The sky was lightening faster now. His shoulders jerked with each strained gasp.
Footsteps echoed behind us—heavy, deliberate. Not a wanderer.
I gritted my teeth and hauled him up again, forcing his arm over my shoulder. If I couldn’t carry him, I’d half-walk, half-drag him the rest of the way. Every step jarred my spine. Every slip threatened another fall.
I thought of everything I knew about vampires—what Alaric had told me in quiet moments and what I’d read in the tomes tucked away in Thalassia’s libraries. Direct sunlight burned them to ash, sometimes slow and blistering, sometimes in a heartbeat, depending on how old they were. The older the vampire, the longer they could endure it—but I had no idea how old Alarictruly was. They possessed immortality—never aging, healing rapidly, immune to most disease—with heightened strength, speed, and senses that made them lethal hunters in the dark. Some could compel the weak-minded, bending wills or erasing memories.
Andblood—blood was everything. It was their livelihood, their tether to immortality. Without it, they withered. I wondered, fleetingly, if giving him some of my own blood might help… or if it would only make things worse. My thoughts flicked to the vial Séraphine had taken from me earlier—the way the blood had caught the light, glinting richer and stranger than any I'd ever seen. It had shimmered faintly and I remembered the way we all stared at it, fascination bright in our eyes. Whatever lived in my veins was different, and I wasn’t sure if it would save him or make things worse. But I wasn’t sure I could make it to the ship in time, either. An impossible choice pressed in on me— whether to drag him the rest of the way or risk giving him my blood and see what happens.
Footsteps and low whispers closed in behind us.
I froze, heart pounding. We’d been followed. There was no way I could outrun them while dragging him.
I lowered him to the ground. His skin was pale and clammy, sweat beading at his temples, his chest rising faintly. He was already dead by nature, but he looked like he was dying.
My hand went to my cloak, fingers finding the dagger’s familiar hilt—the one the vendor had tried to sell to Alaric before hedisrespected me. Alaric had taken it from the man in lieu of an apology, pressing it into my hands.
I unsheathed it and held the blade to my wrist.
One steady moment.
I pressed the blade in until the skin parted, the cold kiss of metal turning to a searing sting rushed down my arm. My blood welled up, warmth pooled and spilled in a slow, steady stream, trickling over my skin before pattering to the stones.
I brought my wrist to his mouth, my pulse hammering against his lips. Nothing. Not a sound, not a twitch. My heartbeat grew louder in my ears, drumming out every other thought. I tilted my wrist, letting the blood drip over his teeth, trailing past the curve of his mouth. Warm rivulets streaked down his chin and onto my hands.
At Séraphine’s, my blood had refused to be taken. Here, there was no choosing—only need.
“Drink,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Please, Alaric, drink.”
Nothing.
The streets were thinning, the shadows stretching long across uneven cobblestones. A faint paling smudged the horizon beyond the rooftops, just enough to make the gas lanterns gutter and hiss. The glow painted the alleyways in sickly amber, a reminder that I was running out of night.
His lips stayed slack, and the panic in my chest tightened like a net. Then—just barely—his breathing began to quicken, and his hand twitched, sending a rush of relief through me.
Pain flared white-hot as my grip faltered, and the dagger slipped free, clattering uselessly against the cobblestones. Gloved hands seized me from behind, the material biting into my wrists like heated iron. Four more figures stepped out, surrounding us, emerging from the tree line, one of them a man I'd seen before—the Vendor. He stepped toward me, eyes glinting in the dim light. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."
His attention slid to Alaric, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Shame about your friend there, but his blood and fangs will make a nice payday for me.”
He looked back at me, his fingers grazing my cheek with a wicked smile. “And you? Men will line the docks for you,” he said softly, turning back. “After I break you in.”
His fingers grazed my cheek again. His smile was wet and hungry, his attention crawling over me like filth.
One hand dropped to his trousers. Buttons came undone. Slow. Deliberate.
The men holding me laughed as they tightened their grip, forcing my arms back until my shoulders screamed.
The gloves burned. Not heat like fire—but a deep, gnawing pain that sank into my wrists, searing through skin and bone alike.
Fear surged—cold and suffocating—but something darker rose beneath it. Hot. Furious. Ancient. My crescent mark pulsed hard, a deep, aching throb beneath my skin, like a warning bell rung too late. I reached inward—instinctive, desperate—searching for the heat I’d felt before. The pull of the sea. The answering spark beneath my skin.
Come on,I begged.Please.
Nothing answered. No warmth. No surge. Just a hollow resistance, like grasping at water that refused to move. A metallic tang burned in the back of my throat, unfamiliar and wrong. It wasn’t gone — I could feel it, distant and muffled, like something buried beneath too much water to reach the surface. Incomplete things do not answer every call. Fear flared brighter than before.
“Touch me,” I said, my voice steady as a blade, “and you will regret it for the rest of yourveryshort life.”
I leaned forward as far as they’d allow and spat, thick and deliberate, right across his mouth.
