer.”

I release him, letting his body drop to the wet concrete. He sucks in several raspy breaths, then scrambles back, trying to get his feet under him. He doesn’t quite manage it; his shaky feet keep folding.

I prowl after him, my heavy boots clinking against the concrete.

“Seriously, what do you want?” he says, his voice high and thin.