Page 83 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Kira

Idream of ice. A great block of it suspended above me, melting slowly beneath a sun too bright to look at, water dripping steadily onto my face.

Drip.

Drip.

I try to wake up. The dream won’t let me. I’m lying in snow, licking icemelt from my lips, and even though some small, sane part of me knows this isn’t real, the ground beneath me is still freezing, the water droplets are warm—almost hot—on my skin. The combination of sensations is bizarre. Then I look up.

The block of ice isn’t melting. It’s bleeding. King Bakker hangs inside it, silver fur dark with blood, dripping down in slow, obscene ribbons—and I can taste it, coppery and hot, sliding down my throat.

His throat is a mess, and I already know that the vampire responsible for tearing it open with his fangs is none other than—

I wake with a silent gasp, drenched, my uniform stuck to my skin. I feel worse than yesterday. A million times worse. The bruises ache less, the scratches are fading, and my muscles no longer feel leaden. But my mind…my mind has not healed at all.

I lie there a moment, staring at the low stone ceiling, waiting for my heart to slow. It doesn’t, not really. I have to get out of here. The thought arrives with no plan attached to it, useless as a wish.

Today, escape feels impossible. Sitting up is difficult enough.

It’s a day for staying in bed—not that I’ve ever had one of those, except with the worst of flus. Unfortunately, according to my timetable, it’s Tuesday.

I ignored Monday. Dismissed it as irrelevant. A single school day to survive before I found a way out. But apparently I have tumbled into a second one. I had been so certain the perfect opportunity to escape would present itself if I kept my eyes wide open and sharp. And I still refuse to believe there is no way out of this place. Out of this collar. Out of this situation. So. I should start paying better attention. I groan, roll over, and press my face into the pillow.

Five more minutes.

The shower helps, a little. I stand beneath the water for longer than necessary, as if that will help wake me up more, when really it just makes me want to sleep. Then I dress in a fresh uniform I found hanging in the wardrobe—Susie’s doing, no doubt.

According to my timetable, I have a double period of Etiquette this morning.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, packing my books and heading upstairs.

“How did you go with your essay for Professor Marmala?” Becky asks when I join Susie’s pack at breakfast.

I tense. Shit. As if one essay a day wasn’t punishment enough, she’d assigned homework on top of it.

“I forgot,” I admit.

“Oh no,” Clara says, setting down the jug of orange juice mid-pour, as if my lapse somehow affects her personally. “Was it due today?”

“Yes,” I mutter, sinking a little lower over my plate.

“Maybe you could write it during recess?” Clara suggests. “Before you have to hand it in?”

“She hasn’t even read the book,” Becky says, in a tone that manages to convey this is perfectly understandable for someone in my position—while also making it very clear that she has indeed read it and completed her homework.

“Oh no,” Clara says again. “Professor Marmala is going to give you detention.”

“What?” I yelp. That’s the last thing I need.

“She won’t,” Susie says calmly.

“Oh, yes, she bloody will,” Harvey says, around a mouthful of porridge. “I’ll bet you Clara’s next batch of biscuits.”

“Hey—” Clara grumbles.

“It’s only your second day,” Susie reassures me. “But I could have a word with her, if you like? Ask her to go easy.”

Harvey grins and mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘teacher’s pet’—earning him a sharp jab from Clara’s elbow.