The taste of blood and secrets
The scent of incense was thick—heavy with something ancient and foreboding. It curled into Cora's nostrils, clinging to the fabric of her dress, wrapping around her like unseen tendrils.
She clutched the silk tightly in her fist, grounding herself as Marilyn, the witch, knelt in front of her circle of stones. The woman's voice was low, a whisper of foreign words that sent a shiver racing down Cora's spine.
Then—
"Not so fast, Marilyn."
Damien's voice cut through the air, smooth as velvet yet sharp enough to slice through bone. The lazy smile tugging at his lips was pure mockery, a predator amused by the futile efforts of its prey.
Marilyn stilled, her fingers curling around the pendant at her throat, eyes narrowing as she turned to look at him.
Damien, in contrast, looked entirely at ease.
"How about this?" he mused, tapping his fingers against his chin as though contemplating something unimportant. "You make an oath with your blood. If you try to pull any tricks, you die."
The way he said it—so casual, so utterly indifferent—sent a prickle of unease down Cora's arms.
Marilyn scowled, her teeth grinding audibly, but she knew better than to argue.
Without a word, she pulled out a small blade, slicing her palm open with practiced ease. Her blood dripped onto the stone circle, dark and rich against the pale surface.
"I swear on my blood," she intoned, her voice hard, "that if I manipulate this ritual in any way beyond what I am asked, I shall perish."
The metallic scent of blood filled the air, thick and cloying. Even with her mask, Cora could taste it on her tongue.
Damien clapped his hands together slowly, a slow, deliberate sound that echoed through the dimly lit room.
"Good girl," he murmured, his smirk widening at the way Marilyn's nostrils flared in irritation.
Marilyn sucked in a breath through her nose, swallowing her anger before turning back to her work.
She spread the stones once more, muttering under her breath. The candles flickered, their flames bowing as if caught in an unseen wind. Then—
Darkness.
For a moment, it was absolute. A suffocating, oppressive void that pressed against Cora's chest.
Then, as if the room itself had taken a breath, the flames reignited—revealing a swirling, smoke-like substance rising between the stones. It curled and shifted unnaturally, forming a perfect circle that pulsed with energy.
Marilyn's voice was steady when she spoke.
"Give me your hand, Cora."
Cora hesitated for only a moment before reaching forward—only for her wrist to be snatched by Damien.
Her head snapped toward him, brows furrowing.
"What are you—?"
She didn't get to finish.
A sharp sting pricked her skin. Damien's nails.
A single drop of blood welled up at the tiny wound before falling into the shifting smoke. The substance reacted instantly, absorbing it with a sizzle that sent sparks crackling through the air.
Cora barely had time to process what was happening before she felt something warm and wet against her skin.
Her breath hitched.
Damien's tongue.
She gasped, jerking in instinctive protest, but his grip was firm—unyielding. His piercing gaze held hers, unwavering, taunting.
Cora trembled, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The way he licked her wound, slow and deliberate, sent an unfamiliar heat rushing to her cheeks. It was wrong. It was completely inappropriate.
It was—
Intoxicating.
Damien's smirk deepened as he dragged his tongue over the tiny wound once more before pulling back, his fangs barely visible as he licked the remnants of her blood from his lips.
"Sweet," he murmured, his voice a low purr. "I expected something ordinary, but you, little bird, taste divine."
Cora's stomach twisted, her fingers curling into fists.
She wanted to hit him.
She wanted to run.
But she couldn't move.
Something about the way he was looking at her—dark, knowing—rooted her in place.
Before either of them could speak, Marilyn's eyes snapped open.
The smoke dissipated instantly, as if repelled by an unseen force.
The witch turned to Damien first, her expression unreadable.
"You can say it now," he prompted, arching a brow as he studied her reaction.
Marilyn inhaled deeply before speaking.
"I couldn't tap into what she is."
A thick silence followed.
Cora's stomach clenched. "Why?"
"There's something immense blocking me," Marilyn admitted, her brows knitting together. "It feels… ancient. A binding force unlike anything I've encountered before."
Damien's gaze flickered toward Cora, but she refused to meet his eyes.
"A curse?" she whispered.
Marilyn hesitated. "It feels like one," she said carefully. "A powerful binding keeping her… contained."
Cora's throat felt dry. "Contained?"
The witch nodded slowly. "I did catch a glimpse of something, though. It wasn't clear, but…" Her gaze flickered toward Cora, studying her carefully.
"You have a connection to the sea."
The words rang in Cora's ears, sending a chill down her spine.
The sea?
She swallowed hard, gripping the fabric of her dress with trembling fingers.
Damien exhaled, his expression unreadable.
His little bird was drowning in secrets.
And that was bad news.
Back in the library…
Amelia stood frozen, her wide eyes darting between Leonard and the girl beside him.
The girl's crimson gaze bore into her like a warning.
Why do I feel like I just walked into something I wasn't supposed to see?
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the realization that Leonard wasn't human.
The girl took a step forward, her lips parting as if to say something—but Amelia's instincts kicked in.
She didn't wait to hear whatever it was.
Instead, her fingers wrapped around the small canister in her pocket. In one swift motion, she raised it and pressed the nozzle.
A sharp hiss filled the air.
The girl recoiled, cursing under her breath.
Leonard… glared in annoyance.
Amelia didn't stick around to see what happened next. She turned on her heel and bolted out of the library.
"How troublesome," Leonard mused, watching her retreating form with mild amusement.
Amelia's dormitory…
Amelia didn't stop running until she reached her room.
She slammed the door shut, locking it with shaking hands. Her chest heaved, her breath uneven as she pressed her back against the wooden surface.
Her head ached. Her hands trembled.
This place.
She wasn't going to survive it.
Her fingers scrambled for her phone. She was done. Done with Oscar. Done with this entire nightmare.
She dialed her mother's number, desperation clawing at her insides.
No signal.
Her stomach dropped. The network was cut off again—just like every night.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sharp. Firm.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her fingers curled around the edge of her bed, knuckles white.
Was it Cora?
Or was it something else?