Page 42 of The Witch They Fear

He turns. Up the aisle, through the doorway, into the corridor. Gone.

The classroom settles into silence around me. I stare at the dark smear on my bag strap—his blood, still wet, glistening faintly against the leather. I don't know what it does, exactly. I don't know the mechanics or the range or how long it lasts. But I know what always know where to find you means, and the thought of Leopold Vassard being able to sense where I am—in my cottage, in my bed, on the path to Aamon's office—makes my skin crawl.

I grab a tissue and scrub at the strap. The blood smears but doesn't lift. It's soaking into the leather, darkening, settling in like it was always meant to be there.

Fine.

I unzip the bag. Transfer my notebook, pens, and textbook to the crook of my arm. Leave the bag on the desk.

Track that, Vassard.

Another leash. Another person deciding he has the right to know where I am. The only difference is this one showed his teeth while he did it.

Literally.

I walk out of the classroom with my books against my chest and my jaw set and my mind already sorting through the problem: I need a new bag, I need to figure out what vampire blood-tracking actually is, and I need to have a conversation with Nellie about the fact that Leopold Vassard heard every word we said about the rune on my door.

The corridor is empty. Late afternoon light slants through the tall windows, casting long amber rectangles across the stone floor. Students have moved on to wherever students go—dining hall, dormitories, the courtyard. Corvin is at the far end of the hall, a shadow against the wall, probably relieved that I'm finally leaving.

I'm halfway to the staircase when it comes.

The voice slides in the way it always does—between my thoughts, settling into the space it's claimed inside my skull. But the texture is wrong. The usual warmth has an edge to it, something serrated, like velvet pulled tight over a blade.

Interesting company you're keeping.

I stop walking. My arms tighten around the books against my chest.

He put his blood on you. A weighted pause. I assume you're aware of what that means.

Something about the tone makes the back of my neck prickle. This isn't the teasing voice from combat class. This isn't the curious you ARE strong from the steps or the patient fair enough from the hallway. This is something colder. Territorial. A door being held open just enough to show what's behind it.

Stay away from him.

Four words. Flat. Final. No warmth. No patience. The command of someone who is used to being obeyed and is not, in this particular moment, interested in pretending otherwise.

My mouth goes dry. I look around—left, right, behind me. The corridor is empty. Corvin is fifty feet away and oblivious. The building is dead quiet, and Emric with his kind eyes and his convenient timing is nowhere in sight.

No one.

The voice spoke and Emric is nowhere near me. Not in the building, not in the corridor, not within any reasonable range. The theory I've been building—the suspicious timing, the gap in his sentences, the smirk—cracks down the center.

Maybe it’s him? Maybe he was listening?

But…

If it's not him, then who?

Who are you? I throw the thought out. Sharp. Demanding.

Silence. The edge recedes. The warmth seeps back in slowly, like someone remembering their manners. But the warmth is different now too—sheepish, almost. Like whatever just spoke through the velvet-and-blade frequency didn't mean to show that much.

No answer.

The presence fades to the edges. Still there. Still watching. But quiet in a way that feels like someone who said too much and is hoping I'll pretend I didn't hear it.

I heard it.

Hell, I felt it.