Page 111 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

I call myself a hunter, but stalking a deer in the woods is very different to tailing a vampire through a castle.

One way or another, though, I will find whatever lair or hidey-hole he crawls into.

That is the promise I make myself on Monday evening as I scrub cauldrons again, far less invested in Professor Parna’s rambling stories this time. Mercifully, Nathaniel does not appear afterwards. Truthfully, I am not ready for him. Me and this tiny knife—what do I truly hope to achieve?

I try not to lose heart.

I just need to wait for the right opening, though deep down I know the best opportunities are usually the ones you make for yourself.

By Wednesday evening, I am starting to worry.

Despite all my careful stalking and stern talks with myself, I resign myself to following Susie’s pack to book club. They had all insisted, and I could not think of a good excuse.

“We’ve already finished Marmala’s essay,” Becky protested when I tried to use homework as an excuse. “Come on, Kira. It’ll be fun.”

“Clara’s making chocolate chip,” Harvey adds temptingly as Becky steers me along the corridor.

“No. I told you, I’m making raisin oatmeal,” Clara says.

Harvey looks aghast. “No, woman. For the love of Henrikk’s sanity. Why? Why do you do this?”

“They’re good for you.”

“That is not what biscuits are for.”

As they bicker on the way to the library, I catch sight of Nathaniel at the end of an adjoining corridor.

He sees us. I know he does. But he pretends not to as he continues on his way, disappearing from sight.

“Kira?” Susie prompts, lingering to hold the door open.

“Go ahead. I won’t be long.”

Before she can question me, I hurry after him.

It might not be wise, but the days are passing and I am still here—walking corridors, doing homework, attending book club of all things—while a stolen knife sits uselessly up my sleeve. I have to rattle the bars somehow.

I follow Nathaniel’s scent down a passage less often used.

There are no students milling about this time, and the residual scents from earlier in the day have faded. As I pass the Etiquette classroom and continue towards the training yards, the air grows cold, and his scent becomes unmistakable. Ice and smoke, with some dark, expensive soap beneath it.

Him.

Finally.

Excitement sparks through me.

I keep one hand near my sleeve where the paring knife waits. The corridor slopes gently, the torches fewer here, the red light giving way to pools of shadow. Ahead, his black coat flickers at the edge of my vision before he turns towards the covered walkway overlooking the yards.

I move faster, rounding the corner as his scent strengthens—then breaks.

The walkway is empty.

I stop.

Too late, I understand.

He is not ahead of me.