Alaric's apartment smelled like gun oil and old books.
I arrived at 6 AM—before school, before the town fully woke—and found him already waiting in workout clothes with the furniture pushed against the walls. The living room had been converted into a makeshift training space, mats laid across the floor, a heavy bag hanging in the corner.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Define ready."
He came at me without further preamble.
The first punch caught me in the shoulder before I could react. I stumbled back, tried to raise my arms in defense, and he swept my legs out from under me. I hit the mat hard enough to drive the air from my lungs.
"Dead," he said, standing over me. "If I were a vampire, you'd be drained before you could reach your blood supply."
"I thought we were going to discuss strategy first."
"Strategy comes after survival instincts." He offered me a hand up. "Again."
We repeated the exercise fifteen times. I managed to block a punch on attempt seven. I actually dodged a sweep on attempt twelve. By attempt fifteen, I was covered in sweat and bruises, but I was starting to understand the rhythm of his attacks.
"Better." Alaric handed me a water bottle. "Your instincts are decent, but you telegraph everything. When you're going to move, when you're going to strike, when you're scared. A vampire will read that in a fraction of a second."
"How do I fix it?"
"Practice. Thousands of hours of practice." He took a drink from his own bottle. "But we don't have thousands of hours, so we're going to focus on the fundamentals. Stance first."
He showed me how to position my feet—balanced, ready to move in any direction. How to keep my hands up without blocking my vision. How to breathe through combat instead of holding my breath.
"Fighting isn't about strength," he explained. "It's about efficiency. You're smaller than most vampires, slower, weaker. But you can be smarter. Every movement should have purpose. Every action should create an opening."
We drilled stances for twenty minutes, then moved to blocking techniques. His strikes were controlled but hard enough to hurt, teaching my body what it felt like to absorb impact.
"Your blood abilities are impressive," Alaric said between rounds, "but they're a tool, not a crutch. When they fail—and they will fail—you need to keep fighting. A hunter survives by never relying on a single weapon."
"I've been treating hemomancy like my identity."
"That's your first mistake." He reset his stance. "You're not a blood mage who happens to fight. You're a fighter who happens to have blood magic. The magic enhances your capabilities; it doesn't define them."
The philosophy sank in as we continued training. I'd spent months developing my powers, treating them as the solution to every problem. But Vicki had died because my powers weren't enough. Lexi had survived because I'd thrown a bottle of vervain water—no magic required.
I need to be dangerous with or without the blood.
By the time we finished, my body was a map of bruises. Alaric made coffee that tasted like motor oil mixed with disappointment, but I drank it anyway. Shared suffering built bonds.
"Homework," he said, handing me a notepad. "Shadowbox for twenty minutes every day. Practice falling until you can hit the ground without hurting yourself. Study every building you enter—exits, cover positions, chokepoints. Think like a hunter, not a victim."
"When do we train again?"
"Wednesday. Same time." He paused. "You're behind where you should be, but you're not hopeless. You've got decent instincts and you're willing to work. That's more than most students I've trained."
"You've trained others?"
"A few. Most of them are dead." His expression was grim. "Hunting vampires isn't a career with a lot of veterans. The ones who survive are the ones who never stop learning."
I thought about that on the drive home. Alaric had been doing this for years, and he still wasn't confident in his own survival. What chance did I have, barely six months into a world I was still learning to navigate?
Better than I did yesterday. That has to be enough.
At home, I practiced my new stance in the bathroom mirror. The reflection that looked back was different than the one I'd seen in June—less scared, more dangerous. The seventeen-year-old body was the same, but something behind the eyes had changed.
I shadowboxed until my arms burned, then practiced falling on my bed until I could roll out of impacts without jarring myself. Alaric's homework wasn't exciting, but it was foundation. Every skill built on the ones before it.
The meditation came next—Grams' technique, feeling my own blood before extending outward. I could sense the neighbor's heartbeat through the walls now. Could feel the rhythm of life in the street outside. The blood sense was growing, slowly but steadily.
Conventional combat. Blood powers. Hunter tactics. Three edges instead of one.
Caroline texted around noon, asking if I wanted to come over. I typed back that I was busy with homework, then immediately felt guilty for the lie. She deserved better than a boyfriend who was secretly training to fight vampires.
But she deserves to survive even more.
I returned to the mirror and practiced until my reflection smiled back at me—sharp, focused, ready.
Damon was out there, planning his revenge. The tomb vampires were waiting beneath Fell's Church. More threats were coming, threats I couldn't even imagine yet.
But for the first time, I was training to meet them.
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