The night air smelled like rain and regret.
I pulled my worn cardigan tighter around my shoulders, cursing myself for staying so late at the library again. Six hours of reshelving, three argument with the microfilm machine, and exactly zero human interactions that meant anything. Just another Tuesday.
My apartment was a twenty-minute walk through the older part of the city, where streetlights flickered like dying stars and the sidewalks cracked into puzzle pieces no one bothered to solve. Most of my coworkers had cars. Most of my coworkers also had lives, boyfriends, dinner plans that didn't involve instant noodles and a cat I couldn't afford.
I was halfway down Birch Street when I felt it.
A prickle at the back of my neck. That ancient, animal instinct that screams someone's watching even when there's no one there.
I walked faster.
The sound came first. A low growl, so deep I felt it in my chest rather than heard it with my ears. Then the shadows at the end of the alley to my left moved—not like wind, not like anything natural. They gathered, thickened, and stepped into the dim pool of a dying streetlight.
Three of them.
Men? Not quite. They wore human shapes the way a wolf wears sheep's clothing—badly, with violence peeking through the seams. Their eyes caught the light and threw it back yellow. Their smiles showed too many teeth, all of them sharp.
"Well, well," the tallest one said. His voice scraped against my ears. "Smell that, brothers?"
The one on his right inhaled loudly. His nostrils flared. "Sweet. Clean. Human."
"Alone human," the third corrected, circling to my left like he was herding me. "Tender human."
I should have run. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at my legs to move, to flee, to do anything except stand there frozen like prey. But my body had betrayed me. My feet were concrete. My heart was a trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of my ribs.
"Please," I whispered. The word tasted pathetic. "I don't have any money. I don't—"
"Money?" The leader laughed, and the sound was wrong. Too rough. Too much like something that had forgotten how to be human. "We don't want your money, little lamb."
He stepped closer. The smell hit me then—wild, earthy, like wet dog and blood and forest after rain. Wrong. All wrong.
"We want," he said, and his face shifted—jaw extending, teeth lengthening, eyes going fully gold, "to play."
The transformation happened in heartbeats. One second they were men, or something like men. The next, fur exploded from their skin, spines curved, and three wolves stood where the men had been. Not ordinary wolves. These were the size of ponies, with shoulders that brushed my waist and jaws that could snap my arm like a twig.
I screamed.
The sound had barely left my throat when the first wolf lunged.
I threw my arms up—stupid, useless, as if my forearms could stop teeth designed to crush bone. I felt the heat of its breath, saw the pink of its mouth, smelled the rot of its last meal—
And then it wasn't there.
One moment, lunging. The next, flying sideways through the air as if something had hit it with the force of a freight train. It crashed into a dumpster with a crunch that made my stomach turn.
The other two wolves snarled and spun to face the newcomer.
I pressed myself against the alley wall, my heart trying to escape through my throat, and I saw him.
A man. No—a presence. He stood at the mouth of the alley with the streetlight at his back, casting him in shadow. Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in black that seemed to drink the light around him. His face was all sharp angles and hollows, cheekbones that could cut glass, a jaw carved from marble.
But it was his eyes that stole my breath.
Red. Deep, ancient red, like embers from a fire that had been burning for centuries. They fixed on the wolves with an expression I couldn't read—boredom? Annoyance? The mild interest of a man watching ants fight?
"Leave," he said.
Just one word. Quiet. Almost gentle. But it carried weight, that word. It pressed down on the air itself.
The wolves hesitated. I saw the leader—the one who'd spoken first—take a half-step forward, then stop. His fur bristled along his spine.
"She's ours," he snarled. The sound came out half-human, half-animal. "We found her. The hunt is ours."
"You found nothing." The man in black didn't move. Didn't raise his voice. "You stumbled across something you don't understand, and now you have three seconds to run before I lose what little patience I possess."
The wolf on the left—the one who'd circled me earlier—growled low in his chest. "You have no authority here, blood-drinker. This is pack territory."
"Three."
"You can't kill all of us before we raise the alarm. The Alpha will—"
"Two."
The leader's eyes darted between me and the stranger. I saw the calculation happening behind those yellow irises. The risk assessment. The survival instinct warring with pride.
"One."
The wolves ran.
They didn't bother with dignity. They turned and bolted down the alley, scrambling over the dumpster, disappearing into the shadows at the far end like roaches fleeing light. Within seconds, the only evidence they'd ever existed was the lingering smell of wet fur and the ache in my back where I'd hit the wall.
I slid down to the ground. My legs simply stopped working.
The man in black watched me for a long moment. Then he walked forward, and the light caught his face fully, and I understood why the wolves had run.
Beautiful. That was the word that came first, before sense or fear or gratitude. He was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—perfect lines, deadly purpose, no forgiveness in its edge. Pale skin that had never known sun. Dark hair that fell across his forehead in careless waves. Lips that looked like they'd forgotten how to smile centuries ago.
And those eyes. Those terrible, beautiful, burning red eyes.
He stopped a few feet away and looked down at me. Up close, I felt it—a pressure in the air around him, like standing too close to a high-voltage wire. My skin tingled. My breath came short.
"You're bleeding," he said.
I looked down. The wolf's claws had caught my arm during the lunge. Three parallel lines ran from my elbow to my wrist, welling red. I hadn't even felt it.
"It's nothing," I whispered. My voice sounded strange. Far away.
"It's everything." He knelt—actually knelt, bringing himself to my level—and reached for my arm. His fingers were cold when they touched my skin. Not chilly. Cold, like river stones in winter. "Do you know what you are?"
"I'm..." I swallowed. "I'm a librarian."
Something flickered in those red eyes. Amusement? Surprise? It vanished too fast to name.
"No," he said softly. "You're not. Or rather, you are, but that's not all you are." His thumb traced the edge of my wound, and I felt something strange—a pull, a warmth, a sensation that had nothing to do with physical touch. "The wolves should have been able to compel you. They should have been able to cloud your mind, make you compliant, lead you wherever they wanted. But they didn't. Why?"
"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about."
He studied my face. His gaze was uncomfortably intimate, like he was reading words written on my skin. "You don't, do you? You genuinely have no idea."
"I genuinely have no idea about anything that happened in the last five minutes," I said, and was horrified to feel tears pricking at my eyes. "Wolves just tried to eat me. Actual wolves. That talked. And you—" I looked at him, really looked, and the pieces clicked together with horrible certainty. "You're one of them, aren't you? Not a wolf. The other thing. The thing they called—"
"Blood-drinker." His lips curved. Not quite a smile, but close. "Vampire, if you prefer. Though I find the term imprecise."
I should have screamed. I should have run. I should have done anything except sit there on the cold, dirty ground of an alley, letting a vampire touch my bleeding arm while I cried like a child.
Instead, I asked: "Why did you save me?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His hand stilled on my arm. For a moment—just a moment—something human flickered behind those ancient eyes.
"I don't know," he admitted. "That's what concerns me."
He released my arm and stood in one fluid motion that shouldn't have been possible. Up close, I realized he was enormous—well over six feet, with shoulders that blocked out the streetlight entirely. When had he gotten so close?
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"I don't know." I tested my legs. They trembled, but they held. "I think so."
"Good. I'll take you home."
"I don't—" I shook my head, trying to clear it. "I don't even know your name."
He paused. Looked back at me over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught his profile like something from a painting—tragic and beautiful and impossibly old.
"Caspian," he said. "My name is Caspian."
And then he offered me his hand.
I should have refused. I should have thanked him and walked away and spent the rest of my life pretending this night never happened. That's what any sensible person would have done.
But I wasn't sensible. I was alone, and scared, and bleeding, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice I'd never heard before whispered: This is where it starts.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine—cold, strong, impossibly gentle—and he pulled me to my feet like I weighed nothing. For one breathless moment, we stood face to face, close enough that I could see the individual flecks of darker red in his irises. Close enough that I could smell him—night air and old books and something else, something that made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
"You'll forget this," he said softly. "When I let you go, you'll forget the wolves forgot to compel you. You'll forget I saved you. You'll forget my face, my name, everything. You'll wake up tomorrow with a headache and a scratch on your arm and no memory of how you got it. That's how this works."
"Then why are you telling me?" I whispered.
Another flicker of that unreadable emotion. "Because I think," he said slowly, "that when I try, you won't forget anyway. And that... interests me."
He didn't try. Not then. He simply held my hand and walked me home through the empty streets, a silent shadow at my side. The wolves didn't return. Nothing moved except the wind and the distant sound of traffic and the soft rhythm of our footsteps.
When we reached my building, he released me.
"Lock your doors," he said. "Don't go out alone at night. And if you see yellow eyes in the dark, run toward the nearest light and scream my name."
"Your name," I repeated. "The one I'm supposed to forget."
Something that might have been a smile ghosted across his lips. "Yes. That one."
He turned to leave.
"Wait—"
He stopped.
"Why did you really save me?" I asked. "Not the 'I don't know' answer. The real one."
For a long moment, he didn't respond. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain that would never come. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
"Because when I looked at you, for the first time in three hundred years, I felt something other than boredom. And boredom," he added, glancing back at me with those terrible, beautiful red eyes, "is the only true death for my kind."
Then he was gone. Not walking away—simply gone, like smoke in wind, like a dream upon waking.
I stood outside my apartment building for a long time, staring at the empty sidewalk where he'd been. My arm throbbed where the wolves had cut me. My heart hammered against my ribs. And in my mind, one word echoed on repeat:
Caspian.
I didn't forget.
Not that night. Not the next morning. Not ever.