Chapter 5
A DAMNED LIABILITY
CORA
I’ve been keeping strange hours. There’s no reason for me to be awake at two in the morning.
After being out last night and spending all day stressing over the mission’s failure, I should be exhausted.
Instead, I’m jittery and filled with endless, half-formed ideas.
The next clan meeting is in a few days, and I’ll have nothing to report on the sunwalker spells. Again.
It’s bad enough that Amelia, Beatrice, and Milas know the truth.
I’m an utter failure, and there’s a high likelihood I won’t be able to deliver the allies I promised.
Disappointing those three feels humiliating.
Disappointing Sebastian is downright shameful.
I can’t help but credit him for my survival all these years.
Even if I could survive on my own now, I couldn’t have at fifteen.
Sebastian saved my life, and I hate that I haven’t been able to repay the favor.
By three in the morning, I’m too restless to remain in bed.
I drink a cup of green tea and wander the halls.
I’m in the farthest-most quarters in the western wing.
Partly for my protection. Partly for the vampires’ sanity.
Witch blood smells putrid to them—a handy trick my ancestors came up with to dissuade them from eating us.
It also dissuades them from being in our presence at all.
I stride down one hallway, then another, keeping on my side.
The eastern wing of the manor is packed with resident vampires.
There are hundreds of thousands of vampires in the Echo, and a few hundred of them live within these walls.
They bunk in shared bedrooms, glaring out at the daylight through their protective windows.
Many of them despise me for being a witch, for being the same species that brought this horrid curse upon them.
Never mind that I’m the one who magicked the windows. Never mind that I’m the one trying to fix it.
Not fast enough, I think bitterly. Sunwalker spells are the only way vampires can walk in the sun without catching fire. I’ve only made one since Grace became a vampire, and it was for her.
Forget the hundreds of thousands of vampires in the Night Realm. At this rate, I’ll die long before the manor’s residents can walk in daylight. I need help, and I need a lot of it.
I grind my teeth to the point my jaw aches. I pace the hallways, forcing myself to study the many oil paintings and to imagine what may lie behind each closed wooden door. After a while, I start counting my steps to try to keep the bad thoughts from overtaking me.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t escape my own mind, and before long, I’ve reached the end of the western wing.
I could go to the next level. That’s what I should do, honestly, but I’m inexplicably drawn to the central wing.
That’s where the ballroom is. The courtyard.
The bloodletting room and the extravagant entryway. There’s no reason I should go there.
There are plenty of reasons I shouldn’t.
It’s nightfall, the vampires are at their rowdiest, and the fact I stink to them won’t stop them from attacking. If they’re reckless enough, hungry enough, they will. Sebastian would kill them for it, sure, but that’s not much comfort if I’m already dead.
I rock onto my toes, then shake my head.
What am I thinking?
Why the hells would I leave my sanctuary, just because I feel like it? That’s a new level of stupidity.
I shift on my heels, back in the direction of my room. I’ll pace these halls again, maybe twice more, and then I’ll go to bed.
I barely manage a step when I hear it.
A loud, garbled screaming, coming from the entryway.
I don’t think, don’t register the who or the what or the why. There’s no moment of consideration, no thought of potential consequences.
I’m already moving. Heart racing. Eyes searching. Magic pulsing. Because even without allowing myself to think, my body knows. It will know him until the day I die. Maybe even after that.
I don’t stop running until I reach the front door. There, a handful of goons drag him in by the shoulders.
It’s been twelve years since I’ve seen Elliot Lyrie, but I swear, my breath catches in the exact same way.
Beautiful.
When we were teenagers, I thought he was the most stunning man I’d ever seen.
But he wasn’t a man then, not really. He is now.
Somewhere over six feet tall. Still lean, but far more muscular than he was at sixteen.
His hair is darker. Longer. That curl over his forehead is more pronounced than I remember.
Perfect lips, the bottom slightly larger than the top.
His mouth twists into another vicious scream, and my momentary daze evaporates.
Elliot. My Elliot is here.
The one place I hoped to never see him.
I should tell the goons to unhand him. These four vampires are under Sebastian’s protection, which means they’re under mine too.
They’re not breaking any laws by dragging Elliot into the manor.
Witches are forbidden in vampire territory, and by Night Realm rules, these goons can do whatever they’d like to him as punishment. Capture, torture, even kill him.
So yeah, I should tell them to unhand Elliot. It would be the fair, honorable thing to do—and I swear I’m trying to be a better person. But when Elliot cries out again, any thought of playing nice disappears.
I extend both palms at once, letting my magic loose. It latches onto each goon, hurling them in different directions.
One crashes against the door to the bloodletting room. Another smashes through the front window, sending shards of stained glass across the floor. The other two fling somewhere behind my head, their bodies crunching horrifically against the stone pillars.
I look over Elliot, cataloguing every single body part. He’s not injured. Not that I can tell.
The two vampires in front of me are unconscious. I imagine the two behind me are, as well. I know better than to look away from Elliot to check.
“Tell me if they move,” I instruct him. My voice croaks, raspy and strained. I’m breathing so hard I can barely see straight, and my magic is going haywire. It singes beneath my skin, as if branding me from the inside.
Elliot stares at me. He’s impossible to read, and I’m hit with a foul sense of nostalgia. Once again, my body is remembering something I don’t. My heart squeezes, begging me to approach him. I don’t.
“You’re—” he starts. He blinks at me, hazel eyes wide, mouth parted. “You look just like…”
An indescribable sensation pulses through me.
Good and bad, all at once. I’m tempted to smile, to laugh at the absurdity of his confusion.
He doesn’t know me. Not like he should. He’s staring at me like a complete stranger, and it’s almost funny, the look of bewilderment on his face.
As if I am no more than a scary story, a classmate he once had but never really knew.
A classmate who once tortured his best friend until his heart gave out.
Maybe, if I wasn’t completely gutted by his disgust, by the vile horror in his expression, I would smile. Instead, I force myself to swallow. I keep my posture straight, my expression neutral.
“Keep your eyes on the vampires behind me,” I remind him. I think I’ll hear them move, but it’s better to be cautious. More importantly, it’ll keep those hazel eyes off me.
Elliot doesn’t immediately respond. His palms are open at his sides, but they’re not raised defensively.
Despite his impressive lineage, he was never much of a fighter.
It went against his every instinct, and by the looks of it, it still does.
He could have fought those goons off himself.
He should have, but I don’t voice that opinion.
After a strained moment, Elliot’s eyes flicker away, shifting between the two goons behind me.
“They’re unconscious.”
His voice is so much deeper now, like warm velvet. It makes me want to close my eyes and drift to sleep.
Safe, I realize. Elliot’s voice makes me feel safe, even now.
“What are you doing here, Elliot?” I ask. I force the words out, make them as sharp and cruel as they need to be. “You should know better.”
“You remember me?” he asks. His dark brows jump toward his hairline, and I internally cringe at my mistake. In his mind, we were barely acquaintances. We went to the same school. We had the same friend in Margot. But for him, that’s where it ends.
If I were to pluck out a few more memories, if I were to screw them tight in my collection of jars, that’s where it would end for me too.
I couldn’t though, and this is exactly why. I needed some sense of assurance that, if Elliot and I ever crossed paths, I would know he’s mine to protect.
“Answer the question,” I say, rather than answering his.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Elliot looks down at his clothing then, and I can’t help but do the same. He’s wearing a burnt orange buttoned shirt. Dark grey pants. A pair of shoes that must be brown but are dark enough to appear black. I can almost see myself in them. They're so shiny. It’s all so…fancy.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Elliot’s always been wealthy, and at some point, he had to outgrow his rebellious teenage phase. Back then, he wore grass-stained pants and shirts with holes in them, just to irritate his mama. Now that he’s running his own healing center, I suppose he has to dress nice.
I scan over him again. No blood that I can see. No bruises, even. Whatever the goons were planning to do with him, they clearly hadn’t yet.
“Are you hurt?” I ask. Then, realizing I shouldn’t have, I say, “Don’t answer that. Just…tell me why you’re here, Elliot. Because if your mama sent you—”
“She didn’t,” he says. The words come out in a rush, so there’s a good chance he’s lying. “She doesn’t know I’m here. Don’t go turning this into an act of war when it isn’t one.”
His brows are furrowed, lips twitching downward. He’s trying to look fearsome, I think. It makes me want to smile, but I restrain myself.
“All right,” I say. Then, “Whatever the reason, I hope it’s settled. You can’t come back, Elliot. This will happen every time. You’re lucky I was here to stop it.”
“Why did you?” he asks. His hazel eyes flicker over the vampires behind me before settling back on my face. “Stop them, I mean.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I arch my eyebrow in a silent challenge.
“Fair enough,” he says tightly.
“Well, now that we’ve got that…” I trail off, stomach sinking with a realization I should have had way sooner. “Fuck.”
“What?” he asks. His lips are downturned, brow still creased. It’s unfair how handsome he is. Pretty people always look good, no matter the face they’re making. It’s distracting. A damned liability.
“You can’t leave,” I say. “They’ll eat you alive out there, Elliot. And I do mean that literally.”
“I’m a witch—”
“Who clearly isn’t prepared to defend himself,” I snap. I start for my quarters, pausing when I realize I’ve given him my back. Whirling around, I say. “Come on.”
“You’re insane if you think I’m stepping another foot into this place.
” He looks at me with disgust. He’s never looked at me like that.
And I know it’s unfair to be hurt. I know exactly why he’s looking at me like that, and still…
it does something to my insides. It feels like my organs are melting, like my body is dying piece by piece.
“Fine,” I grit out. My voice chokes, and I realize with a wave of horror that I’m going to cry. I clear my throat roughly. “Make a run for it. See how far you get.”
I stumble out of the room, stopping in the nearest hallway. Only once I’m out of sight do I allow a few tears to fall. It’s pathetic—I know that. I just can’t seem to stop it.
Life has always been unfair to me, but this is unjustly cruel. Having Elliot this close, seeing his blatant hatred of me…It’s a punishment fit for a villain, not for me.
I lean against the wall, breathing slowly. Silently.
I can’t see into the entryway from my position, but there’s a window that reflects most of the room. I can see the goons, still unmoving on the floor, and I can see Elliot, shifting on his feet. He keeps looking my way, as if expecting me to reappear.
He takes two steps toward me.
Roughly shakes his head.
Turns and marches through the front door.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Mine to protect.
I run after him, hands already trembling. Even if he doesn’t want me to follow, he’ll have to let me. He’ll be too busy fighting off vampires to worry about fighting me. If I can convince him to work together, we should be able to make it.
Except we reek.
They’ll smell us immediately.
We’ll be lucky if they bring us to Sebastian.
I throw open the front door. I’ve barely stepped through it when Elliot crashes back inside—and into me. I stumble backwards, and it’s only his hands on my elbows that keep me from falling.
He’s touching me.
No. He’s holding me.
“Let go,” I say. My voice is breathy, unfamiliar, even to my own ears.
“Sorry,” he says.
He releases me. Steps back. Allows a gasp of breath between us. All the while, I stare at him, breathing hard, palms tightened into fists.
“You were coming after me,” he says, and it comes out like an accusation.
“Well, yeah,” I snap. “You were going to get yourself killed.”
“And?” he asks. There’s no anger from his word, only naked curiosity. “Wouldn’t your folk celebrate the murder of Madam Lyrie’s son?”
My folk? Maybe.
Me?
“It would start a war,” I say. It’s not a lie. “So come inside. I’ll give you a place to sleep. Once the sun is up, you’ll be safe to leave.”
“Fine,” he says. The word is muddled by his clenched jaw. “I’ll stay. But if you lock me up—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt. “I’m more eager for you to leave than you are.”