Sinclair
Borson University campussprawled every which way along the foothills of an ancient mountain range. With its baroque stone buildings, winding cobbled pathways, and towering evergreens, the place felt frozen in time in a way modern vampire cities did not.
Sinclair loved it at first glance. He rolled down the window of the Mercedes he rode in the back of and gulped a giant whiff of fresh autumn air. Delightful! The scent of crisp, colorful leaves and spicy pine needles tingled his nostrils. A sneeze threatened, but he held it back.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it? What do you think?”
Becket, Sinclair’s driver, peered at him in the rearview mirror. “I suppose the campus holds a certain charm for those who enjoy living on the edge of wilderness.”
Wilderness was right. Bordering the campus lay thousands of acres of untamed forest. Werewolf territory. Forbidden to vampires for centuries, and yet here was Sinclair, about to make his temporary home alongside its mighty, feral presence.
“Werewolves will tear you apart, Sinclair.”His dear friend, Hazel, hadn’t wanted him to go. “What are you thinking, putting yourself in the middle of their territory and still only living?” Of course, Hazel was already turned, like most of his friends, safe in her undead but immortal body. She didn’t understand Sinclair’s reluctance to transition. None of them did.
“I don’t intend to provoke them,” he’d responded, ignoring the other subject like he always did.
“Well, try not to pee yourself when one of them growls at you. And don’t run. They’re like jackals. They can’t resist chasing prey.” Hazel had narrowed her perfectly plucked brows. “On second thought, go ahead and pee. It’ll make you less appetizing.”
Sinclair had rolled his eyes. He was going to miss her.
A shiver struckhis chest and raced through his fingers and toes in a rush. Heart beating a mile a minute, Sinclair sat straight up in his seat and memorized the terrain as it passed by his open window. Staying alert was key to his safety. He couldn’t afford any more daydreaming.
A handful of people roamed the pathways, mostly human, if his senses were to be trusted. Borson catered to a primarily human clientele. It had to, in order to blend in. None of the human students or faculty knew of the university’s rich history in the supernatural world, knew that true ownership lay in the hands of werewolves, knew a vampire was soon to walk among them.
Staying secret had always kept them safe. Protected their existence. But how much longer would that remain so? Sinclair’s thoughts drifted to the upcoming vote, and he banished them directly. The last thing he wanted to think about was politics, not when a new world was revealing itself inch by inch before his eyes.
Exploring every nook and cranny of this university ranked high on his to-do list. Starting with the magnificent library at the heart of the campus. Legendary in scholarly circles, with entire sections reserved for supernatural patrons with university IDs, Borson’s library was a huge selling point. He couldn’t wait to wander among the towering stacks, perusing old tomes.
They pulled around a bend, and Sinclair caught his first glimpse of the old-church-turned-student-housing facility that would be his new home. The compelling structure was reserved for the university’s werewolf population. Barely on campus, the church stood on the edge of the forested lands east of the university. Wolves were a private bunch and required easy access to their broader territory for shifting and full-moon gathering.
The large stone dwelling featured several obvious modern additions. Pale, aged stonework contrasted sharply with the modern gray stucco, a shade that didn’t quite match the original and was fragile by comparison. A bell tower thrust high into the cloudless night sky—preserved, though if his prior reading was to be trusted, unused—a relic of times past.
Was it operational? Sinclair had always enjoyed the bright, resonant ringing of bronze bells.
A group of young shifters sat at the picnic tables in the church’s broad grassy courtyard. Sinclair knew them to be werewolves; his senses told him so. Something in the graceful way they moved, the telltale scent of preternatural genetics, the faint otherworldly glow to their eyes. Combined, the clues spelled danger. But these wolves weren’t his enemies. They were his housemates. Surely, they were civil.
“This must be the place.” Sinclair sat frozen in his seat as Becket pulled the car to a halt, paralyzed between excitement and anxiety.
“It would appear as such.” Becket eyed the wolves out front, suspicion clear in his steady gaze.
“Thank you for taking me all this way.” They’d begun the journey at dusk, and it was already 10:30 p.m. The trip had flown by.
“My pleasure.” Becket braced one arm on the passenger seat and turned to meet Sinclair’s gaze. “You know you can change your mind. Everyone would be glad to see you return. You don’t have to stay here.”
It shouldn’t be tempting. This was what he’d chosen. But the siren’s call of home and all things familiar rang strong. Sinclair tamped down the unwanted desire. “I need to be here. Stop your fussing.”
Becket could be nearly as bad as his mother sometimes, worrying over him.
“Everything will be fine,” Sinclair assured him, although he wasn’t sure of anything right now. The group of weres didn’t exactly exude approachability, huddled in a closed circle, sending irritable glances toward their car in turns.
Sinclair had no experience interacting with the species, but he’d never had much trouble making friends. With that thought, he grabbed his bag, opened the door, and stepped outside.
Every hostile pair of eyes slid his way.
A lump formed in Sinclair’s throat. He swallowed.
The same as he’d known they were wolves, he could only assume they knew he was a vampire. Even though he still lived, he would carry a smell. The savory aroma of blood. His skin a little too perfect, eyes a little too bright, hair a little too shiny. The combination revealed his secrets every bit as much as the missive they should have received prior to his arrival.
Sinclair forced a confidence into his step that he didn’t feel, his inner resolve wavering when one of them snarled. He’d call that one Snarly.
