Chapter 26 Nerina #2
It became a race I couldn’t afford to lose. Against the potion bleeding from his veins. Against the first light creeping toward the horizon. Against whatever hunted the streets when night began to thin.
Every shadow deepened. Every footstep behind us felt too close. His forehead pressed against my neck, his weight dragging me down like an anchor.
The docks were close—I could smell the salt off open water—when the cobblestones caught my boot. I pitched forward, dragging him with me. We hit the ground hard. My palms scraped raw; his body slammed down beside me with a sound that punched the air from his lungs.
I lay there for a heartbeat, chest heaving.
Ahead of us, the path opened wide. No walls. No corners. Nothing left to brace against.
The Black Marrow stood in the distance, her dark sails stark against the paling sky. Close enough to see. Too far to reach easily.
Panic surged, hot and choking. I forced it down.
I rolled him onto his back, hooked my arms beneath his, and dragged.
My muscles screamed. Cobblestones scraped my boots as his weight slowed me, inch by brutal inch.
I shifted my grip, angled him so his legs wouldn’t snag, and used the slight slope toward the water to keep us moving.
The sky was lightening faster now. His shoulders jerked with each strained gasp.
Footsteps echoed behind us—heavy, deliberate. Not a wanderer.
I gritted my teeth and hauled him up again, forcing his arm over my shoulder. If I couldn’t carry him, I’d half-walk, half-drag him the rest of the way. Every step jarred my spine. Every slip threatened another fall.
I thought of everything I knew about vampires—what Alaric had told me in quiet moments and what I’d read in the tomes tucked away in Thalassia’s libraries.
Direct sunlight burned them to ash, sometimes slow and blistering, sometimes in a heartbeat, depending on how old they were.
The older the vampire, the longer they could endure it—but I had no idea how old Alaric truly was.
They possessed immortality—never aging, healing rapidly, immune to most disease—with heightened strength, speed, and senses that made them lethal hunters in the dark.
Some could compel the weak-minded, bending wills or erasing memories.
And blood—blood was everything. It was their livelihood, their tether to immortality.
Without it, they withered. I wondered, fleetingly, if giving him some of my own blood might help…
or if it would only make things worse. My thoughts flicked to the vial Séraphine had taken from me earlier—the way the blood had caught the light, glinting richer and stranger than any I'd ever seen. It had shimmered faintly and I remembered the way we all stared at it, fascination bright in our eyes. Whatever lived in my veins was different, and I wasn’t sure if it would save him or make things worse.
But I wasn’t sure I could make it to the ship in time, either.
An impossible choice pressed in on me— whether to drag him the rest of the way or risk giving him my blood and see what happens.
Footsteps and low whispers closed in behind us.
I froze, heart pounding. We’d been followed. There was no way I could outrun them while dragging him.
I lowered him to the ground. His skin was pale and clammy, sweat beading at his temples, his chest rising faintly. He was already dead by nature, but he looked like he was dying.
My hand went to my cloak, fingers finding the dagger’s familiar hilt—the one the vendor had tried to sell to Alaric before he disrespected me. Alaric had taken it from the man in lieu of an apology, pressing it into my hands.
I unsheathed it and held the blade to my wrist.
One steady moment.
I pressed the blade in until the skin parted, the cold kiss of metal turning to a searing sting rushed down my arm. My blood welled up, warmth pooled and spilled in a slow, steady stream, trickling over my skin before pattering to the stones.
I brought my wrist to his mouth, my pulse hammering against his lips.
Nothing. Not a sound, not a twitch. My heartbeat grew louder in my ears, drumming out every other thought.
I tilted my wrist, letting the blood drip over his teeth, trailing past the curve of his mouth.
Warm rivulets streaked down his chin and onto my hands.
At Séraphine’s, my blood had refused to be taken. Here, there was no choosing—only need.
“Drink,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Please, Alaric, drink.”
Nothing.
The streets were thinning, the shadows stretching long across uneven cobblestones. A faint paling smudged the horizon beyond the rooftops, just enough to make the gas lanterns gutter and hiss. The glow painted the alleyways in sickly amber, a reminder that I was running out of night.
His lips stayed slack, and the panic in my chest tightened like a net. Then—just barely—his breathing began to quicken, and his hand twitched, sending a rush of relief through me.
Pain flared white-hot as my grip faltered, and the dagger slipped free, clattering uselessly against the cobblestones.
Gloved hands seized me from behind, the material biting into my wrists like heated iron.
Four more figures stepped out, surrounding us, emerging from the tree line, one of them a man I'd seen before—the Vendor.
He stepped toward me, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"I believe you have something that belongs to me. "
His attention slid to Alaric, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Shame about your friend there, but his blood and fangs will make a nice payday for me.”
He looked back at me, his fingers grazing my cheek with a wicked smile. “And you? Men will line the docks for you,” he said softly, turning back. “After I break you in.”
His fingers grazed my cheek again. His smile was wet and hungry, his attention crawling over me like filth.
One hand dropped to his trousers. Buttons came undone. Slow. Deliberate.
The men holding me laughed as they tightened their grip, forcing my arms back until my shoulders screamed.
The gloves burned. Not heat like fire—but a deep, gnawing pain that sank into my wrists, searing through skin and bone alike.
Fear surged—cold and suffocating—but something darker rose beneath it.
Hot. Furious. Ancient. My crescent mark pulsed hard, a deep, aching throb beneath my skin, like a warning bell rung too late.
I reached inward—instinctive, desperate—searching for the heat I’d felt before.
The pull of the sea. The answering spark beneath my skin.
Come on, I begged. Please.
Nothing answered. No warmth. No surge. Just a hollow resistance, like grasping at water that refused to move.
A metallic tang burned in the back of my throat, unfamiliar and wrong.
It wasn’t gone — I could feel it, distant and muffled, like something buried beneath too much water to reach the surface.
Incomplete things do not answer every call. Fear flared brighter than before.
“Touch me,” I said, my voice steady as a blade, “and you will regret it for the rest of your very short life.”
I leaned forward as far as they’d allow and spat, thick and deliberate, right across his mouth.
His smile faltered.
The man laughed and smacked me hard across the face, the crack of it echoing in the stillness. My head snapped to the side, heat blooming where his hand had struck.
His hand slid back to me, fingers catching in my torn clothing, dragging it down, exposing skin already raw from the gloves. He tugged again, harder this time, fabric ripping as he began to strip me like an object laid out for purchase.
The men holding me laughed quietly, tightening their burning grip when I thrashed.
My crescent mark pulsed violently beneath my skin, a deep, furious thrum that echoed in my chest.
I tasted blood where my lip had split and spat it at his feet. The fabric slipped. Just enough. Cool air kissed my bow—
The vendor’s eyes widened. Not with fear. With recognition.
His grin spread slow and hungry. “Well.” His voice trembled with delight. “Would you look at that?”
His gaze flicked to my brow.
“I’m going to be very rich,” he said softly. “Thalassia pays well for traitors.”
I refused to look away. And even as fingers tightened again, even as the gloves burned hotter—Hands grabbed. Fabric tore. Cold air burned against my skin.
“Hold her still,” he snapped, breath hot and close, fingers already fumbling, greedy.
I understood then what Alaric meant. There were worse things than dying.
Then—
A sound cut through the night. Low. Deliberate.
Branches shifted in the tree line. The men froze. “What was that?” one of the men muttered, tightening his grip even as his head turned toward the darkness.
The man cursed, fingers finally releasing their hold on my torn clothes. He glanced toward the trees again, scanning the area.
“Grab her,” he snarled.
Another rustle—closer this time. “Move,” he barked.
My mark pulsed faster, brighter, each throb fed by the heat of my anger. The glow caught his attention, his eyes narrowing with intrigue.
One of the men holding me suddenly shifted his grip and threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. I thrashed hard, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking until my heel connected with something soft enough to make him grunt.
The vendor barked at one of the others, "Grab the vampire," But when the man moved toward Alaric—he was gone.
Where had he gone? Did he… abandon me? Or had someone else seen an opportunity and taken him first?
Before I could think too hard on it, a commotion erupted ahead—shouts, a wet, meaty rip split the air, followed by a metallic rush filling the air.
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t see, the man’s shoulder cutting off my view—only hear the sickening thwack of something heavy collapsing onto the path ahead.
The man carrying me cursed, then threw me to the cobblestones.
Pain flared through my hip and shoulder as I hit, air leaving my lungs in a gasp.
I forced myself up, my palms stinging from the scrape.
When my vision cleared, the vendor’s body sprawled across the cobblestones, his stomach torn wide open.
Loops of glistening entrails spilled out in steaming ropes, pooling in the cracks of the street.
Dark blood ran in rivulets toward the gutter, carrying with it shreds of flesh.
His eyes—still wide, still wet with life a moment ago—stared blindly from where they’d hit the ground.
I was slightly relieved to see him dead—he was a vile man—and yet my mind couldn’t help drifting to the supernatural creatures still locked away in the brothel. The ones we couldn't save. Yet.
Bootsteps echoed behind me.
I twisted, heart stuttering—just in time to see the remaining two men reach for their blades.
Alaric didn’t hesitate.
He moved like a shadow unchained—too fast to follow, too precise to be frantic. One man barely had time to inhale before Alaric was on him, the dagger flashing once, then again. Blood sprayed hot and dark across the stones as the body crumpled to the ground.
The second tried to run.
Alaric caught him by the collar and hauled him back with brutal ease. There was a sickening, wet sound—brief, final—and then the man collapsed, throat opened, eyes already glazing as blood poured through Alaric’s fingers.
Silence fell heavy and thick.
Before I could process it, a hand seized mine—cold, slick with blood.
I looked up—and there was Alaric. Alive.
More than alive. The weakness that had dragged him to the brink moments ago was gone, scorched away by something dark and ravenous.
His eyes found mine, pupils blown wide, glowing with a hunger that was no longer careful or restrained.
This was the first time I’d seen him like this—unleashed, instinct bare, the predator no longer pretending to be tame.
There was something brutally intoxicating in the way he looked at me now.
Violence coiled tight beneath his skin, barely leashed, and I felt it hum through him when his grip tightened, possessive and sure, pulling me flush against his chest. He was shaking—not with weakness, but with control.
Relief slammed into me, dizzying and overwhelming, tangled with heat I didn’t bother to deny. I didn’t pull away. I let him hold me there, let myself be claimed by that feral focus, by the certainty blazing in his eyes.
Alaric pressed the dagger into my palm, the hilt warm, the blade dripping.
Then he moved—swift, decisive—lifting me and turning toward the docks.
“I did try to warn him,” he said quietly as he carried me toward the ship, his voice low, edged with threat. “He decided to test me…”