He caught the blood bags midair like he'd done it a thousand times before.
Maybe he had.
He gave me one last look—still amused, still dangerous—and then bit into the first bag. No hesitation. No pause. Just sank those perfect white fangs in like it was a Capri-Sun on a hot day.
The sound of it was disgusting.
Slurping. Gulping. Squelching.
My stomach churned.
The guy drank like a starving animal—but he didn't lose an ounce of control. Every move was calculated. Eyes on me the whole time. I could almost feel his strength creeping back in with every swallow. Whatever centuries of sleep had drained from him, that blood was pouring it right back in.
He didn't stop until the bag was flat. Empty.
Then he licked the seal clean.
Jesus.
I glanced at Salem. My cat looked… unsettled. Which was saying something, because the talking furball had spent most of the day sassing me like a retired drag queen with a vendetta.
"I don't like how he drinks," Salem muttered from behind me. "Too tidy. That's a thinking predator. That's the kind that plots."
I shushed him.
The vampire tilted his head slightly. He couldn't hear Salem. Not yet. The protection spells on him and the cage would muffle everything that wasn't me. One voice, one target. That's how I set it up. I wasn't about to let my sarcastic familiar become vampire sushi because he couldn't keep his commentary to himself.
The vampire bit into the second bag slower. More deliberate this time. Less starving, more savoring.
Like a connoisseur.
Like a man sipping wine in a castle watching his enemies burn.
And then—bag drained—he sat on the edge of the coffin like he was waiting for me to mess up. Elbows on knees. Fangs peeking beneath a smirk.
"I'm going to need a third," he said.
I didn't move.
I didn't speak.
I just stared at him.
He smiled wider. No fangs now. Just charm. Too much of it.
"Silent treatment. Cute." He leaned forward, voice low and velvet-smooth. "But you're not ready for what you've done, are you?"
Still, I didn't speak.
Because he was right.
And he wasn't going to hear me admit it.
Instead, I turned around, grabbed Salem (who hissed), and walked straight back up the stairs—because one thing was certain:
I needed a new plan.
And probably holy water.
And maybe a goddamn exorcist.
***********
I was currently in my living room. Curtains withdrawn. Door locked. Lights off. Because somehow that made me feel safer.
Like the darkness outside couldn't see me if I stayed still and quiet enough inside.
Not that it mattered. The bastard downstairs could probably feel me from here.
But I wasn't about to let that blood-sucking snake get into my head again. Nope. Not happening.
I dropped my grimoire on the coffee table with a loud thump. Salem, lounging on the armrest like the world's laziest war general, gave me a side-eye. I ignored him. This was not the time for his commentary. I had one job right now:
Charm the necklace.
Reinforce the spell.
Don't fuck it up.
I pulled the necklace off and laid it flat on the table like it was a ticking bomb. Took out my chalk. Drew a messy little protection circle, because even if my lines were crooked and I spelled "resist" wrong the first time—intent mattered more than spelling, right?
Right.
Then came the herbs. Mugwort. Rosemary. A dash of salt because someone on a forum said it helped. And if not, hey, at least the necklace would taste seasoned if he decided to bite my throat.
I sat cross-legged, held my hands over it, and took a deep breath.
"Don't screw this up. Don't screw this up. Don't screw this up," I whispered.
Then I chanted:
"By moon and might, by blood and bone,
Seal this charm, protect my own.
Let no word nor wicked gaze
Command my soul or bend my ways."
The necklace glowed.
Just a shimmer. A flicker.
Then it fizzled.
Like a dying sparkler at a toddler's birthday party.
"Ugh, come on," I groaned, grabbing the damn thing and shaking it like it was a broken remote.
"Maybe if you weren't tone-deaf and off-key," Salem muttered.
"Shut up, I'm working."
He flicked his tail. "You're flailing. There's a difference."
I tried again.
Same chant. This time louder, more dramatic, adding some witchy jazz hands because, hell, maybe I wasn't powerful, but I was desperate, and desperation is magic's slightly drunk cousin.
The necklace sparked again.
Then flared—brilliant silver—like someone had stuck a full moon in the chain.
My heart stopped.
And then it settled.
A pulse. A beat. Like a second heartbeat, resting against my palm.
I grinned.
"Ha! Suck it, vampire."
"That better work," Salem said, jumping down beside me. "Because if he manages to charm you again, I'm not calling the coven—I'm calling pest control."
I ignored him.
Slipped the necklace back on.
Tightened it until I could feel it press against my collarbone like a warning sign.
Let him try me now.
I was ready.
Or at least, I was magically duct-taped together enough to pretend I was.
Excellent buildup—here's a polished and vivid continuation of that scene, keeping the chaotic, snappy, and emotionally messy voice of your protagonist, while giving structure to the madness:
I did it a couple more times.
Okay—three more times. Re-charmed the necklace like a paranoid witch with control issues. Which, fine, I am. But I was not about to let a naked vampire with a six-pack and hypnotic eyes scramble my brain again just because I half-assed my protection charm. Not this time.
Once the necklace was buzzing like a cursed FitBit on overdrive, I finally exhaled. And that's when he started again.
Salem.
My formerly cute, currently annoying, and surprisingly chatty black cat who—now gifted with a voice—wouldn't shut up about all my flaws.
"Three times a week? That's how many times you change my litter box?" he scoffed, mid-crunch through his food. "You know cats need clean spaces to do their business. It's basic hygiene."
"It's your business," I snapped, standing in the kitchen while shoveling more kibble into his bowl. "You could go outside like a normal animal. I plant herbs out there, your poop is technically fertilizer."
"It's disgusting, and it makes the basil taste like despair and piss."
I threw the bag of food on the counter and glared. "Well, maybe don't pee on the basil, Salem."
He licked his paw dramatically. "Maybe give me the respect I deserve and feed me three times a day instead of two."
"Oh, so you want gourmet service now?"
"Yes. And a warm blanket. And Netflix privileges. Do you know how bored I get when you're off doing dark magic and crying over your tragic backstory?"
"Wow," I said, walking off. "This is exactly why I preferred you mute."
He trotted after me like a little demonic shadow. "You brought this on yourself. You opened a vampire grave. Now I have thoughts, and I will share them. Forever."
Kill me.
Not literally—because death might resurrect me as a banshee with even more problems—but metaphorically? I was one breakdown away from feeding him to the vampire and calling it a day.
Sleep? Yeah, that didn't happen.
Instead, I spent the night curled up on my floor, surrounded by grimoires, spell scrolls, half-burned candles, and exactly one half-drunk cup of cocoa that had gone cold and tasted like regret. Every hour or so I'd whisper, "You're doing great sweetie" to myself just to stay sane.
Because the next step of the plan was even dumber than waking a forbidden vampire:
Infiltrate the School of Supernaturals.
The same one run by an ancient council of morally gray, high-ranking, glitter-covered magical asshats arrogant wolves royal jerks vampires who thought rules were suggestions and bloodlines made you special.
Yay.
That's where my stepsister worked now—little Miss Perfect with her pristine robes, golden hair, and job at the Magic Department. The one who used to hex my tampons in high school so they'd levitate every time I sneezed. Yeah. Her.
She didn't deserve her cushy job.
And the school? It deserved to burn.
So I forged an appointment letter. That's right. Magic ink, forged seal, cursed parchment. Took me three tries and one minor house fire, but the letter looked legit. By morning, I was no longer a reckless witch with zero credentials—I was a visiting alchemy lecturer with a fake recommendation from a semi-dead warlock and a detailed curriculum about "herb-infused magic resonance."
Total bullshit.
But beautifully written bullshit.
Salem, curled on the back of the couch, watched me finish it with narrowed eyes. "You're aware this is crazy, right?"
"Crazy is subjective," I muttered, blowing the ink dry.
"Right. And you think dragging Dracula's hot cousin out of the grave for revenge is a healthy coping mechanism?"
I looked at him.
Dead in the eye.
And said, "Yes."
Because when your life's a dumpster fire, you either roll with it or watch it explode.
And I was ready to roll.