I didn't sleep a single minute.
By the time my alarm went off at seven, I'd already been staring at the ceiling for hours, turning last night over and over in my mind. The symbol. The blood. Mark's lie about the library.
Sarah stumbled out of bed with her hair sticking up in twelve different directions. "Jesus, Ella. You look like death warmed over."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every girl wants to hear."
She pushed her glasses up her nose and squinted at me. "Seriously though, what's wrong? You've been tossing and turning all night. I could hear your bed creaking through my earbuds."
I grabbed my toothbrush and headed for our tiny shared bathroom. "Just stressed about the Psychology midterm."
"Since when do you stress about tests? You're like, disgustingly good at school."
Since I discovered my boyfriend might be a psychopath, I wanted to say. Instead, I just shrugged and started brushing my teeth.
The morning routine felt surreal. Shower, get dressed, grab coffee from the campus café. Everything looked exactly the same as yesterday, but something fundamental had shifted. Like the world had tilted slightly off its axis and I was the only one who noticed.
Mark was waiting for me outside the Psychology building, just like always. He wore a clean blue t-shirt and his usual easy smile, no trace of whatever had happened last night. His brown hair was still damp from his shower.
"Morning, beautiful." He leaned down to kiss my cheek, and I caught a whiff of his soap. Irish Spring, same as always. Nothing unusual. Nothing that screamed "I was covered in blood twelve hours ago."
"Hey." I tried to sound normal, but my voice came out weird and strained.
Mark frowned. "You okay? You sound off."
"Just tired. Sarah kept me up studying."
The lie rolled off my tongue easier than I expected. Maybe I was more like him than I thought.
We walked to class together, his hand warm in mine. Normal couple stuff. He told me about his roommate's latest disaster with the washing machine. I made appropriate laughing sounds. But the whole time, I kept stealing glances at his hands.
Those hands had been stained with blood. I'd seen it.
During Professor Williams' lecture on abnormal psychology, I found myself staring at Mark instead of taking notes. He sat in his usual spot two rows ahead of me, occasionally turning around to catch my eye and smile. Sweet, normal, loving boyfriend behavior.
Except nothing felt normal anymore.
The professor was discussing antisocial personality disorder when Mark's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something flickered across his face. Just for a second, but I caught it. A hardening around his eyes. The same cold expression I'd seen last night.
He typed something back quickly, then turned to give me an apologetic look. Mouthing "Sorry" with that charming smile that used to make my stomach flutter.
Now it made my skin crawl.
After class, he caught up with me in the hallway. "Hey, I'm really sorry, but I have to bail on lunch today."
"Oh. Why?"
"My roommate's having some kind of crisis. Family stuff." He touched the back of his neck – that nervous habit again. "Rain check?"
Another lie. I could see it in the way he wouldn't quite meet my eyes, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh.
"Sure. No problem."
He kissed my forehead and headed off across campus. I waited exactly thirty seconds, then followed.
This time, I was prepared. I'd worn dark clothes and my quietest shoes. I kept my distance and used every trick John had ever taught me about moving unseen. Stay in shadows. Use crowds for cover. Never follow in a straight line.
Mark took a different route than last night, heading toward the older part of downtown. But after twenty minutes of walking, I realized we were approaching the same neighborhood. The same block of ancient-looking buildings.
He stopped at a corner and made a phone call. I was too far away to hear what he said, but his body language was tense. Professional. Like he was receiving orders.
My stomach clenched.
He pocketed the phone and continued walking. This time, instead of going to the house with the symbol, he turned down an alley between two abandoned warehouses.
I crept to the mouth of the alley and peered around the corner.
Mark stood about halfway down the narrow space between buildings, but he wasn't alone. Three figures emerged from the shadows at the far end. Even from a distance, something about them looked wrong. They moved too smoothly, like they were gliding instead of walking. Their skin was pale – not normal pale, but white as chalk.
My breath caught in my throat.
One of them spoke, but I couldn't make out the words. The voice carried strangely, echoing off the brick walls with an odd quality that made my skin prickle.
Mark reached into his jacket. When his hand came out, he was holding something that caught the dim light filtering into the alley. Metal. Sharp. A knife, but not just any knife.
The blade gleamed silver.
John had dozens of silver weapons in his basement. "Silver's the only thing that works on them," he'd always said. "Everything else just pisses them off."
I'd never understood what he meant by "them."
Now I was about to find out.
The three figures spread out, surrounding Mark in a loose triangle. They moved with predatory grace, like cats stalking prey. But Mark didn't look afraid. He looked focused. Ready.
Professional.
"You shouldn't have come here alone, hunter."
The voice belonged to the figure in the center – a woman with long white hair and eyes that reflected light like a cat's. Even from my hiding spot, I could see her canine teeth were too long, too sharp.
"I'm never alone," Mark replied. His voice was different. Cold. Nothing like the warm, laughing tone I knew.
That's when I saw them. Two more people – hunters, the woman had called them – positioned on the fire escapes above. They rappelled down silently, landing behind the three pale figures.
It was a trap.
The pale woman snarled, and the sound made every hair on my arms stand up. It wasn't human. Nothing about her was human.
Then the fight began.
I'd seen action movies. I'd watched John practice with his weapons in the basement. But this was nothing like that. This was brutal, vicious, and impossibly fast.
The pale figures moved like liquid shadows, faster than anything human should be able to move. But Mark and the other hunters matched their speed somehow. Silver blades flashed through the air. Someone screamed – high-pitched and inhuman.
Mark ducked under a swipe from the woman that would have taken his head off. He spun and drove his silver knife deep into her chest. She looked down at the blade with surprise, then up at Mark's face.
"Tell your kind," Mark said quietly, "that the Black bloodline is mine to handle."
The Black bloodline.
My bloodline.
The woman opened her mouth to say something, but Mark twisted the blade. Instead of blood, light poured out of the wound. Brilliant white light that made me squeeze my eyes shut.
When I opened them again, she was gone. Not dead – gone. A small pile of ash on the alley floor was the only sign she'd ever existed.
The other two pale figures met the same fate. Silver blades. Blinding light. Ash.
In less than three minutes, it was over.
Mark wiped his blade clean on a cloth he pulled from his pocket. His movements were efficient, practiced. He'd done this before. Many times.
"Clean sweep," said one of the other hunters – a middle-aged man with graying temples. "Nice work, kid."
"They were just scouts," Mark replied. "The real threats are still out there. Still looking for her."
Her.
The woman had mentioned the Black bloodline. Mark had said it was his to handle.
Were they talking about me?
My hands started shaking. I pressed myself tighter against the brick wall, trying to disappear into the shadows. But my foot kicked a small piece of debris – just a tiny sound, but in the sudden silence of the alley, it might as well have been a gunshot.
Mark's head snapped toward my hiding spot.
"Someone's there."
I ran.
I didn't think, didn't plan, just turned and sprinted back toward campus as fast as my legs could carry me. Behind me, I heard footsteps. Voices calling out. But I had a head start, and adrenaline was a hell of a drug.
I didn't stop running until I reached my dorm. By the time I stumbled up the stairs to my room, my lungs were burning and my legs felt like jelly.
Sarah looked up from her computer as I burst through the door. "What the hell? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Worse, I thought. I've seen my boyfriend murder three people.
No, not people. Those things hadn't been human. The speed, the inhuman sounds, the way they'd dissolved into ash when the silver touched them.
Vampires.
The word hit me like a physical blow. John's stories, his weapons, his endless warnings about bloodsuckers and creatures of the night. I'd thought they were just stories. Paranoid delusions from a man who'd watched too many horror movies.
But they were real.
And Mark was killing them.
I collapsed onto my bed, my mind racing. Mark was a vampire hunter. He was working with other hunters. They were looking for someone connected to the Black bloodline – my family name.
The woman had called him "hunter" like she knew what he was. Like they'd met before.
"Tell your kind that the Black bloodline is mine to handle."
Mine to handle.
What did that mean? Was I some kind of target? Was Mark protecting me, or hunting me?
My phone buzzed with a text.
Mark: Hey babe, crisis resolved. Want to grab dinner tonight? I have something I want to tell you.
Something he wanted to tell me.
I stared at the message, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. What was he going to tell me? That he was a vampire hunter? That he'd been lying to me for three months? That I was connected to something supernatural and dangerous?
Or was he going to tell me that he knew I'd been following him? That I'd seen too much?
I thought about the cold look in his eyes as he'd driven that silver blade into the vampire woman. The professional way he'd moved, like killing was just another Tuesday for him.
What did you do when the person you loved might be planning to kill you?
Me: Sure. Sounds great. Can't wait to hear it.
I hit send and immediately wanted to throw up.
Because despite everything I'd seen – the weapons, the murder, the lies – part of me still hoped there was an explanation. Some reason that would make all of this make sense.
But another part of me, the part that had been raised by paranoid John with his basement full of silver knives and vampire lore, was starting to wonder if I should be sharpening my own blade.
Just in case.
End of Chapter 2