Chapter 7 #3
He laughs. Rich, genuine-sounding, filling the empty classroom. But his fangs catch the light and his eyes don't change temperature and I think about what Nellie said: twice the charm, triple the connections, and a smile that could talk a nun out of her habit.
Priestess. Whatever.
"I'll be direct," he says. Shifts in the chair.
The casual sprawl tightens into something more intentional—still relaxed, but pointed.
A predator settling its weight before it moves.
"Every year, students in the advanced track pair with a witch for collaborative work.
Channeling exercises, ward construction, applied theory.
It's mutually beneficial just like Professor Malloy was suggesting before—the witch gains access to the vampire's resources, network, and protection.
The vampire gains access to the witch's abilities. "
Access to the witch's abilities. There it is. The transactional heart of it, dressed up in academic language.
"My partner graduated last spring," he continues. "The slot is open. I'm extending you the offer."
"No."
He blinks.
"No?" he repeats. Like the word is in a language he doesn't speak.
"No. Thank you. I'm not interested in being anyone's resource, and I'm definitely not interested in giving a vampire I just met access to my abilities." I sling my bag over my shoulder. "Find another witch."
The warmth in his expression holds. But his jaw does something—a clench, quick and controlled. The index finger taps against his thigh again. Three times. Same rhythm.
"You're making a decision without full information," he says.
Still warm. Still generous. But there's a new frequency underneath it—something harder, something that isn't accustomed to hearing no and is recalibrating in real time.
"The partnership comes with significant advantages.
Protection from the student body. Political cover from the council.
My family's name carries weight that could make your year here considerably easier. "
"My year here is a countdown to permanent sedation. I don't think your family name fixes that."
He stands. Slow. Unfolding that impossible height until he's looking down at me from a vantage point that's clearly designed to remind me of the size difference between us. He's not threatening me. He's just... being tall. Deliberately.
"Think about it," he says. "The offer stands."
He extends his hand. I look at it. Look at him. Take it, because refusing a handshake from a noble-blood vampire in his own classroom feels like a line I'm not ready to cross yet.
His grip is cool and firm and lasts exactly one second too long. When he lets go, he traces his thumb across the back of my hand as he withdraws—a gesture so quick I'd almost call it accidental if anything about this man were accidental.
"One more thing." His voice drops—quieter, more intimate, the register of someone sharing a secret.
"That little symbol on your door. The one you and your friend were discussing so urgently before I came over.
" He watches my face change and his smile deepens.
"Vampire ears, Calypso. We hear everything. "
My stomach goes cold. He was listening. The entire time he was sitting up there in the upper rows, watching and listening.
"I'd be careful who you share that kind of information with," he says. "Strange runes, restricted-section research... You're already the most interesting person on this campus. You don't want to become the most investigated."
Before I can respond, he lifts his hand to his mouth. Presses the pad of his index finger against the tip of one exposed fang—slowly, deliberately, holding my gaze the entire time. The skin parts. A bead of dark blood wells up, almost black in the classroom light.
He reaches down and drags his finger across the strap of my bag. A single, wet smear. Unhurried. Making sure I see every second of it.
"Now I'll always know where to find you," he says. Easy. Warm all the way to his eyes. "In case you need me."
Something lurches in my stomach. Always know where to find you.
The words land on top of the fail-safe and the enforcers and twelve years of being monitored, tracked, and filed, and for a dizzy, furious second I can't breathe because this man just put something on me—something I didn't consent to, something I don't understand—and smiled while he did it.
He turns. Up the aisle, through the doorway, into the corridor. Gone.
The classroom settles into silence around me.
I stare at the dark smear on my bag strap—his blood, still wet, glistening faintly against the leather.
I don't know what it does, exactly. I don't know the mechanics or the range or how long it lasts.
But I know what always know where to find you means, and the thought of Leopold Vassard being able to sense where I am—in my cottage, in my bed, on the path to Aamon's office—makes my skin crawl.
I grab a tissue and scrub at the strap. The blood smears but doesn't lift. It's soaking into the leather, darkening, settling in like it was always meant to be there.
Fine.
I unzip the bag. Transfer my notebook, pens, and textbook to the crook of my arm. Leave the bag on the desk.
Track that, Vassard.
Another leash. Another person deciding he has the right to know where I am. The only difference is this one showed his teeth while he did it.
Literally.
I walk out of the classroom with my books against my chest and my jaw set and my mind already sorting through the problem: I need a new bag, I need to figure out what vampire blood-tracking actually is, and I need to have a conversation with Nellie about the fact that Leopold Vassard heard every word we said about the rune on my door.
The corridor is empty. Late afternoon light slants through the tall windows, casting long amber rectangles across the stone floor.
Students have moved on to wherever students go—dining hall, dormitories, the courtyard.
Corvin is at the far end of the hall, a shadow against the wall, probably relieved that I'm finally leaving.
I'm halfway to the staircase when it comes.
The voice slides in the way it always does—between my thoughts, settling into the space it's claimed inside my skull. But the texture is wrong. The usual warmth has an edge to it, something serrated, like velvet pulled tight over a blade.
Interesting company you're keeping.
I stop walking. My arms tighten around the books against my chest.
He put his blood on you. A weighted pause. I assume you're aware of what that means.
Something about the tone makes the back of my neck prickle.
This isn't the teasing voice from combat class.
This isn't the curious you ARE strong from the steps or the patient fair enough from the hallway.
This is something colder. Territorial. A door being held open just enough to show what's behind it.
Stay away from him.
Four words. Flat. Final. No warmth. No patience. The command of someone who is used to being obeyed and is not, in this particular moment, interested in pretending otherwise.
My mouth goes dry. I look around—left, right, behind me. The corridor is empty. Corvin is fifty feet away and oblivious. The building is dead quiet, and Emric with his kind eyes and his convenient timing is nowhere in sight.
No one.
The voice spoke and Emric is nowhere near me. Not in the building, not in the corridor, not within any reasonable range. The theory I've been building—the suspicious timing, the gap in his sentences, the smirk—cracks down the center.
Maybe it’s him? Maybe he was listening?
But…
If it's not him, then who?
Who are you? I throw the thought out. Sharp. Demanding.
Silence. The edge recedes. The warmth seeps back in slowly, like someone remembering their manners. But the warmth is different now too—sheepish, almost. Like whatever just spoke through the velvet-and-blade frequency didn't mean to show that much.
No answer.
The presence fades to the edges. Still there. Still watching. But quiet in a way that feels like someone who said too much and is hoping I'll pretend I didn't hear it.
I heard it.
Hell, I felt it.