Page 2 of Those That Defy the Realm

Decanting it, he brings me a glass. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Taking the drink, I accept his apology in the form of a nod. As much as he does things without thinking, I know Antares’s heart is in the right place. He stops me from withdrawing entirely from society, and it is nice to have someone around whom I don’t need to hide my true identity from.

I have a couple of other friends who are vampires, but they don’t live here in West Scotia, so I don’t see them often. And I don’t really mix much with those in my department at the university, none of which are vampires. Even though several of them are decent, I keep a firm barrier in place, not letting them become more than colleagues.

“Don’t do it again. If I wanted to get laid, I’d go out and get laid,” I say sternly, although my anger has dissipated.

Giving up on work entirely, I move to one of my couches instead, as Antares follows and sinks down on the adjacent one. We talk some more and then end up watching a crappy movie before calling it a night.

It’s only as I’m heading to bed that I remember my phone and grab it from the desk. I take it into my bedroom, Antares already having disappeared into the spare one where he’s currently sleeping. Settling between the sheets, I unlock the device and open the app, which hasn’t been deleted, intending on closing the account and forgetting all about it.

Curiosity gets the better of me, however, as the little inbox icon flashes. Opening the messages, I immediately cringe at the preview of the first one. The female is asking if I’m free right now.

No, thank you.

The second one intrigues me however:

CLARA: Watchers - my housemate in university used to love that book. I have to admit I don’t read, but with how much she liked it, you can’t be that bad.

Ooph. The slightly snarky message has me sitting up, scrunching the pillows a bit so I’m not leaning directly on the wooden headboard. My anger from earlier returns as it hits me that Antares must’ve put my book title in the profile.

I swear, if that fucker has declared that I’m the author…

Nope, it's worse. Swiping over to my profile, I full body cringe with the text displayed in the biography section.

Thankfully, Antares has not revealed that I’m a professor, or a published author. But he has stated my own book as my favourite read. He’s really made me sound like the biggest nerd in the realm. Books, history, pretentious coffee drinker, the list goes on.

It’s a slight blessing that Antares bothered to try and hide my identity, using my surname from when I was a human, Brucherman, rather than the name I go by now, Knox.

I wasn’t a born vampire, one who inherits the fang genes from their parents. I was made. And as I was turned during the war which ‘officially’ made the vampires illegal and extinct, changing my name was a necessity to keep myself safe. I’d been fighting on the front during the bloody battles between the Fae and the rest of us who didn’t believe the bullshit they had been putting in propaganda, when I’d been hit by an explosive.

Losing a leg and gaining fangs was a far more appealing outcome than gambling with infections and a long recovery, or more likely, death. The vampire that turned me did it quickly and cleanly and I’ve had exactly zero regrets about it ever since.

Even if I had to walk a very precarious line when I decided to start publishing academic papers, questioning the very legitimacy of the Fae regime we were now being ruled by.

If I were ever discovered, the authorities would execute me, without trial and without remorse. But I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. I’d enlisted in the vampire army because I could see through the lies being spread, and had wanted to make a difference, to stop the injustice.

I’d paid for that with my human life.

The novel was something I’d published last year. I’d written it as a reprieve from all the heavy stuff I teach and research on a daily basis. It was my escapism. After sitting on it for a while, I got a few colleagues to read it, and they encouraged me to publish it. I’d been incredibly lucky to gain an agent, and even luckier that a publisher wanted it to put it to print.

It wasn’t a best seller—far more people knew of my non-fiction publications—but I was proud of it. And the readers’ messages I’d received meant so much more than the peer reviews I got on my academic stuff. It makes the message on the dating app all the more intriguing though, as my readership is small, so this person’s friend was one of a small pool. Scrolling back, I read it again.

Fuck it, I begin typing a reply as curiosity wins out.

HENRY: Not that bad? I don’t know whether to be flattered or to go lick my wounds in peace.

Watching the screen, I’m not expecting anything to happen once the message uploads to the chat thread but to my surprise, three little dots appear in the corner of the screen a second later.

CLARA: Oh my god, I’m sorry. I just reread that back, and it makes me sound like such a judgy bitch. I promise I’m not. Your profile just caught my eye and I typed without thinking.

I read both messages several times, feeling a little at a loss over the opposing tones in each. Then I notice something more about the first and type before I think.

HENRY: You say used to? Is she not a fan any longer for some reason?

Yes, as the author, this is slightly masochistic behaviour, but I need to know.

CLARA: No, it was one of her favourite reads. She read it every other week, it felt like. It’s a long story but I’ve not seen her for several months. She disappeared before our graduation back in the spring.