Page 25 of Seared Fates

“It’s alright, little bro. You eat it. I’m okay, I just…I always thought I’d have someone who loves me unconditionally.”

Teagan continues to munch on his—my—breakfast, tipping further back on his chair until he’s balancing on two legs. “You still got that unicorn pencil?”

“Of course, it was the first present you bought me with your own money. I use it every day.”

He starts to lean back too far, so I catch the backrest and push him forward onto all four legs.

Teagan doesn’t react, just takes another bite.

“I don’t know much about love…” Teagan’s words trail off, like he has more to say but not the word count to say it. I wait, not rushing him to speak, which would only make him clamp up more. Not out of nerves, but because he can be a stubborn ass at times and doesn’t like to be told what to do.

Then finally, he says around a mouthful of potato, “Love shouldn’t be something that hurts. It's making sure you’re holding the other person up, right? That’s what you told me, and unicorn pencils.”

My heart swells. “Definitely about unicorn pencils, little bro.”

“Yeah. Also, don’t let some small dick loser break your heart, it’s embarrassing.”

Laughter bursts out of my chest, dislodging a single tear that rolls down my cheek. “Stop fuckin’ swearing, mate.”

Then I pull him into a hug, his head tucked into my chest so I can rest my chin onto his crown, the subtle coconut scent in his hair filling my lungs. Teagan doesn’t struggle like Thomas would, but he doesn’t hug me back either.

“So…” I hear a crunch as he finishes off the hash brown. “Can I borrow twenty quid?”

Tossing my head back, I laugh harder than I have in weeks. When I’m done, I promise him that I won’t stop messaging. To which he replies by shoving the last of the food into his mouth.

Once we’re finished—and Teagan’s taken £40 off me—I clean up and drop the spellbook into my messenger bag without him noticing. I manage to contain a shiver of disgust; despite the freezer, it’s still a little warm. Then we leave Apollo’s flat and head down to the street.

“I’m ordering a taxi, do you want a ride?”

Teagan doesn’t answer, instead hops on his skateboard and scares me half to death as in one hard push, he zooms down the pavement with total skill and zero fear. I’ve watched him do this a thousand times, and it always ends up with my heart lodged in my throat.

Little jerk, I bet he did it on purpose.

Once the taxi drops me home, I climb up towards my flat. Not excited to clean up the mess the sprinklers and fire left, but lighter than before Teagan’s unexpected visit.

I step into the hallway leading to my flat, and immediately my feet falter. Freezing in place as a familiar figure, one I hoped was gone from my life, comes into view.

She’s a tall woman with tan white skin. Black hair tied back with a shock of white that resembles a lightning bolt.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Emma singsongs as she leans against my door, lips pulled back in imitation of a smile.

Chapter eleven

Vidar

Vampires have little to do with other supernaturals and their ridiculous politics. We live in small families, unlike mages or werewolves, and rarely do we set down roots like shifters or Fae. Neither do we rule over realms like demons.

On the rare occasion vampires come together, if the invites even make it to the correct address, half of us won’t attend, and if it wasn’t for my apathy keeping me in place for eight years, we would’ve moved three times over already.

So when there’s pounding at the front door of the mansion, and I pull it open to be hit with the sharp scent of ozone hanging low in the air just before a storm, and freshly cut, wet grass long before I see the werewolf—I know I’m about to be dragged into some bullshit.

‘She would’ve made a good shieldmaiden,’ I think about the female werewolf in her human form standing before me. She’s of average height with impressive muscles under her white, freckled skin. A mane of ginger hair frames her serious face.

“What?” I demand.

She goes stock-still, surprised I’m not dropping to my knees in honour of the badge stitched to the collar of her green coat—the moon in all its phases, signifying she’s been sent by the leader of all British werewolves—the Direwolf. But if someone wants my respect, a bit of cloth won’t get it.

She recovers quickly and clears her throat. “Vidar Haraldsson, Maker of the Haraldsson Vampire Family, offspring to Br—”