Page 159 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

“Mark.”

“—that it was someone powerful.” Mark winks at me as Chelsea groans.

Barbara’s cottage flashes through my mind. The wards. The impossible magic woven through the clearing.

“A witch?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

There is the smallest hesitation. Then Mark’s smile widens, as though impressed. “Something like that.”

“You actually know one? Where—”

“We should get inside before the guard circles back—and before your boasting gets us into trouble,” Chelsea cuts in, shooting Mark a warning look.

He chuckles but does not argue. He leads us towards the castle beneath the concealment spell. We slip through a side door and emerge into a deserted corridor.

Chelsea heads towards the dormitory stairs. Mark follows, then glances back at me.

“Coming?”

“In a minute.”

His gaze narrows slightly. “Up to mischief?”

“Lone wolves have secrets too,” I simply reply.

He tilts his head, studying me. Then that easy grin returns. “Try not to get eaten, Kira.”

Chelsea catches his sleeve and tugs him onwards. “Come on.”

I wait until their footsteps fade before moving.

A magical wand. Mysterious connections. And, quite possibly, the very witch the Resistance risked everything to find.

Temptation burns through me. I could follow them. Find out what they know. But pursuing a witch is what got me into this mess in the first place. And I can’t lose my chance to escape.

So I force my attention back to the problem at hand. I really hoped I wouldn’t have to fly. Now, it looks like my only chance. But before I attempt Arken’s balcony, I need to know whether these wings can carry me. I need somewhere large enough to try without being seen.

And I know just the place.

The assembly hall glows crimson beneath the rows of chandeliers and the four iron bowls burning in the corners.

Above me, the suspended wolves hang eerily still. And like the first time, I can’t look away.

King Bakker hangs at the centre, his court circling him in widening rings. I didn’t notice last time that every wolf faces the same direction—not towards their king, but towards the dais at the far end of the cavernous hall. Towards King Henrikk’s empty throne.

Forced to submit, even in death.

A silent snarl curls through me as I reach behind my neck and tear the collar free. The leather slips from my hand and slaps against the marble. Magic spills beneath my skin, hot and voracious. Clothes and flesh melt together as bones lengthen, talons strike the floor, and dark scales race over my limbs. My ruff bursts free, black fur tipped with silver. My tail unfurls like a whip. Then my wings tear from my back and burst wide, the rush of air bowing every flame in the hall.

I spread them to their full width, relief rushing through every joint and membrane as I arch and stretch.

Finally.

I retreat to the doors, lower myself, and run. My claws scrabble across the polished marble as I gather speed. At the end of the aisle, I leap and drive my wings down.

For one hopeful instant, I’m airborne—but travelling almost entirely horizontally, and far too fast. I flare my wings too late and collide with the front of the dais, pain jarring through both shoulders.

I lie there for one breath. A touch rusty.