Chance Nightshade, daughter of the Melbourne City Alpha, will avenge her brother's murder at any cost. Even if it means working with a charming vampire prince.
Season 1 of Witchfire
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Naturally, the first thing I did was swear.
Of course they're here, I berated myself. They had to collect the bodies, after all, and Father had probably come to the same conclusion I had: tonight was our best chance to catch London while his guard was down (literally).
The vampire in question spun around to face me, looking acutely panicked. "What do I do?"
It didn't take long to realise I had to help him escape. Asking the City Pack to spare London and his guard would not only be a pointless endeavour, but a dangerous one. My negotiations with the vampire prince would undoubtedly be seen as treason.
Heart pounding in my throat, I scoured the dead end for an alternate exit. It was a bottleneck of cement and stone, oddly reminiscent of a set piece, with surprisingly few windows or doors.
"There," London said, brushing against my shoulder. I hadn't noticed him draw close. "That door. Help me kick it in."
The door was so lathered in paint it blended in with the walls like a chameleon. I delivered a solid kick to the rotting wood and the lock gave way.
The hallway beyond was dark, reeking of mildew and dust. I pushed London over the threshold.
"Keep going," I said, lowering my voice so the approaching City Pack wouldn't hear us. "Try and stick to busy, crowded places; the sensory overload will frustrate our trackers and make it difficult to find you."
London nodded his understanding, green eyes unusually bright in contrast with the surrounding shadows. "Thank you," he whispered.
And then he vanished.
I yanked the door shut behind him and raced back to Arthur's side, kneeling in a sticky pool of someone else's blood. London could run from my people, but I couldn't. Father was too familiar with my scent; leaving would only raise more questions. The best thing I could do was stay and slather myself in the scent of the dead. If I was convincing enough, they might attribute my defiance to an emotional impulse, an act of grief.
I didn't really need to act. The emotions I needed to portray were already brimming beneath my anger, easier to access now that I'd taken some of it out on the lamia. I reached out with trembling fingers and pushed the hair back from Arthur's face, heart crumpling when my hand wasn't knocked aside. When I cupped his cheek, his skin felt all wrong, clammy and cold.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I wish I'd been here to help you."
It wasn't until I felt a hand on my shoulder that I realised the pack had arrived. Startled, I climbed to my feet and turned around, shooting a quick glance at the werewolves behind my father. They were all dressed in black shifting gear, the special leather cut from the hides of our dead that allowed us to morph with our clothes intact. It looked terrifyingly uniform on them, and served as yet another reminder that I didn't belong in their ranks; my leathers were brown and worn from years of sparring with Arthur.
