Page 4 of Dark Flame
“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’shours 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, thisFreya, 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.
