Page 53 of Level Up for Love

The dozen or so other so-called criminals standing beside her range in age. An elderly woman at the end of the line rests her head against the shoulder of a hard-eyed young tiefling. A preteen boy scowls resolutely at the crowd, his shoulders thrust back to make him seem taller, while the middle-aged man next to him weeps into his beard.

“As is custom,” the guard continues, “you will be banished from Moros and sent out of the valley through Frozenfang Pass.”

Knowledge spikes into Sindra’s skull with painful clarity. The king keeps a tentative peace by calling it banishment, but everyone in Moros knows what it really is: a death sentence. Frozenfang is dangerous enough on its own, with a brutally steep climb and little to offer in the way of shelter. But if the elements don’t kill you, then the creatures that crawl the pass certainly will. Bears and wolves are known to make their homes deep in the mountains, but it’s the darker tales of dragons or worse that strike fear into the hearts of Morosians.

As the criminals are escorted off the platform and down the street, Sindra numbly shuffling behind at the end of the line, they are met with the stony silence of the townspeople in attendance. There is no booing or vitriol, only the quiet disappointment and fear of a crowd wondering who among them will be next.

As some guards begin to bracket the sentenced while others follow on mounts in their wake, Sindra considers running. She scans the crowd and the emptying streets, looking for alleyways she might slip down. But when she glances at a glass window, she stumbles to a stop.

It’s him.

In the window’s reflection, a younger version of Vadrien’s face stares open-mouthed back at her.

Sindra stands frozen, her fists clenched at her sides—and then the dream begins to warp. The reflection strides toward her, Vadrien’s expression darkening into a glower as he approaches.

The voice comes from behind her. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

She spins and sees his reflection again in a different window, lips pulled back in a snarl that shows off his very white—and fangless—teeth. The hollows in his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes make him look older than he is, but underneath the layers of grime and resentment, Sindra is struck by how terribly youthful and alive he looks.

Human. He was human.

In the reflection, blood rushes to his cheeks in an angry flush, and his chest rises and falls in a quick pant. His eyes are narrowed distrustfully, though they’re not the same blood red she saw the evening before—rather, they’re a dark brown.

“Why do you sneak through my memories, outsider?” Vadrien hisses, this time from a window in a separate alleyway. Sindra jerks her head to either side, catching sight of his face in every window.

“Believe me, it’s the last place I want to be,” she snaps. Her feet itch with the need to run—but where would she go? Ahead of her, the line of exiles is frozen in place. Time stands still, feet paused mid-step before they drag through the mud.

Sindra turns again as steady clipped footsteps echo down the street, and a single figure approaches.

Vadrien advances toward her, a mirror of the body she inhabits now: lank blond hair, tanned arms, bloodshot dark eyes. But with each step he takes, Sindra witnesses his vampiric transformation in real time. His hair pales to a sleek wave of white, and the color leaches out of his skin. His eyes begin to glow their signature red, and he doesn’t blink once as he comes to stand before her.

Sindra balls her fists at her sides and realizes that she’s returned to her own body. Her hand flashes to her hip, where she keeps Brightmorn, but whatever magic brought her to this dream failed to arm her.

Vadrien tsks. “You couldn’t kill me here if you wanted to.”

Sindra tosses her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her chin. “That wouldn’t stop me from trying.” But if he’s telling the truth, she doesn’t want to waste her time—especially when there are answers to be gained. “Why am I here?” she demands.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” His gaze touches on different points of her face, lighting on her slitted eyes, sharp horns, and even sharper scowl. Lastly, his eyes lower to her neck. “But I imagine it has something to do with that.”

His hand darts out to grip her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. She tries to jerk away, but he holds her fast, his supernatural strength pinning her in place. With aching slowness, he tilts her face so that her neck is exposed—still dotted with two puncture marks.

Sindra bares her teeth as she hisses, “This connection hasn’t happened to your other victims?”

“My other victims,” Vadrien says mildly, “have never lived to find out.”

Sindra swallows. “Mortimer did.”

Vadrien shakes his head. “No, he did not. In his research, he came a little too close to uncovering something I wish to keep hidden, so I made sure there wasn’t a drop left in his body. Trust me, he died in truth. I simply did not account for him having another body for his soul to flee to.”

Vadrien reaches up then to press Sindra’s bite wounds with the pad of his thumb. Though his skin is cool, Sindra feels a numb warmth throb under the pressure.

“So, no, Sindra. Our connection is unique,” he muses. “When I was turned into what I am, it took three bites to make the transformation stick.” He taps thoughtfully at the bite marks. “Perhaps it will be the same with you. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never tried.” His eyes flash up to hers. “I suspect that is what binds us together. Just one taste, and you are nearly half mine already.”

“I am no one’s.” Sindra wrenches her head away and stumbles back.

Vadrien laughs then, and the sound echoes through the streets. She sees his reflection—every version of him in every pane—cackling.

Sindra screams and shoves her fist through the nearest window.

Finally, the dream shatters.