I felt something heavy on my chest as I clawed my way back to consciousness.
And it was purring.
Of course. Of fucking course.
I peeled open one eye and yep—there he was. Tail flicking, eyes half-lidded, Salem the goddamn cat, lounging on me like I was a sun-warmed grave.
"Get off me, you stupid cat," I croaked, shoving him off with all the strength of a soggy napkin.
He landed on his feet, because of course he did, and meowed indignantly.
"Thank the Old Ones you're awake," he said with a sniff. "I thought you died, so I checked your heartbeat by sitting on your chest. It was very soothing, by the way. Your breathing? Like a lullaby. So I decided to stand guard while I awaited your awakeness—"
I was already sitting up, tuning him out, every joint in my body aching like I'd been hit by a haunted freight train.
"Where the hell were you," I hissed, swaying as I got to my feet, "when I was almost murdered?"
He trotted after me as I staggered toward the basement stairs like a drunk ghost. "You told me to stay upstairs," he mumbled, clearly avoiding my eye. "And you know how you get when I disobey direct orders…"
"Salem," I wheezed, "I was dying. There's a difference between disobedience and letting your witch get her blood sucked out like Capri Sun."
"I did come down eventually," he said, ears twitching, "but by then the smell of iron was so strong I nearly passed out myself. You were still breathing, so I figured…you had it under control?"
I shot him a glare that would've cursed any other familiar into a pile of ash.
He shut up. Good.
I climbed. Each stair was its own personal hell. My legs were jelly, my head was pounding, and the edges of my vision were going fuzzy again. If I passed out halfway, I was going to come back from the grave just to haunt my damn self.
Then I heard him behind me.
"Wait, what's that smell?" Salem asked, halfway between curious and disgusted. His voice was closer now. Too close.
I didn't answer—mainly because I was panting like a dying bull.
He hopped up beside me and leaned in. Sniffed.
"Is that… your hair?" he asked, frowning, nose twitching.
Then he looked at me like I'd turned into a walking crime scene. "Ew. That's vampire saliva. In your hair. And… on your neck. You let him lick you?"
"I didn't let him," I snapped between breaths. "He bit me. You know. Nearly killed me?"
Salem made a face and licked his paw dramatically, like he could somehow wash the memory out of his tongue.
"Ugh. Disgusting. That bastard practically marked you with his saliva and scent all over you."
I stopped. Turned slowly. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," Salem said too quickly. "You're dizzy. Go upstairs. Rest. Shower. Gargle holy water. We'll do a spell later to untaint your neck."
But it was too late. The way he said it… claimed. Like a mark.
I touched my throat where the pain still throbbed. My pulse skipped a beat.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
And I wasn't sure which would kill me first: my headache, the vampire who bit me… or the truth my talking cat was keeping from me.
I didn't even head for my room. Nope. I staggered straight to the kitchen like a zombie with one goal and one goal only—milk.
I wrenched open the fridge, grabbed a packet, tore it open with my teeth, and chugged it like my life depended on it. Because it kind of did.
"Rude," Salem muttered behind me with a snort. "Didn't even leave me a drop. Selfish."
I ignored him. Or maybe I didn't hear him. Hard to tell over the sound of my insides begging for salvation. My legs were still trembling, but the milk gave me enough energy to feel slightly less like the walking dead. Baby steps.
After a few minutes, I poured myself some tea with a very shaky hand, grabbed a packet of cookies—because clearly I deserved cookies—and stumbled over to the couch. I flopped down like a corpse dumped in a gutter and started to eat. Sip, bite, sip. Rinse, repeat.
I don't know how long I sat there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Could've been a fever dream. Until I finally looked up and realized—my front door was still wide open.
I blinked at it.
Seriously?
He left and didn't even bother to close the damn door?
Rude, bloodsucking bastard.
I groaned and dragged myself up. My bones cracked in protest, but I shuffled toward the door, muttering curses under my breath.
Then I saw it.
A mouse tail. Just… there. On the floor.
Attached to nothing.
I screamed. Obviously. Like a sane person would.
And then I cursed Salem to the deepest pit of the Nine Hells.
"YOU—you unfaithful, flea-bitten disgrace of a familiar!" I shrieked. "You were catching mice—mice!—while I was in the basement being sucked dry like some gothic juice box?!"
Salem looked up from the floor, mid-lick. His paw froze midair. He blinked. Deer in headlights.
"Wait—I—I was going to bring it to you as a gift," he said quickly, voice an octave higher. "You know, like a celebration. You survived and everything!"
I pointed a trembling finger at him from across the room. "I'm getting a dog. A big one. With fangs. One that eats traitor cats for breakfast."
He froze. Slowly lowered his paw. "You don't mean that."
"Oh, I do."
He slunk backward, tail low, eyes wide.
And I slammed the door shut with a growl. The cookies were already calling my name again, but now I had to add "vacuum the rodent murder scene" to my to-do list, somewhere between don't die and hex every man you've ever met.
Today could go rot in a pit.
*********
New plan.
Get the hell out of here before Dracula 2.0 returns and makes me his personal juice box again.
Screw the original plan—the whole "wait for his blood to mature, harvest it, do a nice little ritual, go to the academy and exact glorious revenge" plan? Yeah. That was dead. Like, vampire-staked-twice-and-buried-deep dead.
Right now, I needed to not die. Priority one.
Because if Lucius came back, and I was still here, alone, he'd either:
Drink me dry,
Snap my neck just for funsies,
Drag me into his coffin and make me his eternal snuggle snack.
No thanks.
I hadn't prepared all these years just to be remembered as "that dumb witch who thought she could trick a forbidden vampire." No. Hell no.
So new plan: run.
I'd go to the academy. Not because I was ready. Not because I had all my ingredients. But because the academy was the one place even forbidden vampires wouldn't dare mess with. Not openly, at least. Too many warding spells, too many enchanted barriers, too many annoyingly righteous supernatural professors who'd kill him first and ask questions never.
Besides, if anyone found out it was me who woke him up? They'd burn me at the stake. Or worse—grind my bones into potion ingredients and sell me in cursed apothecaries.
"Witch Essence: Enhances Charms and Regret."
No thanks. Again.