The city pulsed with artificial life, but it could never mimic the thrill of real blood beneath the skin. Not to her.
Virella stood on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, her crimson eyes fixed on the glowing skyline. Her skin gleamed under the moonlight, ageless and cold. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. She simply listened—to the echo of tires over wet asphalt, the heartbeat of a stray cat below, and the distant pulse of a party she hadn't yet decided to attend.
Behind her, a low voice cut through the silence. "You're brooding again. Classic."
Virella turned to see Lena, her best friend and fellow vampire, lounging on the ledge like it was a throne. Her short black curls were tousled, fangs just slightly visible beneath a playful smirk. She looked like trouble, but the loyal kind—the kind that'd burn down a city if you asked her to.
"I'm thinking," Virella said.
"About him, right?"
Virella didn't answer. She didn't need to. They both knew who "he" was. Alaric—the mysterious boy she met a century ago at a masquerade. He was beautiful, charming, and maddeningly hard to forget. He'd said he loved her. Then he died.
At least, that's what she thought.
Until last month, when she saw his face again—in a blurry photo on a high school website. Same smirk. Same eyes. Same name.
He wasn't dead.
Lena swung her legs. "If he's pretending to be a high school student again, he's either insane or seriously committed to the bit."
"He said he died," Virella muttered.
"Yeah, well, he also said your brother gave him nightmares."
That part made sense. Varen, Virella's twin, was protective to the point of aggression. He never liked Alaric. Called him a liar. Said he smelled wrong. Whatever that meant. Their fights were legendary, even for vampires.
Lena stood and dusted herself off. "Look, we can either mope here or crash that masquerade. I vote dress-up and maybe a little stalking."
Virella hesitated, then nodded. The masquerade was a neutral ground—ancient vampire tradition. It drew all kinds: old blood, rogue immortals, even those pretending to be dead.
As they walked the moonlit streets, Virella's mind buzzed. If Alaric had faked his death, why? Why the drama, the lies, the vanishings? And why now… high school?
Maybe he wanted to blend in. Or maybe he wanted her to find him.
The mansion that hosted the masquerade stood like a gothic dream—towering arches, candles flickering midair, and music that seeped from the walls. Inside, masked dancers spun beneath a chandelier of bone-white crystal.
Virella moved through the crowd like a shadow. Her gown was black velvet, her mask a silver crescent moon. Lena wore red, all flame and flair, already charming a pair of curious fledglings.
Virella paused near the ballroom's edge—and froze.
He was there.
Alaric.
Leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in sleek black, his mask a dark wolf's face. But she knew him. She'd always know him.
He looked older—but only just. His body language, his posture, the faint smirk tugging at his lips—it was all him. Immortal. Unchanged.
Her heart twisted.
He caught her staring and smiled like they'd never missed a century. Like no lies had ever passed between them.
"Virella," he said, voice warm and low. "You came."
"You're not dead," she said flatly.
He stepped closer. "Technically, neither are you."
"You let me believe you were gone. For a hundred years."
"I had… reasons."
She narrowed her eyes. "Let me guess. My brother?"
Alaric actually winced. "Varen doesn't like me."
"He chased you with a silver dagger."
"I said doesn't like me, not didn't try to murder me."
Virella crossed her arms. "So you faked your death and enrolled in high school? Again?"
"I blend in well with teenagers. They assume I'm mysterious. Emo. It works."
She wanted to slap him. Or maybe kiss him. It was hard to tell.
"I don't know whether to hate you or miss you."
"Do both," he said softly. "But I'm back. And this time, I'm staying."
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