The electronic click echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence. My heart hammered against unfamiliar ribs. They were at the door—seconds before it would swing open to authorities.
Panic threatened to paralyze me. No. I wouldn't surrender after surviving centuries. Think. Move. Live.
My eyes reassessed the chaos as tactical terrain—overturned furniture as cover, heavy curtains as concealment, shadows as allies. Direct confrontation meant capture. Evasion was my only hope.
But first—him.
I moved toward the prone figure, this borrowed body responding sluggishly, wet silk clinging to skin that wasn't mine. Outside, muffled voices grew urgent, something heavy scraped against the door.
Crouching beside him, I pressed against a fallen bookshelf laden with arcane volumes. His scent struck me—blood predominant, yet beneath it something clean, masculine, oddly familiar despite my displacement across time. My borrowed body responded with unwelcome warmth.
In the city's ambient glow filtering through vast windows, his face displayed classical beauty even unconscious—strong jawline, dark lashes against alabaster skin. Something about him resonated deep within me, vibrating against the very core of my being.
Focus. My fingers found his neck. Cool, clammy skin. Nothing at first, then... there. A faint pulse. Alive.
Relief warred with dread. Alive meant complications, potential identification of me or whatever Eleanor had done before my arrival.
The dark stain on his expensive shirt originated high on his shoulder—serious but not immediately fatal. I noted no visible weapon, yet hesitated to search further. Every point of contact sent disturbing sensations through this nervous system—like touching dormant electricity.
My attention caught on his left hand, elegant fingers slack against crimson carpet. On his ring finger—dark metal gleamed. Leaning closer, I strained to identify the sigil in dim light.
The confirmation struck like physical violence—a stylized raven perched upon jagged obsidian. The Blackwood crest.
He wasn't merely connected to my enemies—he was one. A Blackwood. My sworn adversary, helpless at my feet. Bitter irony bubbled in my chest as hysterical laughter threatened to escape.
The urge to end him overwhelmed me. One swift movement with nearby glass. Simple. Vengeance served cold after centuries of waiting.
But sharp rapping intensified. "NYPD! Open the door!" My window for either vengeance or escape narrowed rapidly.
Killing him would satisfy primal rage but likely seal my fate. I needed information and escape more than immediate satisfaction.
I spotted a dark leather clutch half-hidden beneath a cushion. Inside: strange keys, unrecognizable cosmetics, a glowing rectangle, and a wallet.
Fingers fumbling the clasp, I found cards bearing her name—Eleanor Vance—and an identification card. Her face stared back defiantly from beneath harsh official lighting. Below: an address. Not this penthouse, but somewhere else in this sprawling city. A potential sanctuary.
Tucked behind cards, a folded paper with frantic handwriting: "The binding holds. J is contained, for now. Must complete the severance before moonset. The key is resonance, not force. Remember the coast..."
J? Julian Blackwood? Contained by what? What severance? What coast?
The pounding intensified. "NYPD! Open up or we're coming in!"
I wiped fingerprints from touched surfaces while the doorframe shuddered under impact.
Exit. Now.
My desperate scan found a large tapestry hanging crookedly—incongruously archaic amidst modern décor. Something about its placement struck me as deliberate.
Decision made. Clutching the small bag, I moved toward the tapestry, Julian Blackwood a burning presence in my peripheral vision. The air crackled with unresolved magic, impending violence, and the undeniable pull of the stranger in the mirror—the stranger who was now me.