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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ISOLDE

The moon slinks under the horizon, leaving the dawn in a hazy, dark grey hue.

“Focus,” William snaps, circling me like a predator.

I glare at him, blinking sleep from my eyes. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep, if that. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the vampire being dragged out of bed to train.”

“I was dead for a century,” he replies flatly. “You’ll survive being tired.”

CJ and Cassiel watch from the sidelines, both looking far too alert for this ungodly hour. CJ hasn’t taken his eyes off William since we arrived, his posture tense as if expecting an attack. Cassiel’s wings are half-manifested, a sign I’ve come to know that he’s uneasy.

“Again,” William commands, producing a shallow silver bowl filled with fresh blood. “Separate it into its components without touching it.”

I stare at the dark liquid, trying to feel the connection William insists exists between my consciousness and the blood. My spine tingles where the runes used to be, phantom sensors still firing despite their absence.

“I can’t,” I mutter.

“You can,” William counters, his voice sharp. “You’re thinking too much. Blood doesn’t respond to thought. It responds to will, to hunger, to instinct.”

I close my eyes, trying to tap into that primal part of me that emerged when I drained Benz dry. The hunger is always there now, a constant companion lurking just beneath my skin.

“Find the hunger,” William instructs, his voice dropping lower, almost hypnotic. “Let it rise, but don’t let it consume you. Direct it. Channel it.”

The silver light flickers beneath my skin as I reach for that dark place inside me. I can taste copper on my tongue and feel the phantom sensation of hot blood flowing down my throat. My fangs extend involuntarily.

“Yes,” William murmurs. “Now reach out with your essence.”

I extend my awareness toward the bowl, imagining silver tendrils of my power flowing from my fingertips into the blood. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel it—a connection, gossamer-thin but unmistakable.

The blood in the bowl twitches.

“More,” William demands. “Separate it. Find the plasma, the cells, the power within.”

I push harder, the connection strengthening. The blood moves, swirling in the bowl. My breath catches as I see thin streams of clear liquid separating from the red.

“That’s it,” William says, a hint of approval warming his tone. “Now the red cells from the white.”

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the morning chill. This feels unnatural and invasive, like I’m violating something sacred. But it also feels right, as if I’m finally using muscles that have atrophied from disuse.

The blood separates further, different components creating distinct layers in the bowl. Pride surges through me at this small victory.

Then William slaps the bowl from my grasp.

The connection snaps violently, sending a jolt of pain through my skull. I gasp, staggering backwards as the bowl clatters across the floor, blood splattering in a crimson arc.

“What the fuck?” I snarl.

“Too slow,” William says coldly. “In a real battle, hesitation means death.”

“I wasn’t hesitating, I was learning.”

“Same thing.” He produces another bowl from behind his back. This one is larger, the blood inside is darker, almost black. “Again. And this time, don’t just separate it. Control it.”

CJ steps forward. “She needs a break, Harrington.”

“The Collectors won’t give her breaks,” William retorts, not looking away from me. “They’ll take her and put her on display in the museum. Alive but might as well be dead.”

“She’s not going to be any use to anyone if you break her first,” Cassiel interjects.

William ignores them both, his gaze fixed on me. “Well? Are you broken already, Isolde?”

His challenge ignites something in me, a flash of stubborn pride that drowns out the fatigue. “Fuck you.”

A smile curls his lips, predatory and pleased. “That’s my queen. Now do it again.”

I focus on the new bowl, reaching for the connection more aggressively this time. The blood responds immediately, rising from the bowl in a thick column that hovers in midair.

“Good,” William says. “Now shape it.”

I frown in concentration, visualising the blood taking form. It twists and contorts, gradually forming a rough sphere.

“Better,” William murmurs, circling me. “But still too rigid. Blood is fluid, constantly changing. Your control must be the same.”

Without warning, he slashes his palm with his fang and flicks his blood at my floating sphere. The fresh blood threatens to disrupt my control, its different composition fighting against my will.

“Adapt,” he commands. “Incorporate it. Make it yours.”

I grit my teeth, pushing harder. Silver light races up my arms as I force the new blood to merge with what I’m already controlling. The sphere wobbles, then stabilises, now shot through with veins of William’s darker blood.

“More complex,” William demands. “Give it shape, purpose.”

I envision a weapon, something lethal and precise. The blood responds, elongating and sharpening into something resembling a spear. It hovers before me, trembling slightly with the effort of maintaining its form.

“Now,” William says, his voice dropping to a whisper, “strike.”

“Strike what?” I ask, momentarily confused.

His hand shoots out, grabbing my throat. The grip isn’t tight enough to choke, but it’s a clear threat. “Me.”

My concentration wavers at the unexpected contact. The blood spear wobbles dangerously.

“Strike or submit,” he growls, his fingers tightening fractionally. “Choose.”

Something dark and primal rises in me at his challenge. He sees it and steps back. My vision floods with silver as I direct the spear toward him with a thought. It flies across the space between us with startling speed.

At the last possible moment, William sidesteps the attack. The blood spear shatters against the wall behind him, leaving a starburst of crimson.

“Good,” he says, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “You’re learning.”

“What I’m learning,” I mutter, rubbing my throat, “is that you’re a sadistic arsehole.”

“I’m effective,” he corrects. “And alive again because of you. Don’t forget that. That is the power you have.”

“As if you’d let me.” I slump onto a nearby bench, suddenly exhausted. The silver light beneath my skin fades, retreating like the tide.

CJ approaches, handing me a flask. The rich scent of blood mixed with something stronger wafts from it. “Drink. You need to replenish.”

I gulp it down gratefully, feeling strength flow back into my limbs. “What’s in this?”

“Blood mixed with mine and Cassiel’s,” CJ says.

“You’re making it stronger,” I observe wryly, pressing it to my lips and taking a gulp.

“We don’t want you going on a murderous rampage.”

“How unfun of you.”

He snorts but says no more.

I glance at William, who watches our interaction with narrowed eyes. “What about your blood?”

“We’re saving that for when you are desperate.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Cassiel moves closer, his wings now fully stretched out behind him in a display that seems partly protective. “Are we done yet?”

William glances at him. “One more lesson, and then we can break. The most important one.”

He closes his eyes, his expression shifting to one of intense concentration. The air around him thickens, the temperature dropping noticeably.

“What are you doing?” I ask, setting the empty flask down.

“Sensing,” he replies without opening his eyes. “Every Sanguinarch leaves a signature in the world, a magical fingerprint that others of our kind can detect if they know how to look.”

He extends his hand toward me. “Come here.”

I hesitate, glancing at CJ and Cassiel. CJ’s expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. Cassiel gives me a slight nod, though his wings remain spread wide.

I move to William and take his outstretched hand. Instantly, a current of energy flows between us, silver light racing up my arm to mingle with a darker power coming from him.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Don’t think. Feel.”

I obey, letting my consciousness sink into the connection between us. William’s presence is overwhelming, a dark star pulling me into its orbit. His power tastes of ancient books, dried blood, and something colder, like metal left too long in the snow.

“Now,” he murmurs, his voice coming from both outside and inside my head, “reach beyond me. Beyond this training room. Beyond SilverGate.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, suddenly intimidated by the vastness he’s asking me to explore.

“You can,” he insists. “Your blood is connected to all blood. Your power resonates with all power. You just need to listen.”

I push my awareness outward, past the boundaries of my own body, past William’s overwhelming presence. The world opens up around me in a dizzying rush of sensation. I can feel the heartbeats of everyone in the training hall, then everyone in the nearby rooms, then further still.

“Good,” William’s voice guides me. “Now look for the signatures that feel like mine. Like ours.”

I sort through the cacophony of life forces surrounding SilverGate, searching for anything that resonates with the unique power signature I recognise in William and, increasingly, in myself. Most are ordinary—vampires, werewolves, witches, each with their distinct magical fingerprint.

Then I feel it. A distant cluster of power signatures that makes my blood run cold. Seven of them, moving together, are approaching from the north. They feel like William, but in a different way. Colder, more disciplined, their power leashed and focused.

“The Collectors,” I breathe, my eyes flying open.

William nods, his expression grim. “Yes. And they’re close.”

CJ and Cassiel move closer.

“You’re sure?” Cassiel asks.

“Absolutely,” I reply before William can. “I felt them. Seven of them, moving together.”

“Seven,” William murmurs. “That’s some number for one creature.”

“Two,” I correct him, and he looks startled for a moment before he smiles.

“Still getting used to being alive again.”

I can’t say that I blame him. I would probably take much longer to adjust. He is doing remarkably well, although I don’t think he slept at all earlier.

“What does that mean for us?” I ask, a chill settling in my stomach.

William’s eyes meet mine, his irises swirling with green and silver. “It means our timeline has accelerated. You need to be ready for them to breach at any given time.”

“When whoever they’re waiting for gives the order,” CJ mutters.

“Exactly, so we work harder,” William states. “Day and night.”

“You’ll burn her out,” Cassiel warns.

“I’ll survive,” I interject, straightening my spine despite the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. “I have to.”

William nods, a flash of something like pride crossing his features. “That’s the difference between Isolde and the rest of you,” he says to CJ and Cassiel. “She understands what’s at stake.”

“We understand perfectly,” CJ growls. “We just don’t share your methods.”

William’s laugh is cold. “My methods will keep her alive and out of their prison.” He focuses on me again. “One more hour, then you can rest. We’ll focus on blood manipulation at a distance.”

I nod, steeling myself for more training.

The knowledge that The Collectors are so close sends tendrils of fear curling through my gut, but beneath that is something else.

Anticipation. A dark, hungry part of me wants to meet these creatures who are supposedly like me, who’ve hunted, captured and tortured my kind for centuries.

As William sets up the next exercise, arranging vials of blood in a complex pattern on the floor, I catch CJ watching me with an unreadable expression. His markings are more visible than usual, swirling beneath his skin in patterns that seem agitated.

“I’m fine,” I mouth to him.

He doesn’t look convinced but nods slightly.

I turn my attention to William’s lesson, but part of my awareness remains fixed on the distant signatures I sensed. Seven powerful entities moving with a singular purpose, drawn to SilverGate like magnets.

Drawn to me.

For the first time since discovering what I am, I feel a flicker of excitement alongside the fear. The Collectors are coming for me, but they don’t know what I’m becoming. They expect a fledgling Sanguimonarch, untrained and vulnerable.

I intend to show them how wrong they are.