From the shadows, they emerge. Isander is at the forefront, his fangs once again bared, but he is not alone. Behind him, the forest comes alive. Werewolves, their forms hulking beasts in the night, their eyes glowing with hunger. Dark fae with luminescent skin and deceptively sharp teeth, their expressions cruel and capricious. A group of incubi stand unnaturally still, their perfect faces belied by the predatory gleam in their eyes. And other, smaller demons—imps and bogarts that scuttle at the edges of the crowd, their skin slick with ichor, drawn by the scent of conflict. They form a circle around us, cutting off all escape.
“Consorting with dragons,” Isander hisses, his voice carrying through the clearing. “You’re a traitor.”
Chad steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Isander, listen to me. There’s no time for this. A war is coming. An invasion.”
One of the dark fae, a lithe female with eyes like chips of black stone, laughs a sound like shattering glass. “An invasion? From whom? The clearbloods are predictable. We are prepared for them.”
“Not the clearbloods,” Chad insists, his voice rising with urgency. “Dragons. From a hidden kingdom beneath the earth. An army of them is preparing to march.”
The fae tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “And how would you know of such things?”
The question hangs in the cold air. The circle of monsters tightens, their hostility a palpable force.
A meeting of monsters,I think grimly.Someone should’ve brought snacks.
I step forward, moving to stand beside Chad. Byzu mirrors me on his other side. I let my human form fade, not completely, but enough. My eyes ignite, shifting from amber to the moltengold of my true form, and I let dark scales ripple on my neck and arms. The air around me superheats, the moss at my feet smoking and turning to ash. Beside me, Byzu does the same, and the sheer pressure of our combined presence makes the air tremble. The creatures recoil at our show of threat—an involuntary reaction, their taunts dying in their throats.
We are all monsters, but some more ancient than others.
“He knows because we told him,” I say, my voice a low rumble that is more felt than heard. I meet the gaze of the dark fae, of Isander, of every monster in the circle. “We are Daynthazar and Byzu of House Draxion, and we are here to talk. Because the clock is ticking for every single one of us.”
I let the weight of that sink in, watching their predatory confidence crumble into still silence.
6
ESME
Ariver of light and noise flows past. Cars streak by in neat, unending lines, their headlights slicing through the night like rows of mechanical fireflies. The city hums around us, alive, indifferent, dazzling. Skyscrapers rise on every side, their mirrored faces rippling with shifting colors and hollow promises. Billboards flash half-naked models, miracle diets, perfumes that claim to smell like power. It’s all noise, all movement, and yet somehow… sterile.
The air tastes of hot grease and metal. Somewhere nearby, something’s frying. Maybe noodles, maybe old oil pretending to be food. Beneath it all lingers the faint sweetness of roasted popcorn from a street cart. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since… I don’t want to remember.
At least we’re no longer caked in sewer filth. We found a thrift store, broke in through the back, and “borrowed” a change of clothes that didn’t smell like sweat or mold. The jeans don’t quite fit, and the shirt is two sizes too big, but at least they’re dry.
It’s been a long time since I walked this closely amongnonmagicals. Their world feels so loud. So bright yet so fragile at the same time. They rush past, clutching their coffee cups and glowing screens, completely unaware that a few feet away, something not entirely human is breathing their air.
For a moment, I almost envy them. The oblivion. The safety of not knowing what monsters lurk just between their streets.
Almost.
“So yeah, the station’s that way,” Brynn murmurs, clutching a crumpled tourist map and pointing toward a road that curves left, vanishing between towers of glass and steel. She wears an oversized hoodie from a theme park I’m pretty sure burned down years ago, and a pair of jeans that were probably once blue. Her hair’s still damp from the sink in the thrift store bathroom, curling messily around her face.
She looks so absurdly normal, standing there under the glare of a flickering streetlight, that it almost hurts.
She frowns, tilting the map, then pauses. “Or… a quicker route would be this side alley.”
We both glance toward it. The mouth of the alley opens beside a shuttered storefront, narrow and half-drowned in shadow.
“Looks kind of sketchy,” Brynn mutters.
To her, maybe. To me, it looks more like home.
I step toward it, and Brynn groans but follows, tucking the map under one arm. Portaling’s a crapshoot at the best of times, one of those skills most darkbloods don’t bother trying to master. Too much effort, not enough upshot. Not that I’ve really needed to before. Usually, I get around by vampire. Brynn, for reasons known only to her, actually enjoys public normie transport.
The sound of the city dulls as we step off the main street. The steady rush of traffic fades behind us, replaced by the buzz of a flickering sign and the distant thump of music from somewhere above. The air smells of damp brick, spilled beer, and the sourtang of trash left too long in the heat. A black cat darts out from behind a dumpster, vanishing into the dark with a hiss.Hello, friend.
I roll my neck, testing my energy. Still low-key, but Brynn looks much worse. Another problem with portaling magic: no matter how strong you are, it drains you like nothing else. Guess it’s no wonder, getting sucked through the fabric of reality like dust through a vacuum. Physics always wins.
Once I’m feeling a little less dead inside, I’ll try getting a spirit to send us a bloodsucker. Until then, we’re doing things the old-fashioned way.
