Page 6 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Our last hope.

I’m halfway up the hill. I stay alert, staying low as I climb higher—but it’s difficult not to marvel.

The magic surrounds me, moving against my skin in slow currents, brushing my thoughts. It feels like drawing a full breath.

In the Capital, magic is little more than a rumour now—relics locked away in noble houses, whispered about but rarely seen. Most villages I grew up in had no proof it existed at all. The larger towns sometimes had old iron lampposts twisted with filigree, their enchanted flames burning blue.

I once obtained a relic of my own—the locket Byron and Mary gifted me for my thirteenth birthday, the very one I wear beneath my tunic now. It is a simple gold oval, no larger than a coin, its surface marked with delicate floral engraving. When I hold it in my palm and mentally will it to open, the two halves spring apart. There is nothing inside, yet it plays music without winding, warm and faintly pulsing against my skin as its melody fills the air.

Holding the gold locket for the first time felt like holding a firefly.

But here, in this clearing, surrounded by golden sparkles—this is a constellation. And I’m standing at the centre of it.

I reach the hill crest, the cottage finally coming into view. It’s dark and silent, the windows black except for one upstairs that glows gold. The whole place looks as though it has been lifted from a fairytale. Too perfect. Too still.

A breeze carries the scent of roast chicken and vegetables through the air, rich and inviting, and at odds with the unease creeping up my spine.

My fingers brush the slim throwing daggers strapped along my thighs out of habit. The blades are narrow and balanced for distance, but long enough to serve in close combat if needed.

I try to get a better view into the lit window, but it sits too high. There are no signs of movement, no silhouette.

Moonlight spills down, but the cottage casts a deep shadow. I pause, letting my eyes adjust, my night vision picking through the dark by degrees. Once I’m satisfied there’s no one there, I move forward silently.

The front door stands plain and unguarded. Tempting, but I don’t knock.

The Resistance assumes she’ll willingly join our side. But victim or not, she may still be dangerous. Especially if seemingly ambushed in the night.

Waiting until morning isn’t an option. There’s no telling when the magic may decide to eject me, and besides, I haven’t the patience. Everyone thinks vampires are impatient, but wolves are worse.

I round the cottage, thinking to enter via the back door, but then I spot a better entry point. Directly above the back door is a porch canopy, and above that is a window, slightly ajar. The room beyond lies in gloom, touched only by the faint glow carrying from the front room I’d glimpsed earlier.

I consider the height. I could shift. My true form could get me onto the canopy easily—if my wings obey me. Except they never do. Awkward, unreliable things. I can never trust how I’ll land, how much noise I’ll make, or how badly I’ll injure myself. One wrong movement and I’d go crashing into the wall.

Not to mention the sight of my true form might frighten the witch to death.

I am not beautiful.

Not a wolf with silver fur, but something darker. My body is sleek and black, a scaly thing with dark fur running along my spine and a long, thin tail that’s tipped with streaks of fur. My paws are webbed, the toes tipped with talons.

And the leathery wings…

“Aye—half bat, half frog, half lion,” Byron used to say humorously, repeating all of what the other children called me and more. Then he would press a hand over his heart. “And all wolf.”

The memory tightens something in my chest.

I won’t shift tonight unless I absolutely have to.

I use the wall’s stonework instead, finding purchase in the worn gaps with my fingertips as I climb. The slate tiles scrape beneath me as I pull myself onto the canopy and pause, listening for sounds within the cottage.

Nothing.

I swing the window open without a sound. Warm air spills out, thick with the aromas of roast chicken, potatoes, and baked fruit. Beneath it linger the scents of old parchment, beeswax, weathered timber beams, charcoal, herbs, and well-worn fabrics—wool, linen, rabbit fur, and cured deer hides—reminding me of an old hunting lodge.

My stomach groans with hunger as I recognise the source of the warm fruity scent: apple pie with cinnamon and cloves.

It’s been hours since I left the safehouse. I’d chosen to go to bed without dinner, a foolish protest at being excluded from the meeting.

I swing my leg through the window and lower myself onto the dark landing. To my right, a staircase disappears into shadow. Ahead, a narrow corridor stretches deeper into the house, bare except for a narrow hallway table, peeling floral wallpaper, and a landscape painting hanging crooked on the wall.