Black Magic

Chapter Ten

As flower petals swirl down the gutter and disappear down the grate with the dirty rainwater, a sense of vindictive pleasure surges through me. It's addictive; I tear off another fake flower from the bouquet and sprinkle its petals into the stream of rainwater. They disappear soon enough, and a grin stretches across my face.

"Thanks for the support," I say, my voice soft in the night, imagining the faces of my parents if they could see me now. Tearing up the fake bouquet they gave me when I arrived home from my graduation dinner and dance, watching their pathetic best attempts soaking in the street. It's all they deserve. They didn't even come to the ceremony. I scowl at the bouquet and pull out my dagger from my clutch—I couldn't be bothered carrying my purse around at the dance, though I didn't stay long. Then, with a bit of focused energy and a flick of my wrist, the bouquet catches fire in my hand.

The fire burns bright and hot, and soon ash drifts to the rain-slick pavement and sticks there like wet sand. I resist the urge to grind my heel down into it. No sense in getting my boots dirty.

Not that it matters all that much. I've tied up the long skirt so it falls to my knees, but my grad dress is already soaked a deep purple from rainwater, my pointed hat long since collapsed into a soggy pile of fabric on my head. My braid is bedraggled, loose strands of hair clinging to my face and bare shoulders. I must look like a water-logged rat in a dress. A dress my parents paid for; the thought makes me grin, and I step over the clumps of wet ash on the ground and head in the direction of Kerani and Raj's apartment.

I only get a block before I start to feel . . . strange. It's the eerie feeling of someone's eyes at my back. A shiver runs up my spine and I glance over my shoulder, but the street is empty and all I see is darkness and rain. Must be my mind playing tricks on me. Still, the feeling doesn't leave, and I wrap my arms around myself and quicken my pace along the sidewalk.

A flash of movement, and a beautiful man steps out in front of me. I skid to a stop, fingers digging into the fabric of my clutch. He's a vampire, with ashen brown skin and angular, bony features, his eyes a vivid red in the darkness.

"You're out awfully late, little Nightingale."

I bristle at his knowledge of my name, wishing I was on even ground with him. Vampires keep to themselves. But somehow he knows who I am. "Is that a problem?" I ask, my voice hard-edged. A vampire showing up out of nowhere calling me by name can't lead to anything good.

"Not at all."

I nod at him, moving to step around him. "Then goodnight."

In a blur of black, he's in front of me again. "Not quite."

Fear surges up in me, acidic and intense, and I take a stumbling step back. Slowly, I open my clutch. I keep my eyes locked with vivid red as I reach into the clutch as subtly as I can, fingertips grazing against the wooden hilt of my dagger—

Arms wrap around me from behind, tugging my clutch out of my hands and out of reach. Shit. I kick my legs up and swing them back, boots connecting with knees. The grip loosens—enough for me to wrestle myself free and I fall forward, nearly stumbling onto my knees before I catch myself, and I turn to grab my clutch so I can get my dagger and do some serious damage—

A female vampire snarls at me, her teeth elongated and bright even in the dim light.

"What the hell?" I back away from her and the guy, trying to put some distance between us. "What the hell do you want?" Vampires don't get involved with witches. They stick to themselves, they always have; that these two aren't means something is clearly wrong. "Who are you?"