Page 86 of Winterfall Destiny

"To be honest, Maeve, I think you are like that girl who arrived at the academy," she says stiffly.

"Why?"

"Naïve."

I suck in a breath, shocked and annoyed in one hit. "And this is another reason you and Matt could never get involved. The guys and I have the utmost trust in each other. Granted, that took some time, but we're powerful as a group."

Amelia silently finishes her coffee. I'm a breath away from saying she doesn't know how powerful I am—could be—but I'd sound like Dorian. Hell, I hope that topic doesn't come up too.

"Amelia," I say softly and touch her hand. "I love that you're protective of the people you care about, but I promise you that my guys are the same."

A flicker of a smile. "Your guys. You definitely embraced the witch and consorts thing. Did nobody tell you strictly speaking the guys you choose should all be witches?"

"If I followed society's rules since I entered this world, I'd be dead."

Amelia's amusement drops, and she doesn't speak again for a few moments. "I hope you'll be happy someday, Maeve. With your guys."

"I'm certain I will be."

"I like that you're optimistic."

"I'm not optimistic, I'm determined." I drink. "And I believe in those around me. In my magic."

"Your light to fight against the darkness?"

I answer with a fake smile. The official line the academy taught Amelia—Confederacy good, Dominion bad. Surely she can see that there's no light triumphing over darkness. Not anymore.

And I don't think there ever was.

32

TOBIAS

A dimly lit sign flickers, spelling out the club's name in gothic script. Sanctum. I didn't recognise the name when discussing venues with Matt and Amelia, but I've hazy memories of places like this. Have I visited here before? Possibly. I spent time at a lot of underground clubs; they blur into one. A dread sneaks in when I fix my eyes on the black painted door ahead. These venues change their names all the time. I won't know until I step inside.

I wrap an arm around Maeve's shoulders, demonstrating from the start that she's with me both physically and through my 'back the fuck off' aura. Maeve dressed to suit the club as much as she could when choosing from her clothes—short purple and black plaid skirt over black leggings and a long-sleeve top to match. I'm relieved she isn't showing a lot of skin, but without heavy make-up and with her hair in a single braid, she's deceptively meek looking compared to those around.

If only the girls sneering at her in disdain knew what Maeve could do to them if they threatened her.

In order to keep a low profile, we could've snuck round the back but decided to queue along with the black-clothed men and women waiting. Sure, Maeve and I are known amongst Dominion, but she isn't the only blonde witch out there and even though I often attract flirtatious attention, I'm not well-known enough amongst younger, newer Dominion.

But I am walking Maeve into a club filled with hemia vamps amongst the witches and humans, and Maeve's blood is potent. Let's hope we pick up some thoughts before people are drawn to her, and we avoid having to use some of our magic to get out.

The club only opened the doors ten minutes ago, so the queue winds along the street. At least eighty percent are supes, some leaning against a wall plastered with posters advertising upcoming bands or theme nights at this club and others. The sound of deep, bass-heavy music vibrates through the ground, a call to my memories of nights like these. The queue moves forwards and a faint scent of incense seeps through the open doors, nauseating me. Not the fragrance, but how I'm placing myself into my history.

History. Years ago. Everything's changed.

The security doesn't look much different to the patrons attracted to the place, somewhere between grunge and goth. The guy with long black hair touching his leather jacket knows a few regulars that he banters with, while a tattooed and pierced guy with spiked hair beside him picks out people banned and sends them away. He switches focus to one trio of humans who refuse to leave, and the long-haired guy waves us in, watching his friend, not us.

We walk through the heavy maroon velvet drape and pause, Maeve blinking through the heavy darkness as we get our bearings. The owners definitely embraced the gothic aesthetic, antique mirrors that reflect the dark interior, creating the illusion the club is larger, and gold chandeliers above the bar drip with mock black candles. The heavy incense scent fills the air enough that most vamps would struggle to quickly pick out who's a witch, the ultraviolet strobe lights giving people an otherworldly look.

I grip Maeve's hand as my pulse rate spikes. I have visited this place before.

How often? Maybe half a dozen, a long time ago, when on the hunt with a couple of friends. On the hunt. Not for humans, but witches. I moisten my dry lips. The owners—or new owners—redecorated since I last stood here over seven years ago, and there're more humans in the place than the past, but this is unmistakably a club once called Black Dahlia. Whoever bought the place decided to ramp up the gothic feel and I'm disorientated by the humans playing supes, and the supes playing humans in one big pretence.

Their appearances meet in the middle, all with a similar look that reminds me of the one Andrei once cultivated to help him blend in when he'd hunt humans. Black. Chains. Heavy boots. Andrei doesn't have visible tattoos or piercings, but he'd look at home here. My appearance was closer to this back then, and although I've dressed in black jeans and one of Andrei's band t-shirts to fit in, I'm different.

You're not him.

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