Chapter 8 - The Neophyte

Ezekial

18:30 | Solarium Private Club – Suite 409, Hallway

He didn’t leave.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Ezekial leaned against the wall across from Suite 409 — arms folded, one foot braced against the baseboard. Still. Watchful.

Except for his index finger.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He noticed it after a dozen beats — the soft pat of flesh on leather. Tapping against his own arm.

Unusual.

He stilled it.

Not nerves, he thought. Anticipation? Doubt? It didn’t matter. Or it shouldn’t have. He trusted Jaquelyn. She was trained. Licensed. Elite. She could guide a first feed better than most of the damn Council. This wasn’t his problem anymore.

And yet...

Tap. Tap.

He exhaled through his nose and forced his arms to drop. Pushed off the wall. Paced once, then back. Too much energy under his skin.

A scent lingered near the doorway — faint, but unmistakably hers. Blood. Salt. The softness of some herb he couldn’t name. Rosemary? Thyme? No. Not quite. The kind of scent someone wore without realizing. The kind that sank into the skin instead of the fabric.

And when she’d passed him earlier, he’d seen something else — a freckle on her collarbone, just to the right of center. Small. Dark. Easy to miss unless you were looking at the curve of her neck when she turned slightly to speak.

He hadn’t meant to notice it.

But he had.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d noticed too many things lately. The way her eyes moved before she spoke. The way her hands always stilled half a second before reaching for anything — measured. Deliberate. The way she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, some of the old codes weren’t as unbreakable as he’d always believed.

He pushed the thought aside.

The bond with that idiot — Topher — was forming like frost over iron. New. Thin. But Ezekial could already sense the shape of it. At first, it had been faint. Disoriented. The haze of someone waking up into hunger.

Now?

It was sharpening.

He was too strong. Too soon. The growth wasn’t leveling — it was climbing. Something had gone wrong.

His hand closed around the door handle just as the energy behind it spiked.

No hesitation. No courtesy.

The lock gave under his grip with a snap, and the door burst inward.

The smell of blood hit him like a wall.

Fresh. Salt. Human. Copper. Heavy. There was that vague floral smell again. Wrong. All wrong.

It coated the air like steam, thick and damp. For a heartbeat — a cruel echo of a heartbeat — he could smell nothing else.

He scanned the room in a single, predatory sweep.

The kitchenette table — overturned. Broken glass across the floor. Topher was crawling away from it, low to the ground, moving like an animal toward something he couldn’t see yet.

Ezekial stepped inside, and his gaze snapped to the far wall.

Jaquelyn.

She was crumpled against the baseboard beneath the window, half-sitting in a massive, soaking pool of blood. One leg folded awkwardly beneath her. Her blouse torn at the shoulder, hanging loose. Her chest rose and fell in tiny, shuddering gasps. Blood streaked down her entire left side. Her fingers twitched faintly, limp in the puddle.

Topher was almost on her.

Ezekial didn’t shout.

He moved.

Crossed the room in two long strides, bypassing Topher entirely. Dropped to his knees beside her, coat already in hand.

He draped it over her as he knelt, shielding the exposed curve of her shoulder. His other hand went straight to her throat.

Pulse — weak. Fading. But there.

Her eyes fluttered, unfocused.

“Jaquelyn,” he said, voice low, focused.

No response.

He pressed his palm to her wrist. His power flared — cold and fast. Ancient. A seal meant to bind, not heal. It wound around the leaking vessel like silk thread and barbed wire.

A temporary fix.

She’d lost too much.

Behind him, Topher crawled closer.

The sound of dragging limbs. A growl.

Ezekial turned his head, eyes narrowing.

The boy’s lips were stained red. His jaw slack, fangs extended, gaze fogged with bloodlust and emptiness. He looked more creature than man. More mistake than monster.

He was too close.

Ezekial stood.

Topher lunged —

Ezekial met him halfway.

One hand snatched the collar of his shirt, the other braced under his ribs, and he lifted him bodily from the floor and slammed him into the wall beside the kitchenette.

More drywall cracked. The cabinet splintered.

Topher collapsed in a heap.

Ezekial didn’t check for movement. Didn’t need to.

He was already turning back to her.

Back to the only one in the room who mattered — for some reason.

She hadn’t moved.

But her chest still rose. Shallow. Rhythmic.

He crouched again, brushing damp hair back from her brow. Her skin was clammy. Pale.

“I should have stepped in sooner,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

But some part of him hoped she’d remember he came.

He sat with her for a moment — just knelt there, hand still pressed to her wrist, reinforcing the binding spell every few seconds. Her blood was still pooling, slow now, but not stopping.

There were rules about this. Procedures. A blood doll wasn’t supposed to be put in this position.

She’d gone in alone. Because he let her.

And now he was sitting on the floor of a broken room with a half-dead woman and a fledgling too damaged to stand.

A low sound built in the back of his throat — not a growl. Not fury. Just weight.

Then he felt it.

Subtle. Almost nothing.

A thread, pulling lightly at his ribs.

From her.

It wasn’t a bond. Not yet. But something had begun to stir. Whether it was her instincts clinging to him or his energy still shoring up her body, he couldn’t tell.

But it was there.

He stayed still until her pulse weakened again, nearly vanishing under his fingers.

She didn’t need a healer.

She needed something more permanent.

And the moment he made that decision, the weight in the room shifted.