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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

WILLIAM

I drift behind Isolde as she trudges back to her room, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The stolen knowledge weighs on her more heavily than any physical burden could.

CJ and Cassiel flank her protectively, neither willing to let her out of their sight after our narrow escape from Blackridge’s chamber.

The four of us pause at the foot of the grand staircase.

“You should get some rest,” CJ says to Isolde, his normally arrogant tone softened with what sounds suspiciously like genuine concern. “That Blood Magic took a toll.”

“I’m fine,” Isolde insists, though the slight tremor in her hands betrays her exhaustion.

“You’re not,” Cassiel counters gently. His silver eyes catch the moonlight streaming through a nearby window, giving him an otherworldly glow. “Blood rituals demand payment. Your body needs time to recover.”

CJ scowls at the angel, clearly irritated that he’d voiced the same concern. “For once, feathers is right,” he grudgingly admits. “Go to your room. Lock the door. Sleep.”

Isolde bristles at being commanded. “I don’t need handlers.”

“No,” I interject, drifting between them. “But you do need allies who won’t hesitate to tell you when you’re pushing too hard.”

She glances at me, then back at the others. The fight seems to drain from her as fatigue takes over. “Fine. I’ll sleep. What about you two?”

“We will leave you to it,” he says reluctantly.

Cassiel nods, just as begrudgingly.

“Keep her safe,” CJ tells me directly, shocking both Isolde and me with this unexpected acknowledgement of my presence. “Whatever happened in that chamber, it made you stronger. Make yourself useful.”

“How thoughtful of you to assign me guard duty,” I reply dryly, though I don’t disagree with the sentiment.

“I don’t need a guard,” Isolde protests weakly.

“Then consider me a concerned roommate,” I suggest .

Cassiel bows slightly to Isolde, a strangely formal gesture that reminds me of his celestial origins. “I’ll find you tomorrow with whatever I discover. Rest well, Isolde.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her usual defiance softened by exhaustion.

We watch them walk away.

“I’m surprised they let you stay,” she mutters.

“Me too. I guess they know I have nowhere else to go.”

She blinks. “Right. It’s your room too.”

I don’t particularly want to go back in there. The freedom to roam the academy after a century of confinement is exhilarating. But I hover protectively near her, watching for threats in every shadow we pass. CJ is correct in his assessment of me. I feel more solid, more present than I have since my death. The magic that permeated that place has somehow strengthened me.

Isolde opens the door and steps inside. I follow her, and she shuts it behind me.

She collapses onto her bed without removing her torn, dust-covered clothes or CJ’s jacket. She stares at the ceiling, eyes tracking patterns only she can see.

“You should sleep,” I say, repeating what the other two said.

“Why does it matter if they’re coming for me anyway? Might even be here already? ”

“Everything matters, Isolde. Especially how you respond to threats.”

A bitter laugh escapes her. “Respond? How exactly am I supposed to respond to learning I’m being hunted by academic monsters and that they killed you for reasons that are still unknown?”

“By refusing to make it easy for them,” I reply.

This earns me a flicker of attention. She pushes herself up onto her elbows. “You recognised what I was, didn’t you?”

“I knew you were rare. Valuable. Like me, but not.”

She sits up and shrugs off CJ’s jacket. The coppery scent of dried blood on her arms and palms fills the room, tantalisingly reminding me of what I’ve lost. In life, that scent would have been intoxicating to my Sanguinarch senses, a symphony of possibilities.

“We know more than we did,” I say. “But not everything.”

“Like why they killed you?”

“Precisely.” I drift closer, studying her injuries. “But why?”

“Unless...” Isolde’s eyes widen with sudden realisation. “Unless your gateways would have allowed their victims to escape. Or allowed others to rescue them.”

The thought hits me with startling clarity. “A blood gateway could potentially transfer consciousness between vessels. If perfected, it might have allowed the consciousness trapped in those grimoires to escape.”

“They thought you were a threat to their cause.” Isolde stands abruptly, moving to her bathroom. I hear water running and drift over, hoping for another shower.

“It’s an explanation,” I concede, although I’m not entirely convinced. “But it raises other questions.”

“Like, who at SilverGate was working with them?”

“Exactly.” I watch from the doorway as she strips off her clothes and steps under the shower. “Someone inside these walls murdered me. Someone who knew about my research.”

“Do you think it’s Blackridge?”

I consider this. “Possible, but unlikely. He’s been collecting rare creatures for centuries, but his methods, while questionable, aren’t as monstrous as The Collectors’. He preserves, studies, sometimes exploits, but he doesn’t destroy.”

“Not to mention he’s giving me the tools to fight them,” she adds, peering at me through the torrent of water cascading around her exquisite curves. “Why do that if he’s working with them?”

“So the question remains: who at SilverGate serves The Collectors?”

Isolde’s face darkens. “And are they still here? Watching me? Reporting back?”

“Almost certainly.” I see no point in softening this truth. “The Crimson Moon has revealed your presence. They know you exist, and they will track you down, if they haven’t already.”

“Fuck.” She buries her face in her hands.

“What CJ said about your magic,” I say. “About your defensive abilities are evolving. The book confirmed that the twin connection can be weaponised. You need to understand your power, master it.”

“How?”

“Blood meditation,” I suggest. “A technique I once used in my research. It allows you to explore the magical properties of your own blood, to connect with its inherent memories and possibilities. It’s like connecting to your ancestors and whatever traces you have of them in your blood.”

“Ancestral Magic? That is wild.”

“And needed.”

“Would that work for vampires, though?” she asks sceptically. “Our blood is different.”

“All the more powerful for it,” I assure her. “Vampire blood retains memories more vividly than any other blood. It’s who you are. The sympathetic resonance with twin vampire bloods would be extraordinary.”

She considers this before returning to her shower. “Could you teach me? ”

“I could guide you through the process,” I confirm, feeling an unfamiliar warmth at her trust.

“Like CJ called you Butcher,” she says carefully, watching my reaction.

I don’t flinch from the name and float closer. “He did. Does that scare you?”

To my surprise, she doesn’t recoil. Instead, she studies me with those beautiful blue eyes, assessing rather than judging. “You killed for blood.”

“Yes. For knowledge. I never claimed to be a saint, Isolde. I was a scientist pursuing knowledge. The methods were sometimes unsavoury, but the goal was advancement.”

“And what was the ultimate goal of your research? These blood gateways?”

I pause, considering how much to reveal. “I believed blood could create pathways between realms. Not just physical doorways, but passages for consciousness itself. A way to transcend the limitations of physical form.”

“Sounds dangerously close to what The Collectors do,” she points out. “Separating consciousness from body.”

“Perhaps we are not so different. Perhaps that is why they killed me. I was getting too close to what they were doing, and I wasn’t invited to join their club.”

She gulps .

“Does that horrify you?”

She falls silent as she studies me, her wet hair dripping around her, the water falling over her breasts enticingly. I want to take one of those ripe nipples in my mouth and bite her until she bleeds, screaming my name as I ravage her.

“It should,” she says eventually.

“So why doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” She holds her hand out to me, and I go to her instantly, floating into the shower with her and feeling the water dampen my skin. “This place is special.”

“The shower?” I ask with a smile.

She nods and reaches for my hand. She grasps it, and I grunt in surprise. She moves it to cup her breast, and I pinch her nipple with a low groan.

“How? Why here?”

“Water magic,” she says quietly. “It dampens everything, lowers the wards, allowing us to access certain gateways.”

“And you know this how?”

“You aren’t the only one with academic expertise.”

“Enough talk,” I mutter and move in closer, pressing my lips to hers and feeling her respond.

Her mouth is gentle against mine, hot, wet and real. I press closer, my spectral form tingling with sensations I haven’t felt in a century. The water sluices over us, a curtain isolating us in this impossible moment. Her hand tightens on mine, guiding it over her slick skin, down her belly, to between her legs.

“Touch me, William,” she whispers against my lips, her voice thick with desire.

I don’t hesitate, sinking into her virginal warmth, carefully not to break her. She gasps, her body arching against mine. Her heat, her wetness, is a miracle, a madness, a violation of every law of life and death.

Her hips move, a slow, sinuous rhythm that makes my heart pound in a way I haven’t felt over a hundred years. She moans my name, a sound that reverberates through my very essence. I kiss her harder, deeper, trying to absorb every sensation, every flicker of pleasure that dances across her face in case this never happens again.

This is more than just physical. It’s a communion of souls, a blending of life and death in a way that shouldn’t be possible. The water magic she spoke of amplifies something between us, tearing down the veil that separates our realities.

“You feel so good,” she pants, her fingers tangling in my hair, tugging, making me feel the pull of pain.

I push my fingers deeper, feeling her clench around me. The pleasure is overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatens to shatter my fragile hold on this inconceivable corporeality. I’m alive again, if only for this fleeting moment, lost in her heat and wetness.

The shower, the water, is a conduit, a temporary bridge between my world and hers, and in this moment, I don’t care about the how or the why. I only care about the feel of her, the taste of her, the way she cries out my name as her climax washes over her.

“William,” she purrs, making my cock hard.

“Fuck, Isolde,” I groan when her hand presses against me, and then it’s gone.

In an instant, my world crashes down around me as she stumbles forward, a stricken look on her face. “No!”

The connection shatters. I’m insubstantial again, the feel of her skin, the heat of her body, ripped away. The water, which moments ago felt like a warm embrace, is now nothing against my ghostly form.

“What happened?” I demand angrily, my voice ragged with loss and confusion.

Isolde shakes her head, her eyes wide with terror and dawning comprehension. “The water, it’s a trap…”

“Trap? For what?”

“Me,” she whispers, her hand going to her chest, where a faint, almost invisible sigil is glowing beneath her skin. “You. Get out. It’s taking your life force, amplifying our connection at your expense.”

I stare at the sigil, horrified. It’s a complex, interwoven pattern of lines and curves that I don’t recognise, but its malevolent intent is unmistakable. “Has that ever appeared before? ”

She shakes her head, stumbling back against the shower wall. “Get out, William, before it takes you.”

I shoot out of the shower, and she slumps. I feel drained as well. Whoever set the trap knew I’d become more corporeal under the torrent, and they used it to drain my life force. But who and why?

“William,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “What does this mean?”

“It means,” I grit out, fury burning through my ghost veins, “that someone is playing a very dangerous game with both of us, and they are going to regret it.”

“Your murderer?” she whispers.

I don’t answer her. I can’t. I’m trying to hang on to the wicked magic that used to run through my veins. I’ve scared her once when I lost control, I don’t want to do it again.

But it’s too late.

The water turns to rivers of blood, and she screams, leaping out as it sears her skin, leaving blisters as the malevolent clashes with her innocence.

Turning from her, I rush through the air, through the door of the bedroom that once confined me and out into the night, causing a path of destruction behind me that scatters students and staff alike as I hear Isolde call for me.