Harvest stares out of the window as Quinn drives away. She continues watching the street, a tree swaying gently in the breeze as she attempts to pinpoint exactly what she’s feeling. If she were to turn her second-sight on herself, she’s sure all she would see is a jumbled mess of mottled grey. After dealing with Ezra, she had just wanted to go home and have a few minutes to herself—but now that she is here, she’d rather be anywhere else.
She sighs and looks around the living room, absentmindedly straightening a pillow on the couch. Before she moved in, the main color scheme of the townhouse was black and white. Now, the couch is a dark blue dotted with ochre pillows, the rug is a pattern of reds and blues, and the white walls are adorned in paintings and photographs. She’d added more books too, and the three bookshelves are overflowing with multi-colored spines. She loves it here—she loves living with Ronan, too, who she has known for so long, he might as well be an older brother.
She knows Ronan is at work and she briefly considers heading that way. He could make her a grilled cheese (she didn’t get lunch, after all) and they could grab a drink when his shift is over. Or she could catch a bus to the boardwalk and spend an hour or so with Dominic before his night shift at the bar. A hug and a good kiss do sound rather comforting at the moment, and she can hang out at the bar even while he’s working. Maybe she could give Hazel a call and they could catch up? It’s been too long and the last time she started to feel distant from her sister, it…well, it ended with Ezra and a two-year estrangement. Or she could call Angel, even. She’s enjoyed working with them on this case and would like to get to know her colleague better.
But as enticing as that sounds, she decides on another course of action: the tried and true tactic of burying herself in work. She grabs her keys and checks the time. She has just five minutes to catch the next bus, which she does, though she’s slightly out-of-breath when she sits down.
She muses idly about starting a workout routine. Ronan would help her get up in the mornings to go for a run, though she’d have to ask him to tone down his werewolf speed if she has any hope of keeping up with him. Would Dominic help too? He’s immortal and doesn’t need to be active to stay fit. She’s never even seen him workout. She remembers Quinn once mentioning that he likes a morning jog from time to time. Maybe she can ask him instead?
She sighs at her reflection in the bus window, annoyed that her thoughts keep going back to Quinn, no matter where they begin.
When she disembarks, she darts quickly across the street and into the lobby of the Bureau headquarters, feeling the familiar wave of mischief wash over her, checking for her credentials in her pocket just as much as the credentials in her blood. Behind her, the sun is setting, casting streaks of gold and pink across the sky. It’s a beautiful view and normally she would spend a few moments indulging in it, but the anxiety that crept into her body as soon as Quinn left, increases now with each step.
She makes her way to the SCD floor, fiddling with her necklace as she attempts to sort through her anxiousness and its cause. She receives a text as she’s in the elevator. It’s Angel, telling her about Emily Iverson and asking if she can meet them at the Bureau. She lets Angel know that she’s just arrived and asks if there’s anything she can get started on while she waits.
This is when she remembers the box—that last box from Professor Jones’s office, sitting by the door which isn’t sealed.
She’s not one to curse, but if any moment warrants a well-placed, “Fuck!” it’s this.
She pinches the bridge of her nose as she mentally calculates the time it would take to get to the school and compares it to the bus schedule she has memorized out of necessity. She’ll have to borrow a Bureau car to make it there and back, and anyway, it would be impractical to carry a box of evidence on the bus.
The elevator doors open with a ding and with a resigned sigh, she lets them close as she makes her way back down to the first floor.
The descending dusk makes the fort feel ominous, a towering stone structure on the eve of some impending battle. In the darkness, the glass structure in the center seems to meld with the sky as towering pine trees sway gently in the late-evening breeze, a hint of winter still in the edges of the forest.
She’s called ahead and the evening guard is waiting by the front entrance as she approaches, a dark figure framed by a door turned medieval-esque by the lack of sunlight.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“I’ll have to badge you in,” he says, pressing a small metal disk against one of the stones that frame the door. “The spell-lock just activated a few minutes ago.”
“Is this the only way to enter the building after hours?” she asks, walking through the entrance.
He nods. “All students, staff, and faculty have badges that give them access to the building 24 hours, but visitors have to be let in.”
“Are there many visitors after hours?”
“Not really,” he admits. “If there’s anyone here at night, it’s usually students working on projects. Kids these days keep the strangest hours,” he adds with a laugh.
Regardless of strange sleeping patterns (or lack thereof), Harvest can see the appeal of working in the school at night. It’s quiet and gently lit, wall sconces flickering as she walks by. But when she turns the corner and makes her way down the glass hallway that leads to the administrative offices, the darkness outside seems to press in on her, and she feels mildly disoriented, as if she’s floating in the night sky. She can see the moon hanging low, wearing a wisp of a cloud. She passes through the archway and into the heart of the school. The walls and ceilings here are plaster and the soft carpet softens the click of her boot heels. It is so silent in this part of the school, that when her phone dings with a message, she almost jumps at the sudden noise. She reads the notification quickly before swiping it away. She’ll reply to Hazel in a minute—she’s not sure she can interpret readings from a magical signature sensor and link them up to an auratic profile anyway.
She slows her steps as she approaches Professor Jones’s office, text message forgotten as she observes the person standing by the door. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, his profile lined in blue light from his phone screen. She watches as he smiles at his screen and for a moment, she thinks he hasn’t noticed her presence until he says, “Hello.” He looks up, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “How are you this evening?”
His tone throws her off. It’s too familiar, and she feels wrongfooted as she tries desperately to place his face, which is slightly startling in its perfection, like he stepped out of the pages of an art history book with his pale skin and brown curls slicked back casually. He grins, and she spots a fang just touching his bottom lip.
“Hello,” she says tightly, “I’m alright. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay,” he says earnestly, a slight tinge of a British accent at the end. Not a posh one though—something a little softer. Northern, maybe. “I’m waiting for a friend though. He’s running a bit late.”
“I see. Well.” She smiles tightly, flashing her badge at him, “I’m Agent Rosenbloom and you are standing incredibly close to a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you to wait for your friend somewhere else.”
He glances at the door with a hint of something quite like surprise. She’s not sure if she believes it though. “I’m so sorry.” He takes a step to the left. “Is this okay?” He smirks, tilting his head to the side in a way that makes her feel like prey.
She arches an eyebrow. “It’s better.”
He leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed. “What would you do if I didn’t obey? Arrest me?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “I could. But I don’t particularly feel like spending the night filling out paperwork.”
“There are indeed better ways to spend a night,” he says with a grin. His gaze roves over her, as if cataloguing her individual parts. A hand. A knee. An elbow. There is something in the tilt of his mouth and glint in his eye that makes her think he might possibly be flirting with her. She hasn’t yet decided if she is flattered or not.
“I’ve got all my limbs, if that’s what you’re checking,” she says.
He smirks, showing that fang again. “I could go for a drink,” he says suddenly, pushing away from the wall. “What about you?”
“Thought you were meeting a friend,” she says briskly.
“They’re late, but I think you could keep me company just as well.”
“Are you a student?” she asks with a frown. “I didn’t think vampires were admitted to Valkaria-Grim.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Perhaps because Valkaria-Grim is a school of magic and vampires…can’t do magic?”
He laughs, a short melodic sound, and leans closer to her. “Perhaps I’m not a typical vampire.”
“And what kind of vampire are you?” she asks.
That glint in his eyes turns dark as he refocuses on something behind her, just for a moment. His gaze returns to her, and she feels her cheeks warm with his attention, his posture turning, noticeably, from vaguely charming to predatory. “The kind who’s hungry,” he says gruffly.
Before she can move, turn around and see what drew his attention behind her, reach for her phone—anything—he’s reached out with a preternatural speed. One hand grips her waist, the other presses against the base of her skull, and she thinks, for a startlingly numb moment, that he’s going to kiss her. She freezes with shock. His grip is strong. She places her hands on his chest, her mind recalibrating, grasping to tap into some sort of survival mode—but he’s quicker and stronger.
She feels his breath ghost against her lips, tasting of whiskey and something else that she doesn’t want to put a name too, and then he lowers his mouth to her neck. His lips touch her, and she has the impression of warmth and softness—a kiss, yes—before she feels the sharp pain of his teeth breaking through her skin.
