Chapter 15 Brynn
brYNN
Sleep? After almost getting my soul ripped out through my nostrils? Fat chance.
I drag myself to the window of my turret room in Darkbirch's north-west wing and peer across the stretch to Esme's window.
One quick vampire ride—that's all it would take.
But her room's dark as a tomb. Empty. Figures.
My sister gets dragon-napped while I get stuck with the world's worst hangover minus the drinking.
I've lit every damn candle I own. Can't read ancient grimoires in the dark, and the flickering light vibe matches the genre. Right now, books are the only things keeping me from losing my crap completely.
“Honey, you should be asleep,” comes Kun's voice, dripping like syrup from the shadows.
I hurl my knife at the wardrobe without even looking. The blade sinks into wood with a satisfying thunk, and out steps Kun—smirking and completely naked.
“Sweet merciful—” I yelp, spinning around so fast I nearly topple over. “Put some clothes on, you perverted shadow-creeper!”
“I was worried about you.”
I grab another blade from my nightstand and point it at his junk. “Don't be a creep, Kun. I've said no about fifty-seven times. Want me to carve it into your forehead next?”
The air gets thick and sticky-sweet, like someone dumped a vat of honey into a sauna.
Classic incubus crap. I focus on Chad's stupid face instead—those annoyingly perfect shoulders, that smirk when he thinks he's won an argument, how he makes me want to punch him and.
.. other things I'm not admitting. Gross. But hey, it works as incubus repellent.
“Just thought you'd want to know Sun and I handled that clearblood problem,” Kun giggles—actually giggles.
“Yeah, saw the corpse. Very dead. Gold star for you.”
“Sun had fun with his spine. Crack, snap, pop!” He mimes breaking something with disturbing enthusiasm.
“Dude. Therapy. Look into it.”
The wardrobe creaks as he leans against it. For someone who moves like smoke, he weighs approximately one metric ton. “Shame they didn't unleash us sooner. Not like there's anything worth guarding here if you're not around.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly hurt myself. “What do you want, Kun?”
“Checking on you. Making sure you're alive.” His voice drops to a purr. “Also, about that date you promised... Sun and I are absolutely starving for you, Brynn...”
“Not happening, Kun. Not if you were the last incubus in the multiverse and I was dying of... whatever it is incubi cure.” I twirl the blade between my fingers. “And don't pull that 'you owe me' crap. Killing clearbloods is literally your rent payment to Darkbirch.”
“We could show you ecstasies beyond mortal comprehension,” he purrs, voice dripping like melted caramel. “Pleasures that would make your Salem blood sing.”
Yeah, my completely untouched Salem blood. Virgin territory, as it were. But telling him that would be like throwing raw meat to a starving wolf. I flick the blade toward his general direction.
“Out. Now.”
“As you wish, sweet thing. Check your doorstep. Sun and I left a token of our... affection.”
Whoosh. He's gone before I can throw something heavier at him.
The honey-thick air dissipates, and my lungs remember how oxygen works.
Stars and shadows, those twins are like walking aphrodisiacs with fangs.
If they weren't so pathologically determined to get in my pants, they'd actually make decent mission partners.
But nope. Not until they find some other poor soul to obsess over.
I crack open my door and—huh. The steel-tip from Ezra's whip sits on my welcome mat (which reads “GO AWAY” in blood-red letters), wrapped in a crimson ribbon with a note:
XO XO
For our lady.
“That would almost be cute if you two weren't total creepazoids,” I mutter, snatching up my murder-gift.
The handle's stubby with this little finger-hole that's perfect for flipping the blade around like I'm some badass assassin from the movies.
Which I'm not. Yet. But this could be a sweet weapon if I can hack those clearblood runes and rewire them for blood magic.
Totally doable. Maybe. Probably. Whatever.
My brain's buzzing like I mainlined a gallon of espresso, so I drag myself down to the library. The dusty tomes upstairs are useless for dragon intel, and I need answers, like, yesterday.
I'm skulking through the hallways—seriously, the shadows are my only friends right now—when I practically faceplant into Director Reinhardt's chest.
He freezes, blackish-gray eyebrows doing that disapproving caterpillar dance. “Shouldn't you be unconscious in the medical wing?”
“Believe me, I'd kill for a coma right now, but duty calls.”
My chest tightens. If he figures out I'm researching my dragon-napped sister instead of leaving it to the “professionals”, I'm toast.
“You took a beating that would've hospitalized most students,” he says, fussing with his fancy-pants sleeve cuffs peeking out from his blood-red jacket. “Yet here you are, vertical.”
“Two Gaudian Pulses and almost strangled by a whip, but who's counting?” I force a laugh that sounds like a dying hyena. “I'm a healer, remember? Nothing a little Salem family tea recipe can't fix. Plus, Chad helped me out.”
“Physical recovery, perhaps. But mentally?”
“Sharp as a tack, sir.”
Reinhardt scans the hallway like he's expecting more delinquent students to materialize. The guards are making their rounds, but otherwise, it's dead quiet. Even the resident ghosts have noped out after tonight's crapshow.
He gives me the director stare-down. “What's your business lurking around at this hour?”
“Could ask you the same thing.” I flash what I hope is a disarming smile while my brain scrambles for a lie that won't get me detention.
He sighs like he’s physically pained. “In light of tonight's mayhem, I've been reviewing our pathetic excuse for security. Corvin and others are coordinating the search for your sister.”
“Right. Corvin's little rescue squad.”
“That is correct.”
Problem is, that dragon could've flown her to Mars for all we know.
If the clearbloods showing up at our doorstep proves anything, it's that nobody has a clue where they went. Which is exactly why I need to dig up whatever dirt I can on these scaly bastards. I’ve read every obvious text on dragonology, but there must be more I can find.
“Just heading to my office,” he continues with an exhale. “Need to draft emergency protocols for the other covens. Some are losing their collective minds over this.”
“Wow, sir. Really taking charge of the situation.” I lay it on thick.
“What's gotten into you?” Reinhardt's eyebrows practically merge with his hairline. He knows sucking up isn’t like me.
Inspiration strikes. I pull out Ezra's whip blade. “Snagged this during the fight. Thought I'd hack the clearblood runes, make it work with blood magic instead.”
“Hmm… Clever. Using their tech against them.”
“That's the plan.”
“Carry on, then. But do get some rest before sunrise, Miss Salem. You will be needed tomorrow, bright and early. Preparation for the trials must continue as planned.”
Ah, yes, the dreaded trials that absolutely nobody in Darkbirch wants to undertake.
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a smile so fake it hurts my face. I bolt before he changes his mind.
Sunlight stabs through the library’s gothic windows like some celestial middle finger.
Crap. Hours have passed. Been here all night.
My eyes feel like they've been sandpapered, but at least I didn't face-plant into a book and start drooling.
I respect books too much. Instead, my cheek is smashed from leaning against the hard oak table and my neck feels like someone tried to wring it out overnight.
But I found a few dragon texts I somehow missed before, buried in a wrong section, and they are actually decent.
Not the “rawr, burn villages, hoard gold” garbage they feed first-years.
These scaly bastards had their crap together—magical systems that would make our professors weep, fancy noble houses, the works.
They even played nice with humans sometimes.
I squint at another journal by some lady named Margot Hedder who apparently had a dragon fetish for House Braynor.
“Military branch,” I mumble, trying to decode handwriting that looks like a drunk spider fell in an ink pot. “Seriously, Margot, would proper penmanship have killed you?”
My eyes slam shut involuntarily. They burn like I've been staring at the sun. Or a dragon's ass. Whatever.
Deep breath. Ezekiel, my many-times-great-grandfather, wasn't just some dusty old potion-brewing ‘pa from the Salem family highlight reel.
Dude was a research nerd like yours truly.
Probably why I can actually commune with him, even if I got the ghost-whisperer gene way later than Esme did with Grandma Esther.
Two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to a centuries-old magical genius.
I close my eyes and try to summon him, but nada. Just grave-silence and that annoying sunbeam making dust particles look all magical and crap. Great. He's probably still ghost-exhausted from last night's supernatural beatdown.
Something shifts beside me. A presence. I catch movement in my peripheral.
I whip my head around and nearly fall off the bench.
Helena—freaking Helena Salem—is just casually sitting there, eyeballing Hedder's notes like she materialized for Sunday book club. She gives me this “why-are-you-screaming” look as I try to regain some dignity.
“You can't just ghost-pop next to people!” I hiss.
She shrugs, half-smiles. No words, but I feel her—this weird mix of badass warrior queen and gentle mentor energy pulsing through our ancestral connection.
“You look like crap,” I tell her, then wince. “I mean, tired. Really tired.” She nods, like, duh. “Will you bounce back from this?”