When he smiles, I catch the flash of fangs.
Vampire.
“Still trying, I see,” he says to the woman, his voice calm and almost gentle. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she seems to relax slightly under his touch.
“Put your hand on the mirror,” he suggests. “Sometimes it takes time for the connection to form.”
She presses her palm against the glass again, hope flickering in her expression. But nothing happens. The mirror remains just a mirror, showing only her own reflection.
The vampire turns to me, studying my face with those predatory eyes. “You’re one of hers.”
“Yeah.”
He nods knowingly, turning back to the woman. “Hybrid,” he says gently, like he’s stating a simple fact about the weather. “That’s why it’s not working. You’re already whole, you see. Two halves in one body.”
The woman lets out a broken sob, her hand sliding down the mirror’s surface. “But I felt the pull. I felt it calling to me.”
“Your Feeder half,” the vampire explains, still gentle. “It recognizes the hunger, the incompleteness others feel. But the Oath can’t give you what you already have.”
“She’s not coming,” the woman whispers. “She’s never coming.”
“Because she doesn’t exist,” he says softly. “The mirror realm sees you as complete. There’s no other half to call.”
I watch him guide the woman away from the mirror, his movements careful and kind. But there’s something in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe. Like he expected this outcome.
As they disappear into the shadows, I’m left alone with the mirrors.
Walking back through the chamber, my eyes catch on one mirror I hadn’t noticed before. The frame is carved with intricate wolf heads, their eyes seeming to follow my movement. Something about it draws me forward, a pull I can’t quite explain.
I stop directly in front of it.
The surface flickers—just once—like a candle flame disturbed by breath.
My reflection stares back at me, but there’s something different about it. Something in the eyes that doesn’t quite match what I’m feeling.
My hand rises toward the glass before I can stop myself.
The moment my palm touches the surface, my reflection changes.
It smirks.
Not me. Not my expression. But something wearing my face, looking back at me with knowledge I don’t possess and confidence I’ve never felt.
The reflection tilts its head, and I feel the pull—sharp and desperate, like hunger that’s gone too long unfed. It wants me to stay. To keep touching the glass. To let it show me what I could be.
I jerk my hand back, but every instinct I have screams at me to reach out again.
No.
I force myself to turn away, to walk toward the stairs, even though it feels like tearing something vital out of my chest.
Behind me, I swear I can feel it watching. Waiting for me to change my mind.
And I know—with terrible certainty—that I will.
Chapter 22
Thane
