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NOT IF YOU’RE INVOLVED

SEBASTIAN

F ucking witch. If I didn’t need her, I’d kill her. I’d follow her hideously delicious scent to her apartment complex, drag her out by her ankles, and remove her head from her body. I’d drink every addictive drop of her blood, and I’d never have to think about her again.

I peel off my shirt.

No. I am not some infant vampire without an ounce of self-control. I am Sebastian Fucking Vulce, and I will not be destroyed by an inexperienced witch who doesn’t know how to work her powers.

I clench the blood-stained shirt in my fist. Not bad for an inexperienced witch.

I use the clean side of the shirt to wipe the remaining blood from my chest. Some of it has already dried to my skin, but there’s nothing to do about that. I walk through the park with only the earliest tinge of sunlight on the horizon. If I wasn’t a sunwalker, I’d be dead.

Dead at the hands of an oblivious witch.

How embarrassing .

I storm through the entrance of Aberlena University.

It’s probably six in the morning, but the campus is blissfully quiet.

Aside from a student studying in the corner, no one notices my shirtless, bloody trek through the main building.

I cross the lobby and take the farthest stairwell in the back. There’s a heavy lock over the door.

If a human attempted to unlatch it, they would fail.

For me, the door swings wide with ease, granting me access to the tall, winding staircase. My shoes click against the stone steps, each one mocking my failure.

I can already imagine Cora’s face when I tell her. She’ll probably be impressed, as if Grace’s attack on me was anything more than simple luck.

Unless, of course, Grace isn’t innocent or inexperienced at all. Even if Walter Pruce died years ago, that doesn’t mean she isn’t trained. Maybe her mother is an estranged witch, or maybe someone else found her years ago and taught her exactly how to fend off the likes of me.

No , I decide. If Grace knew she was a witch, she wouldn’t have come here. Not knowing who her father is.

I reach the top landing of the staircase. It’s a tiny platform with a single wooden door. I shove through it, feeling pathetically satisfied at the cracking sound it makes when it hits the stone wall of the Paragon.

I may have been bested by a clumsy witch, but I’m still a fucking god here. I’m still strong enough to crack through femur bones with my bare hands. I’m still fast enough to cross the entire Night Realm in less than a day. I’m still powerful.

…So long as I’m in the shadows.

I curse and try to bury the thought. It doesn’t work, especially not now that the sun has broken the skyline and my body is pathetically weak. I feel every slow, laborious step of my trek back to the manor, and by the time I’ve reached the entrance, I’m sweating.

I burst through the double ebony doors and stride across polished wooden floors.

In the years since we were cursed, I have poured a disgusting amount of time into this place.

There’s new paint on the walls, a deep shade somewhere between maroon and black.

The once empty pots have been filled with flourishing plants.

Even the doorknobs have been replaced with shiny brass handles.

If my followers have to be trapped here for half of their days, the least I can do is make it hospitable.

Hospitable . Who the fuck have I become?

I cross the room, sharply nodding to a few vampires as they disappear into the feeding room. For a brief moment, the sounds and smells of fresh blood taunt me. I could feast, but I resist the urge, stalking to the western wing instead.

Few people live in this part of the manor, and that’s the main reason it became home to our resident witch. It’s safer here, and it helps to contain her odor.

Reaching Cora’s door, I slam my fist against the wood. I’ve rarely visited her here, and yet, she doesn’t look surprised to see me. She only smirks, a slow and taunting gesture. I can’t decide if she’s more amused at my blood-stained, naked chest or the fact Grace still isn’t with me.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap before she says a single word. “I need a potion. Maybe two.”

The smirk remains on Cora’s face, but she abandons the doorway. She doesn’t invite me in, and I don’t ask.

Her quarters are a smaller version of mine, but still bigger than most of my followers.

She has a living room, a kitchenette, a spacious bedroom, and an attached bathroom.

A few years before she moved in—and before she cast spells to keep me out—I’d designed this room for Oskar.

He’d wanted to share the place with his wife.

Once she died, he lost all interest, and it became the perfect place to house Cora.

I peer to the left, then the right. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t made many changes. The furniture is all the same, but now, black fabric covers most surfaces. There are black drapes over the windows, black blankets over the couch cushions, and a shaggy black rug lining the kitchen.

That’s where Cora stands now. She opens one of her cabinets, revealing copious amounts of herbs, brightly-colored liquids, and small organs in jars.

“All right,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Pick your poison.”

It’s nightfall by the time I leave the manor.

I changed into a black shirt (better to hide the blood) and added a long coat.

They’re not as popular as they once were in the human world, but I’m not going for subtlety anymore.

Enough is enough. I have officially run out of patience for Grace Pruce.

Tonight, I’m dragging her to the Echo if it kills me.

Or, more aptly, if she does.

I pat the oversized pocket of my coat as I cross into Aberlena. Cora created four potions for me, and they’re all clanking together. A blue vial for memory loss. A red one for confusion. A pale yellow one for sleep. And a deep purple one for paralysis.

If all goes well, I won’t need most of them. Ideally, I won’t need any, but I’m not naive enough to expect that now.

Following Amelia’s instructions, I borrow a man’s electronic to make a call.

Then, I continue to Grace’s apartment. By the time I reach it, the moon is high in the sky, reflecting off dozens of windows.

Most are lit, showing men playing a rudimentary game in one and a group of people watching a movie in another.

Grace should be on the fourth floor, in the third apartment from the right.

The light is on, but her drapes are shut, making it impossible to see her.

I wonder if she’s hunkered down, unsettled and horrified at what she’s done. It’s either that or she and her dull roommate are celebrating my death. She must think I’m dead, after all.

Fucking ripped a hole in my chest, and I’m convinced she didn’t mean to do it. She’s scared and untrained—a dangerous combination.

I stand at the apartment building entrance.

I could easily break the lock pad and rip the door off its hinges, but that wouldn’t get me far.

I’d still be stuck out here on the sidewalk, barred by an invisible barrier only my kind can feel.

And I’ve learned my odds of being invited in are far higher if I don’t destroy the building before asking.

I lean against the wall, waiting for the building owner to arrive. I’d found his phone number at the same time I’d found Grace’s new address. A quick call, claiming I was a locked out tenant, and he was on his way.

A couple approaches from off the street. The man types the code to the door, earning a short buzz. The door unlatches, and he holds it open, tilting his chin toward it.

“You coming in?” he asks.

If only it was that simple , I think. I shake my head.

Minutes later, the owner arrives. He’s a tall, beefy man with a hundred-fifty pounds of muscle and at least four inches of height on me. He grins with the confidence of someone used to being the strongest in the room. He doesn’t pause to size me up—he already knows he could overpower me if needed .

At least, he thinks he could. If I were blood and flesh and human, he’d be right.

“Hey, man,” I say. Humans speak differently than we do, and I do my best to flatten my voice. “Sorry about this.”

“Not a problem,” he says easily. He digs a set of keys from his pockets and enters the door code with his opposite hand. He doesn’t look back at me as he swings open the door and steps into the building.

The door starts to close, but I don’t grab it. Instead, I stand at the threshold, looking at the building’s shabby interior.

The owner catches it just before it closes, shooting me a bemused expression.

“Well, come in,” he says with a snorted laugh. “You need a special invitation or something?”

Come in will do perfectly, thanks.

“Sorry, I’m out of it today,” I say. I do my best to mirror his carefree expression, but I’m already mapping out the building’s interior. There’s an elevator to the left, a set of stairs just beyond it.

“All right. Remind me your name,” he says. He pulls up a chart on his phone that has a list of tenants and their respective apartments. I could easily pick a name off the chart and pretend it’s me, but that only prolongs the inevitable.

“Tyler,” I tell him.

While he’s scanning the list, I consider my options: force feed him the confusion potion or…

I lunge forward, punching him in the temple. He collapses like he’s made of paper, his stocky frame crashing against the cheap carpet. He’s not bleeding, but I can already tell he’ll have an impressive bruise. I watch him until I’m sure he’s properly unconscious .

Then I heave his limp body over my shoulder and take the stairs two at a time. Once I reach the fourth floor, I count the doors, coming to a stop in front of 415. I shift the man on my shoulder and knock on Grace’s door.