Page 122 of Spark of Sorcery

“And you think all this just because I smell nice?”

“It’s more than that, Briony. It’s a sign. A clear sign.”

“For your kind?” I repeat his earlier words and he nods. “Shadow weavers? But then why–”

“No, Briony, not shadow weavers.”

His eyes glow in the shadows and I shiver, the air suddenly cold.

“Then what?”

He takes a deep inhale and slams his fist against the light switch. The bright lights extinguish immediately, plunging the room into darkness.

And then he’s right beside me, eyes shining in the darkness, the coldness of his magic brushing against my skin.

I’d recognized almost immediately that he was different from most other shadow weavers. His magic cold, where theirs was warm. His eyes glowing like they do. But then Madame Bardin’s had been similar and so I’d never really questioned it.

But now, I understand. They are different from the other shadow weavers. Just like Dray and the other shifters are different too.

“What are you?” I whisper. Although, deep down in my heart I already know. I’ve always known.

“Something deplorable. Something that belongs in the shadows. Something you should be afraid of.”

“Vampire,” I whisper, not wanting to believe it.

Not Fox Tudor.

Not beautiful Fox Tudor – so full of life and exuberance. So damn beautiful.

“Yes,” he whispers, and there’s a lisp in his voice now and through the darkness, I see his fangs have lengthened, sharp and pointed and ivory white.

“But you weren’t always,” I say, my voice sounding far away.

He’s right, I should be afraid of him. Terrified maybe. And yet, I’m not. I’m strangely calm. I always have been in his presence, even if I’ve always sensed the danger somewhere in the periphery of my mind.

“No,” he says, shrinking a step away, his fangs retracting. “I wasn’t always. Once I was just a boy from Slate Quarter.”

Now I understand the change. The sunlight sucked from his skin; the life sucked from his body. Changed from something alive and vibrant to something immortal, flickering always on the line between life and death.

“Then how?” I ask.

“Another vampire,” he says. “They fed from me.”

“But that would kill you, wouldn’t it?” Or is he more dead than I think?

“No,” he says, “a vampire can choose how much they take. Just enough to whet their appetite, to suppress their hunger, or enough to kill.” I shiver again and he takes another step back as if he knows his presence is chilling the air. “But that in itself is not enough to transform a human into a vampire. The vampire must allow the human to feed from them – to take in their blood.”

“Oh my gosh!” I say, hands flying to my mouth. “That’s how you obtained your powers! You took another vampire’s blood.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding, and pacing across the room. “And it’s my biggest fucking regret. But I was young andstupid. Swayed and seduced by power and immortality. By a different life.”

“Regret it?” I say. “But you’re a shadow weaver. A professor. You escaped Slate Quarter.”

He spins round and fixes me with those glowing eyes. “You don’t know what I’d give to return home – to go back to Slate, to go back to how things were.”

“Because you’ve forgotten how awful it is, Professor,” I spit.

“You think this existence is a good one?” He turns his palms towards me. “Confined to the shadows, never able to feel the sunlight fall across my face. Forced to feed on the weak, always hungry, never satisfied. No friends, no companions. No chance at a family or a life of my own.”