Chapter 5 #3
"Daylight walking requires enchantment. A talisman, usually—witch-made, expensive, and tied to a specific vampire.
You either buy one outright, which costs more than most families can afford, or—" He pauses.
Chooses his words. "You find a witch willing to create one.
Which usually means a witch who owes you something. "
A witch indebted to a vampire. I think about what Professor Malloy said in class yesterday—ambient magic, channeled magic, the power dynamics baked into the system.
There’s an entire ecosystem I have no idea about thanks to that fucking facility.
"Students who can't walk in daylight take their classes at night," Emric continues.
"Separate schedule, separate social world.
They're technically getting the same education, but...
" He trails off. Shrugs. "Nobody at the night sessions is getting invited to the parties.
Nobody's making the connections that matter for after graduation.
Daylight walking isn't just about sunlight. It's about access."
"And you have a talisman."
He touches his collar—pulls out a thin chain with a small, dark stone that catches the light.
"My grandmother made it. She was a witch.
Married into the family, which raised some eyebrows, but she didn't much care about eyebrows.
" A genuine smile. "She died before I was born, but she made talismans for all the grandkids.
It's the most valuable thing I own and it looks like a rock on a string. "
I stare at the stone. A witch made that. Witch magic, sustaining a vampire's ability to walk in the sun. A gift across species lines, made from love, not debt.
"She sounds like someone I'd have liked," I say.
"You probably would have." He tucks the stone back under his collar. "She was a terror."
Something about the way he says it—fond and sad and proud all at once—makes me think of Marion. The people who take care of you even when the system makes it hard. Even when it costs them.
We spar another round. Then another. My arms are burning but the rhythm is starting to feel less foreign. Block, strike, pivot. Block, strike, pivot. Emric calls out adjustments and I adjust.
"So Midus," I say, catching my breath between drills, nodding at the instructor pacing around the training grounds. "Is he always like that?"
"Like what? Terrifying and vaguely medieval?" He resets his stance. "Yeah. Pretty much. He's been running combat training at Devenir for longer than most of the faculty have been alive. Rumor is he was a general in something—nobody knows what, nobody asks."
"Smart."
"He's fair, though. Harsh, but fair. He'll push you until you think you're going to collapse and then push you one more round past that, but he doesn't play favorites.
" A pause. "Well. He plays one favorite, and it's discipline.
If you show up on time, work hard, and don't waste his time, he'll respect you.
If you slack off or showboat—" He glances toward the weapons rack where Kage is leaning. "He'll make an example."
I swallow. "I noticed."
Emric's expression sobers slightly. "Yeah.
The Kage thing is..." He trails off. Chooses not to finish the sentence.
Resets. "Anyway. Just give Midus effort and he won't give you trouble.
He actually respects beginners more than naturals, believe it or not.
Says talent without discipline is just a mess waiting to happen. "
"Great. I'm a mess that's already happened. He should love me."
He laughs at that—a real one, that crinkles his eyes and makes him drop his guard for a second.
I catch myself smiling back without deciding to, my shoulders loose, my grip on the staff relaxed for the first time all morning.
For a few minutes, I'm just a girl talking to a boy between sparring drills, and the simplicity of it is so foreign it almost hurts.
And then—
That wasn't so bad, was it?
The voice. In my skull. Warm and unhurried and right there, sliding between my thoughts like it heard me laughing and wanted to be closer to the sound.
My entire body goes rigid.
My laughter dies. My grip on the staff tightens. I look at Emric.
He's still smiling. Resetting his stance for the next drill. But—was he talking just now? Was his mouth moving? I try to rewind the moment and I can't because the voice came and Emric was right there, two feet away, looking at me with those warm dark eyes, and the timing—
The timing is too close.
He was in the middle of telling me about Midus—the discipline thing, the mess-waiting-to-happen line. Then there was a breath. A gap. And the voice spoke. And then Emric was readjusting his staff again like nothing happened.
Is it him? Is he the voice in my head?
No…
Could he be?
He has kind eyes. He has a witch grandmother who married into a vampire family.
He's been nothing but decent since the moment he offered me a staff.
And he's a vampire—which means abilities I don't understand, species-specific powers that could include things I've never read about.
Telepathy? Mind-speaking? Some bloodline gift that lets him slip inside someone's head and make himself comfortable?
I don't know. I can't know. But the coincidence is a splinter under my nail and I can't stop pressing on it.
"You okay?" Emric asks. His brow furrows slightly. Concerned. Genuine.
"Fine." I reset my stance, shake myself right. "Let's go again."
He studies me for a half-second longer than necessary. Those dark eyes—warm, steady, the kind you trust instantly—search my face for something I'm not going to give him.
Maybe those eyes are the eyes of a predator. Perfect for drawing in prey.
"Okay," he says.
And we go again.
But I'm watching now. Every pause, every silence, every moment where his mouth stops moving and the voice in my head might speak.
I'm watching, and the easy thing we had five minutes ago is suddenly threaded with something sharper, and I hate it because he might be exactly what he seems and I might be ruining the one of the only uncomplicated things I've found at this school.
And I need uncomplicated.
I don’t have room for anything else.
File it. Don't decide if it’s him yet. Just file it.
Class winds down. Students rack their staves. The fog has started to lift—the morning light pushing through, turning everything gold at the edges.
"Good work today," Midus says. Then, louder, aimed at the weapons rack where Kage is leaning: "You. Clean up."
Kage straightens. Doesn't speak. Just starts collecting scattered staves, moving through the field with his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight.
I'm at the edge of the field near the stone wall, handing my staff back to Emric, when I feel Kage's approach.
The same way I felt the wards on my first day—a pressure change, a shift in the air.
My magic is pulling again, that insistent current-reversal that wants to close the distance between us.
He's working his way across the field collecting equipment, and his path is bringing him straight toward me.
Emric takes the staff. "See you next class?"
I open my mouth to answer and a hand lands on my shoulder.
Firm, deliberate, I flinch in surprise from the contact. His palm is warm through the fabric of my uniform shirt and the weight of it sends a jolt straight through my chest.
I spin. Kage is right there—inches away, close enough that I can see the individual lines of the scar tissue pulling his lip, the flecks of darker blue in his storm-colored eyes, the way his jaw is set in something that might be amusement or might be a challenge.
"Personal space," I say. "Ever heard of it?"
"Sure." He doesn't move. Doesn't take his hand off my shoulder. "Don't believe in it, though."
My magic flares.
I don't mean it to. It's involuntary—a hot spike behind my sternum triggered by the contact, by the proximity, by whatever frequency his body is broadcasting that mine keeps trying to tune into.
The power rushes up my arm toward his hand on my shoulder, back down again, concentrating in my fingertips—
My fingers spark.
I suck in a sharp breath.
Tiny, bright, unmistakable. Little arcs of light crackling from my fingertips like static electricity on a dry day, except it's Louisiana in the humidity and there's nothing static about it.
The sparks dance across my knuckles and lick at the air between us.
His eyes drop to my hand. The smirk vanishes.
Something else replaces it—fast, unguarded, a flash of recognition so sharp it looks almost like hunger.
His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate by a fraction.
For one suspended second, the mask of chaos and confidence drops and I see something raw underneath: a man looking at exactly the thing he's been looking for.
Then it's gone. Sealed over. The smirk slides back into place, but the edges of it are different now. Tighter. More deliberate.
He takes his hand off my shoulder. Steps back. The loss of contact makes my magic lurch sideways in his direction.
"Nice swing, Hex."
His voice is low. Just for me. The word lands like a brand—Hex. A curse. Bad luck.
The thing that ruins everything it touches.
"Don't call me that," I snap. But my voice comes out wrong. Too breathless. Too aware. The sparks are still flickering at my fingertips and I curl my hands into fists to smother them.
"Too late." He turns. Walks away. Starts collecting staves like nothing happened, like he didn't just put his hand on the most dangerous witch on campus and watch her light up like a live wire.
"Hey." Emric's voice, right beside me. He's stepped forward, positioning himself between me and Kage's retreating back in a way that looks casual but isn't. His dark eyes track Kage across the field, and the easy warmth that's been in his expression all morning has cooled to something more careful. "You okay?"