Chapter 6 Esme
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 among nonmagicals. 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 sour tang 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.
The scenery’s definitely improving, at least. If you’re into flickering lights and the perfume of dumpster juice.
The street narrows, the asphalt pocked and dark with what looks like old oil.
A boarded-up laundromat leans into a pawnshop that might still be open.
Someone’s arguing two blocks over. Someone else laughs the wrong kind of laugh.
Brynn’s steps slow beside me. “This feels like a bad idea,” she mutters.
I sigh. “Most shortcuts are—”
A shout interrupts me, followed by laughter—closer this time. Three men drift out from the corner ahead. Hoodies, jackets, one with a takeaway cup still in hand. Local guys, perhaps, bored and maybe a little drunk, with nowhere better to be.
We keep walking.
My hand instinctively drifts toward Brynn, a subtle gesture to keep her behind me.
A shrill whistle slices through the alley’s grime. My spine stiffens. Of all the monsters in all the worlds, this kind is the most tediously predictable.
“Hey, ladies,” one of them slurs, stepping directly into our path. The one with the cup. His breath rolls toward us, a foul mix of cheap liquor and something vaguely sweet. “Where you headed in such a hurry?”
His friends fan out, forming a sloppy, grinning wall of stained denim and unearned confidence. The street behind us is empty. The street ahead is blocked. A classic pincer movement, executed with all the tactical genius of a slime mold.
“Look at this one,” another one says, his eyes crawling over Brynn. “Cute. You got a name, sweet thing?”
Brynn shrinks back, her hand tightening on the map until the paper crackles.
I keep my expression neutral, my body loose.
I run a quick inventory. Three men, average height, probably above average fitness.
No obvious weapons. Low light. Uneven pavement.
The odds are unconcerning. The situation, however, is not.
“We’re not interested,” I say, my voice flat and cold. “Move.”
The “leader” chuckles, taking a step closer. The smell is worse up close. “Feisty. I like feisty.”
Oh, you have no idea.
He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl with a familiar, acidic anger. “You’re hot. Both of you. Just wanna talk.”
“Your version of ‘talking’ looks a lot like blocking our path,” Brynn says, her own voice sharper than I expected. Her Salem stubbornness is a small, bright flame in the dark.
He exhales through his nose, half amusement, half warning. “Relax. Nobody’s blocking anything.” His tone’s lighter now, that slippery kind of friendly that pretends not to be a threat while tightening the space around you.
Brynn shifts closer to me without meaning to. The man’s eyes flick to the movement—he notices everything: the nerves, the hesitation, the way our hands almost brush. It gives him permission.
He takes a small step forward, not enough to seem aggressive, just enough to test how far he can go. The air feels closer, heavier.
Then his hand lifts—casual, practiced, like he’s done this before.
His fingers brush the sleeve of her stupid theme-park hoodie.
And everything goes quiet in my head. The buzz of the sign, the distant music, the pounding in my own ears—it all fades to a single, sharp point of focus.
I don’t think. I move.
My elbow connects with his nose. There’s a wet, satisfying crunch, and he stumbles back with a choked scream, hands flying to his face as blood pours between his fingers.
Before his friend on the left can even process what’s happened, I pivot, my boot sweeping his legs out from under him.
He hits the pavement with a grunt that forces the air from his lungs.
The third one, the quieter one, just stares, his mouth a stupid O of surprise.
A quick jab to the throat is all it takes. He collapses, gagging and clutching at his larynx, his eyes wide with a terror he’ll probably feel for a week.
It takes less than five seconds. No magic. No shadows. Just muscle memory and a deep, simmering well of rage I didn’t realize was so close to the surface.
I grab Brynn’s wrist. Her skin is cold. “Run.”
We don’t look back. We sprint, our footsteps echoing off the brick walls.
The alley spits us out onto another street, brighter and wider, and we don’t slow down.
We race past late-night diners and darkened office buildings, the station’s glowing sign a beacon in the distance.
My lungs burn, not from the exertion, but from the sudden, violent release of tension.
We burst through the station’s automatic doors into a cavernous, half-empty hall that smells of disinfectant and despair. A few solitary figures are scattered on the benches, lost in their phones or their own thoughts. The air is cool, sterile. Safer.
We drop onto a hard plastic bench near the ticket machines, chests heaving. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I watch my sister, her face pale under the fluorescent lights, her eyes wide. She’s staring at my hands.
“Well,” she finally says, her voice shaky. “That was… efficient.”
“He touched you,” I say, as if that explains everything. Which, in fact, it does.
Brynn pulls the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands. “I know. I just…” She trails off, exhaling. “You moved so fast. I forget sometimes how much stronger you are than you look.”
“Hesitation gets you killed,” I reply, the old academy mantra leaving my lips without thought. I flex my knuckles. No pain. Good. “Or worse.”
A voice in my head reminds me that even though I’m running low on magical energy, Dayn’s essence probably juices my physical form too… wherever the hell he even is right now.
Brynn looks away, toward the train schedule flickering on a large screen.
“Right. Worse.” Her gaze is distant, and I know she’s not thinking about those pathetic thugs in the alley.
She’s thinking of Darkbirch. Of Chad. Of Heathborne.
Of Draethys. Of our reality, which makes a back-alley skirmish feel like a damn playground squabble.
In the early morning hours, the familiar, though worryingly less-oppressive-than-normal weight of Darkbirch’s spiritual barrier settles over me, as we descend with Lucian.
I’ve never met him before because he’s not a Darkbirch vampire.
Apparently, our coven’s so strapped for defenses, Corvin had to get him sent from Bloodbane Coven to collect us. Which doesn’t help my angst levels.
Once we’re through the screaming barrier, the ancient trees close in and we land softly just outside the main gates of the academy.
Corvin comes out almost immediately. Warden Blythe stands at his side, her face as stern and unyielding as the stone walls behind her. Her presence is unusual; she rarely greets anyone at the gate. A knot of unease tightens in my stomach.
“Esme. Brynn,” Corvin says, his tone devoid of warmth. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes far deeper than I remember. “You had us worried.”
“We ran into some trouble,” I say, my tone dry.
That gets me the slight crack of a smile, but it soon fades. He glances at Blythe, who gives a single, sharp nod. “Before we talk, come with us. There’s something you need to see,” he says.
To my surprise, he turns and heads for the narrow, winding stone steps that spiral down into the earth. Toward the dungeons.
My hand goes to Brynn’s arm, a silent question. She looks as confused as I feel. We follow them down, the air growing colder, damper, until we reach the lowest level.
A single corridor stretches before us, lined with reinforced cells, their doors bound with glowing containment runes. Most are empty. But at the far end, three are not.
My steps falter. My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the three shadowed figures they hold.
Chad. Byzu. And Dayn.