Page 2

One

ALEC

Present

From the roof across the street from her house, I observe her.

The witch belonging to one of the world’s strongest covens. The witch belonging to a family that’s been taunting vampires forever.

Yet this is what’s left of the great Sinclair bloodline?

While it abhors me to admit this about an enemy of my kind, the Sinclairs have always been renowned throughout the magickal community, and both desired and feared by vampires. Her family is the very source behind so much of my own pain.

Harlow Sinclair doesn’t deserve such a recognition.

For three nights, I’ve watched her avoid the windows unless she’s triple-checking they’re latched before heading to bed. She doesn’t leave the barrier surrounding her property. She paces her house, chewing on fingernails I doubt have anything left to them, giving me long-awaited glimpses through the cracks in the window coverings.

I’m not the only vampire who’s been hanging around, waiting for her to leave the safety of her magickal bubble. Luckily for her, I’ve discarded the others who dare believe they have the rights to my prey. Unfortunately for her, though, I’m an immortal with all the time in the world. At some point, she’ll need to leave, and I’ll be here when she does. Unless it’s when the sun is up.

The interest I hold in her isn’t the same as all the other vampires who have come around. No, my needs go much deeper. After so many centuries of getting revenge upon the family who once stole mine from me, killing them has become too easy, simplistic, and, if I must admit it to myself, boring.

There’s a better path forward, and while one might refer to it as fate, I believe that concept to be stupid and something only witches are entertained by. The history behind my fight with the Sinclairs is the very reason behind my newest plan.

When I killed Elizabeth Sinclair centuries ago, their coven leader cursed the Sinclair bloodline to get rid of my kind. Instead of the plan succeeding how the witch hoped it would, she created endless targets for any vampire who craves humanity—there’s quite a few. Immortality can grow tiresome for those who haven’t received the forever they imagined. Since Elizabeth’s death, I’ve been wiping out every Sinclair witch and warlock born, cure or otherwise. I only spare one from each generation so they can continue the bloodline and keep my revenge alive…because I can. Because when you live forever, one must find their own form of entertainment.

While it’s been a thrill, it’s grown tiresome. It’s too simple and doesn’t bring long-lasting satisfaction to the grief festering inside me. So now, the only remaining Sinclair will pay for her ancestors’ actions through other means. One that’ll profit off the very attribute me murdering Elizabeth created.

A way that extends her pain until she’s nothing but a corpse.

I won’t only kill her; I’ll use her until she’s begging for death.

Sinclair moves into view again, climbing into her bed in nothing but an oversized shirt, giving me a brief view of bare legs. It’s amazing how little modesty humans have compared to centuries ago. If only this girl knew about the vampires outside her window, she’d cover up a bit more.

Especially that pretty little neck of hers.

When the witch falls forwards and plants her face into her pillows, the sound of sobs comes from within the brick house and barrier. She’s crying again, for fuck’s sake. I release a long, pained groan, disbelieving I’m about to subject myself to this . To her. Her whining is too much. She may be a witch, but she’s as emotional as a human. Can’t handle the death of her parents for shit.

As tragic as that was. Her mother, Emily Sinclair, was the only witch from her generation, having no siblings; therefore, I had no choice but to keep her alive. Dying in a fire is such a wasteful death. When hearing the news, I felt something for the little Sinclair woman. Something the mortal side once would have understood, but the creature I’ve been for a long time hasn’t felt: sympathy. Perhaps because it’s the one Sinclair death I didn’t have a hand in, a true accident leaving her alone in the deadly and dangerous world filled with predators lurking in the shadows.

A predator like me.

The witch burrows into her bed and pulls the covers over her head. The night vision accompanying my vampirism cuts right through the darkness, allowing me to catch her subtle shifts in bed while her cries are loud enough to alert any being in the area.

Another night of not leaving her house. I sigh, the long-winded noise disrupted by the shuffling within the shadows beside the building. Curious, I pace to the edge of the roof, spotting the other vampire getting as close to her as the barrier allows him to. Trying to get near my prey.

My hiss is low, a warning that causes his eyes to dart up. He doesn’t take my warning as it’s meant and returns to inching his way around the building, searching for an in to the impenetrable barrier built by magick. I’ve long tried what he’s about to attempt, and it’s useless.

With another sigh, this one of annoyance, I step off from the roof, the ground rushing quickly towards me. My shoes make a nearly silent thud with my landing, and I cross the street towards the Sinclair house.

“Did you not understand my warning, or do you not know better? Go the fuck away.”

The vampire turns, pupils red around the edges with his increasing thirst. “We can all have a sip. Do you not smell her? I can all but taste the humanity coursing through her veins.”

Of course, I fucking smell her. Her blood is a fine perfume, like the sweetest wine after a lifetime of sobriety, like meat to a starving carnivore, like everything right and wrong in the world. Most humans’ blood carries similar notes of iron and whatever they’ve consumed that day. No one, not even previous generations of Sinclairs, have ever smelled as pleasant as this one. The High Priestess who created the cure made their blood appeal to every vampire to draw them to their deaths, but I’ve been around many Sinclairs and it’s never been like this. Not so…appealing. She smells like my own personal meal, all for me and me alone, which is an alarming thought.

“She’s not yours,” I state firmly.

The vampire scoffs, turning to face me. “And who the fuck are— oh .”

“Yes. Oh . Leave or die. Those are your options.”

For a moment, it seems like he’s about to obey me, but the idiot continues tempting death by shaking his head and gesturing towards the house. “Not until I get what I’ve come for. You should know better than any of us how long immortality is. Aren’t you tired?”

He’s hoping I dread vampirism as much as him and appealing to that possibility. While I can appreciate others’ desires, mortality holds no temptation for me, and it hasn’t since the day I died and woke up immortal. Humanity is nothing but emotions and pain, a pointless end to a pointless existence.

“I warned you,” I mutter. Killing my own dwindles our numbers, which isn’t preferable, but when they don’t fall in line, there’s no other option.

I turn towards him, and in a flash, my hand is buried in his chest, having torn through flesh and bone until his dead heart rests in my palm. I yank my arm back, ripping the organ from its home, and a spray of black blood spurts onto my clothing. The vampire’s eyes widen as he comprehends the final seconds of his undead life before falling to my feet, truly dead. Fisting the heart to ensure nothing of his defiance remains, I drop the squished, bloodless tissue on top of his body.

“That’s for believing you’ll get near what’s mine.”

If only he obeyed, then he would have learned of the opportunity all my subjects will soon be given: the chance to regain mortality…for a price.

Backing away from the body that’ll disintegrate with the sunrise, I return to the roof across from her window and resume my watch.

* * *

It’s hours later before my nose picks up the trace of another being right as my senses comprehend her beside me.

A woman appears from seemingly thin air, her arms clenching her purple cloak shut. Her hair, an almost white-blonde, blows in the breeze, lifting from her face. She peers at the house with pastel-purple eyes—a feature all witches have—that narrow on Sinclair’s bedroom window. “Hm. That won’t do, now will it?”

Her scent of mud and leaves and nature drifts my way. It’s the distinct perfume most affiliated with a witch. One who’s probably come to defend her own. Too bad for her, her mission will result in her death.

My fangs lengthen, body poised to attack, but my single step towards her is blocked by an invisible wall mere seconds after she waves her hand. I push into it, but the force is strong enough to keep me out, and my growl is a warning for her to fuck off if she won’t let me kill her.

“Give up,” she says in a bored but musical tone. “You won’t get through my barrier, so stop injuring yourself trying.”

I straighten, tensing against this strange witch and the uncertainty of her presence. “Who are you?”

“Will you attack me if I lower my shield?”

I shake my head, meaning it because she doesn’t seem like a threat and, without a doubt, she’d only replace her spell if I make another move to harm her. She lowers her hand, allowing the night air to once again pass between us.

“Good,” she murmurs with a small, satisfied nod when I don’t budge. “My name is Freya, and I’m here to help. That’s all you need to know.”

“You’re a witch.” Leading into the question of why a witch would help a vampire found lurking outside another witch’s home.

“And you’re a vampire.” She, this Freya , rolls her eyes. “You’d think a king of the vampires would be smarter, but what do I know? I’m only a millennium old and tired of waiting for this particular phase within the timeline, so if we can get shit moving along, that’d be great.”

A millennium… “You’re the First Witch,” I deduce, taken aback by the ancient lore in physical form poised in front of me. Not that I’ve been interested in tracing witches’ lore throughout the centuries, but one hears things. I’d never gotten a name, nor confirmation she—Freya—was even around. The First Witch, a physical representation of the deity witches bow to, sounds like a tale they’d tell their children.

Never would I have guessed this tiny woman would be it, though, given how powerful the stories claim she is. She looks young, maybe early twenties in relation to human years, and barely reaches my shoulder. Her hair brushes her waist, making her almost childlike in appearance, despite being around since the beginning of Earth—long before me or any other vampire around. Regardless, she’s clearly adapted to the modern world in her tight jeans, Converse shoes, and some ruffled kind of top while retaining the traditional witch’s garb by covering herself in a cloak.

“Very good.” She dips her head to my deduction.

But if the First Witch has come, it’s likely to protect the only remaining Sinclair. “You’re here to stop me.”

“No, like I’ve said, I’m here to help.” She lifts her hand towards the Sinclair house, and a ripple of red passes over the once-invisible dome. As the sparks of magick fall, so does the barrier that’s prevented me from entering.

Immediately, the little Sinclair’s scent intensifies, every note jamming a stake into my body. It’s stronger, infinitely so, than what I’ve gotten so far, shooting the desperation of hunger down my throat—the need to capture her, drain her dry, and seek satisfaction from this thirst.

Fuck, she’s sweet.

I force my gaze away from the sleeping witch, who’s seconds away from being in my grasp, to question, “Why would you help? Do you have any idea what I’m about to do?”

“Yes, and good luck, Alec. She’ll make you wish you had some.” Freya turns, her cloak swirling around her ankles dramatically.

Despite being able to finally get my mark and knowing, realistically, I shouldn’t waste any more time, I reach for the retreating witch, not yet finished with this conversation. She’s created more questions than has given answers, and, by the cloak, I tug her back to my side.

“Wait. I never told you my name.”

“I’m aware.” Freya smiles sweetly and bats her lashes theatrically. “I also know all. Remember who I work for? You’re really not that smart, are you?” She circles her finger towards the sky. “I know who you are, what you’ve done to Harlow’s entire family, and what you plan to do to her starting today. But don’t worry, ’cause I can’t interfere. Not allowed. Orders from the boss lady.”

I stare at her. She stares back. Never have I been so wordless until now.

“You’re a very strange being,” I finally manage.

“Right back at ya, Your Majesty. Blessed Be.”

“Fuck off with the witchy bullshit.” She doesn’t seem fazed by my insult, her expression unwavering. But if she insists on staying, then she can give me more than whatever unhelpful drivel she’s spouted so far. “What did you mean by that last part? That she’ll make me wish I had luck.”

Freya’s mouth stretches into a large, knowing smile seconds before she disappears in a blink, the faint whiff of nature lingering where she last was, leaving my hand gripping nothing but air.

Fucking witches. I shake my head and turn back to the house across the street. Without the barrier spell up, more of my kind is bound to descend soon, so I hop from the roof to the ground, landing near my recent kill.

You’re mine, Sinclair.