Chapter 3

"We should go," she said, her voice flat.

"You still think it's a trap."

"I think everything is a trap. That's how we're still alive."

Glen pushed himself off the wall. His body hummed with the blood he'd drunk an hour ago, warm and restless. He grabbed his jacket—black, hooded, the same one he'd worn when they escaped the manor. Elara stood and tucked the knife into her waistband, then pulled her own jacket over it.

They slipped out the back door of the basement apartment, into the alley that ran behind the building. The moon was a sliver overhead, barely lighting the wet asphalt. Graywood's streets were empty at this hour, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light that felt more like traps than guidance.

They moved fast, keeping to the shadows, their footsteps barely audible. The blood bank was four blocks away, a squat brick building with a faded sign and bars on the windows. Glen had scouted it twice in the past week, mapping the entrances, the sightlines, the places a sniper could hide.

They reached the corner. The blood bank sat across the street, dark except for a single light above the back door.

"No sign of him," Elara whispered.

"He said midnight. We're early."

Glen scanned the rooftops, the alley mouths, the parked cars. Nothing moved. The thread in his chest was quiet, coiled somewhere deep, waiting.

Then he saw it.

A glint of metal on the roof of the building across from the blood bank. A figure crouched low, a rifle barrel catching the moonlight.

"Get down," Glen hissed, pulling Elara into the shadow of a dumpster.

Her hand went to the knife. "Hunters?"

"One on the roof. Probably more on the ground."

They pressed against the brick wall, breathing shallow. Glen's mind raced. Corbin had said midnight. The hunters had sigils on the north gate. Had they followed Corbin here? Or had Corbin led them into this?

A car engine growled somewhere behind them. Headlights swept the alley, then died. Glen heard doors open, soft footsteps on pavement.

"They're boxing us in," Elara said. Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled on the knife.

"We need to move. Now."

Glen grabbed her wrist and pulled her deeper into the alley. They ran, boots slapping wet concrete, past overflowing dumpsters and rusted fire escapes. The alley opened onto a narrow street lined with boarded-up shops. No cover. No escape.

A whistle cut the air behind them. Two figures stepped out of a doorway ahead, both in dark coats, both holding silver blades.

"Glen Arius. Elara Vance." The voice came from the shadows to their left. Corbin emerged, his copper eyes catching the dim light. His hands were raised, empty. "I'm sorry. I didn't know they'd tracked me."

"You led them here," Elara snarled.

"No. They followed you from the apartment. They've been watching all day."

The two hunters ahead didn't move. The one on the roof was still there, rifle trained. Glen counted—three visible, maybe more hiding. "You said you could help us."

"I can. But you have to trust me right now."

"Why should we?"

Corbin reached into his coat. Elara tensed, but he pulled out a small vial of silver liquid. "This will mask your scent for an hour. Long enough to get to the safe house. But you have to drink it now."

"It could be poison," Elara said.

"It could be. But your alternative is those hunters carrying you back to the Lord in pieces." Corbin tossed the vial. Glen caught it, the glass warm against his palm.

He looked at Elara. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. She nodded once.

Glen uncorked the vial and drank. The liquid was thick and bitter, burning down his throat like ash. For a moment nothing happened. Then the thread in his chest went dead, replaced by a hollow cold that spread through his veins.

"Now run," Corbin said.

He turned and sprinted down the street. Glen grabbed Elara's hand and followed. The hunters shouted behind them, but their footsteps faltered, confused. The scent was gone.

They ran through back alleys, over fences, across empty parking lots. Corbin moved like he knew every shadow, every shortcut. Glen's lungs burned, the cold in his chest spreading, but he didn't stop.

Finally, Corbin stopped at a rusted grate in the ground, hidden behind a dumpster. He pulled it open, revealing a dark hole and a ladder. "Down. Hurry."

They climbed into the sewer. The smell hit Glen first—rot and damp and something metallic. Corbin came last, pulling the grate closed above them. The darkness was absolute.

A click. A small flashlight flickered on, revealing Corbin's face, streaked with sweat. "We're safe for now. But we have to move. The safe house is half a mile through these tunnels."

Elara leaned against the wet wall, breathing hard. "You could have warned us."

"I didn't know they were that close. The Lord's hunters are better than I thought."

Glen's head spun. The cold in his chest was fading, replaced by the familiar pull, but weaker now, like a thread frayed almost to nothing. "What happens when the mask wears off?"

"We'll be at the safe house by then. It's warded. They can't track you through the walls."

"And then what?"

Corbin's flashlight beam swept the tunnel ahead. "Then we talk about what the Vampire Lord is really building. And how we stop it before he completes the ritual."

He started walking. Glen and Elara followed, their footsteps echoing in the dark. The tunnel stretched into nothing, and Glen couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking deeper into a cage, not out of one.

But they had no other path.

The thread in his chest pulled once, faint, as if saying goodbye.