Chapter 1 #2
It was just… this feeding… considering what I was…
it could cause concerns. Especially for Dad with what he’d lived through with his own father, Morien Morgrave.
That nightmare being had become so incredibly unhinged the moment he’d allowed his darker predilections to lead the way.
My dad was hyper-vigilant when it came to that sort of thing.
And because I was young and still learning, and about to venture out into the world away from my family, he’d definitely be all over it more than ever.
When I’d seen his texts and registered the time, it’d had me realizing that I’d been inside Polaris far longer than I’d initially planned.
I’d fed from five different beings tonight—three before my session with Selena and Carter.
I was a little anxious about my upcoming enrollment at Loxley Academy.
And a certain someone crawling under my skin who just happened to be a student there too. I’d finally begun to do something about the situation when it came to that someone, and I knew it would be coming to a head soon. I just wasn’t sure which way it was gonna go.
I blinked, swallowing it down.
“All right, here goes nothing,” I breathed, before I called my amber magic to my palms, then swept myself up in a cloud of teleportation.
Lunaris Nocturn.
A magically-infused fine-dining lounge.
Only supernatural beings could cross the threshold, entering via an alley portal that appeared merely as a brick wall to human eyes.
As I searched out my dad, I took in the glowing crystals embedded in the dark walls, the floating candles all around. The ceiling emulated the night sky from multiple different realms and shifted constantly above.
Each round table combined rustic with the ornate and offered enchanted menus that gauged the culinary needs and preferences of each individual patron.
My boots thudded lightly on the marble-veined floors, the soft music rolling over me.
A few heads turned my way and at first I figured it was the patrons clocking my power set, as was the norm for me.
But it could also be that I was dressed in my go-to jeans and hoodie in an establishment that generally had a fancier atmosphere.
Some were wearing suits, others sporting button-down shirts with dress pants.
A vampire couple having a romantic evening caught my eye, both women dressed in pastel cocktail dresses and glittering heels.
There was a sorceress in a shimmering white pantsuit.
I did note a woman in a tank top and leather pants over on the far side sitting with her son.
A hiss came at me as I walked by the vampire couple, and I swung my head to see that one of them had their fangs dropped as they looked me up and down.
The wolf in the tank also scented me before returning to her conversation with her son.
Fuck. It wasn’t what I was wearing.
I eased the left of my hoodie aside and saw blood stains there.
That was what it was.
From the feed.
I went to call my magic to clean it, but stopped myself.
My dad would feel it.
Speaking of him, I located him at the very far back of the restaurant.
He was leaning back in his chair, his hooded black leather coat hanging off the back, as he had one hand clasped around a mug of what was likely his favored blackcurrant tea, while the other held his phone to his ear as he talked animatedly.
I couldn’t hear a single thing coming out of his mouth and although I didn’t possess supernatural hearing like a vampire, wolf, or dragon, I should’ve been able to hear at least something across the short forty-foot distance.
He was employing an auditory reduction spell then, which meant it was a work call he was taking.
That gave me time to quickly go to the bathroom and wash off the blood in a non-magical way.
Or so I thought, until he noticed me in the very next second, his eyes lighting up as he waved me over.
I waved back and swallowed down my uneasiness about the blood situation, then made my way over.
He had the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, the shirt half tucked into his cargo pants that gave way to a pair of comfy boots.
The crimson streaks in his hair—the same color as his magic—popped against his dark, spiky hair under the restaurant lights.
He was tall and toned, giving off an imposing and commanding air as usual.
Well, he only brought that to the outside world, never to me, never to our family.
He was technically forty-five, going on forty-six, but he’d hit magical maturity in his early twenties.
For a magic-wielder that was the age they remained at physically for the rest of their immortal lives.
Mom was the same in that respect, remaining in her early twenties when she’d come into her full power.
And Father was another matter entirely, looking to be in his thirties as an Immortal and former True Celestial being.
For Pops who was a wolf-vampire hybrid, a being without any magic, and with hybridized physiology, he would remain looking twenty-one, which was when he fully came into his vampiric abilities and melded them with his wolf—his version of magical maturity.
As I reached the table, I felt the warmth of his magic roll over me and I passed through a translucent film—the sign of the auditory reduction spell I’d suspected being in effect.
Then I finally heard his voice as he spoke into his phone.
“Yes, obviously I’m in agreement, Remnant.
He would normally jump at the chance to clear a nest of black magic users.
It’s unlike him. But disappearing into the ozone and becoming unreachable for days on end is like him.
Possibly, yeah, he could have sensed a shift, something of concerning magnitude, but until we know more that’s just theoretical.
What? No. Arcanum Order hasn’t managed to develop an antidote to black magic infection yet.
It’s a work in progress. Yeah, Ambrose being the only one to have that ability isn’t ideal, but him offering to cleanse those infected in Guardian Movement custody was also a risk for him.
If he handed that over, he’d essentially be handing over the ability for it to be used on him as well.
I agree, it’s not sustainable, but—Ketheron?
No. I don’t want him involved in tracking Ambrose unless it becomes absolutely necessary.
It would put him in a difficult position given what’s going on between them.
At least we know through Ketheron that Ambrose is well, even though he hasn’t disclosed his actual location.
He didn’t want to put him in a difficult position with us.
We’ll give it more time.” His eyes met mine and despite the clearly heavy subject matter, they softened.
“We’ll continue this later. Winter is here. ”
“Dad, it’s okay. I actually need to use the bathroom,” I told him. “Finish up your call.”
He pressed his hand over the phone. “You don’t need to—”
“I’m not. I promise.”
He thought I was making excuses for him.
He’d had this thing, a hangup my whole life, about how much he worked interfering in his role as my dad.
He loved his work with Requital, a semi-underground vigilante organization that bridged the gap between the real underground that Remnant—my Ancient Vampire grandpa on Pop’s side—led, called The Shadowed, and the overarching supernatural governing authority of the Guardian Movement.
But he’d always been there for me. Always.
It took him a moment, but he gave a nod. “I’ll be no more than five minutes.”
I smiled. “I know. It’s all good.”
I made my way toward the left wing of the space, passing through the curved arch that marked the path to the bathrooms.
I cautiously walked into the men’s room, scanning the immediate area.
Relief filled me when I didn’t find anyone inside.
I considered locking the door, but that would be rude. It wasn’t a one-person, private bathroom.
My boots thumped on the dark slate floor and for a moment I was drawn to the embedded quartz that zigzagged through the tiles like magical veins.
There was a tall gothic window framing the night sky outside, a blue flame crystal resting on the sill that emanated a calming air.
It also functioned to neutralize any unappetizing scents, and fill the room with a fresh ocean smell instead.
A couple more of them sat on sills inset in the honeyed stone walls between brass sconces that cast the place in warm light.
I walked to the black-granite basins with the gold faucets, a line of arched mirrors stretching the length of the sink area.
To my left were urinals cast in opulence, gleaming and shimmering with that honey hue of the walls. To my right were six stalls made of solid caramel-colored wood, three facing another set.
I turned on the faucet of the sink closest to the stalls and shrugged off my hoodie, resting it on the counter. Then I reached for the soap dispenser which was an ornate gold statuesque object.
I gathered an almost overflowing amount of it on my right palm, then tugged out my shirt with my left, identifying the three bloodstains marring the fabric.
I leaned forward, dipping it in the running water a bit, before adding the soap and scrubbing it as harshly as possible to hasten the process, not wanting anyone to walk in and see me cleansing my clothes of blood. That really wouldn’t be a safe visual.
It worked, the stains fading quickly. Hmm, this was some good soap.
I’d just finished up and turned the water off, intending to call my shadows to dry it, when a thud sounded behind me.
Before I could even look in the mirrors to see who was entering so incredibly aggressively, a bone-jarring weight slammed into my back.
As I stumbled, my arms were grabbed roughly, and then I was slammed up against the wall, a hand to my throat.
And there he was. Right there in my personal space.
Zayn Riene.
Chaotic Ifrit and exquisite complication to my life.