Chapter 7 Breaking and Entering (Zara POV)
The East Wing has always been off-limits.
There's no sign on the door saying "No Entry" or "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted." But there's an unspoken rule at Silvercrest: you don't go into the East Wing unless you're a Nightblood. Period.
Which is exactly why I'm currently picking the lock at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday night.
"This is a terrible idea," I mutter to myself, jimmying the tension wrench I borrowed from the theater department's prop closet. "Monumentally stupid. Catastrophically ill-advised."
But I'm also a journalism student, and the Nightbloods are the biggest story on campus. If I can prove they're actually vampires—get photos, evidence, something concrete—I could submit it to actual news outlets. This could be my ticket out of "aspiring" and into "actual" journalist territory.
The lock clicks.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I ease the door open. The hallway beyond is dark, lit only by moonlight filtering through tall windows. The architecture here is different from the rest of campus—older, more ornate. Crown molding carved with intricate patterns, hardwood floors that probably cost more than my parents' house.
I pull out my phone, turning on the flashlight app, and start documenting everything.
East Wing entrance—unlocked at 11:49 PM. Hallway approximately 40 feet long, six doors total, three on each side. Decorative sconces but no electric lights visible.
The first door opens into what looks like a study. Bookshelves floor to ceiling, leather armchairs, a desk with actual inkwells. I snap photos quickly, cataloging titles. Most are in languages I don't recognize, but some are in English—dated 1847, 1923, 1856.
"Who keeps books this old in a dorm?" I whisper.
The second room is a bedroom. The bed is neatly made with dark burgundy sheets that look expensive. No posters on the walls, no personal items visible. It's sterile, almost staged.
I'm about to check the third door when I hear voices.
Shit.
I duck into the nearest room—some kind of parlor with velvet curtains and antique furniture—and press myself against the wall behind the door. My phone is still in my hand, flashlight off but my pulse pounding so loud I'm sure they can hear it.
"...completely unreasonable," a male voice says. Young, annoyed. "We can't just execute every human who looks at us funny."
"She's not just looking." That's Lyra. I recognize her precise diction, the faint accent I can never quite place. "She's hunting him. And Cain's too besotted to see clearly."
"Maybe he sees something we don't."
"Or maybe he's compromised."
Their footsteps pass my hiding spot. I hold my breath, counting seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
When I can't hear them anymore, I exhale slowly and peek around the doorframe.
The hallway is empty.
I should leave. This was stupid, reckless, exactly the kind of impulsive decision that gets people in horror movies killed. But I'm already here, and that last door at the end of the hall is calling to me.
Just one more room. Then I'll go.
The door opens silently—too silently, like it's been oiled recently—and I step into what can only be described as a ballroom. High ceilings, ornate chandelier, hardwood floor polished to a mirror shine.
And in the center of the room, carved into the floor itself, is a symbol.
It's maybe six feet in diameter, intricate lines forming a pattern that hurts to look at. Not physically, but mentally—like my brain keeps trying to process it and sliding off. There are words around the perimeter in a language I don't recognize, and something about the whole thing makes my skin prickle.
I raise my phone to photograph it.
The moment my camera focuses on the symbol, everything goes wrong.
The lines start glowing. Soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with blue-white light that fills the entire room. I stumble backward, but it's too late—the light rushes toward me like a wave, and when it hits, it feels like being struck by lightning.
Pain explodes through every nerve ending. My phone clatters to the floor. I try to scream, but my throat won't work. The light wraps around me, through me, burning cold and impossibly bright.
Then nothing.
I wake up on something soft.
My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like I've been chewing on batteries, and every muscle in my body aches. I try to sit up and immediately regret it as the room spins.
"Easy." A hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm, keeps me from toppling over. "You took quite a hit."
I force my eyes to focus. I'm on a velvet sofa in what looks like a sitting room. Candles provide the only light—dozens of them, casting flickering shadows on walls covered in dark wallpaper.
And surrounding me are the Nightbloods.
All seven of them.
Cain stands by the window, arms crossed, looking more concerned than threatening. Lyra perches on the arm of a chair, her expression carved from ice. There's a guy in a hoodie leaning against the wall—young-looking, maybe mid-twenties, with an easy posture that doesn't match the intensity in his eyes. Two others sit in matching chairs, a guy and a girl who look so similar they have to be siblings, both watching me with identical expressions of bemused curiosity.
And in the high-backed chair that screams "authority figure" sits an older-looking vampire—maybe early thirties in appearance, but something about his eyes suggests centuries.
"Miss Okonkwo." His voice is cultured, almost professorial. "You've had quite the evening."
My journalist instincts kick in despite the fear. "You know my name."
"We know everyone's name. It's our business to know who lives in our home."
"Your home." I look around, pieces clicking together. "The East Wing. You actually live here. Like, permanently."
"Astute," Lyra says, her tone suggesting it's anything but a compliment.
I push myself to sitting, fighting the urge to vomit. "What was that thing? The symbol on the floor?"
"A ward," Cain says quietly. "Magical protection against unwanted intrusion."
"Magical." I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged. "Right. Magic. Because vampires aren't weird enough."
The siblings exchange glances. The guy—dark-haired, gothic vibes—speaks first. "She's taking this well."
"Surprisingly well," his sister agrees, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Most humans who trigger wards end up catatonic for days."
"I'm not catatonic." I stand up too quickly and have to grab the sofa arm for balance. "I'm also not an idiot. You're vampires. The Nightbloods. Everyone knows, they just don't say it out loud."
"And you wanted proof," Lyra supplies. "For your little journalism project."
The guy in the hoodie pushes off the wall. "Question is, what do we do about it?"
"She's seen too much," the gothic sibling says. His shadows seem to darken around him, and I realize it's not my imagination—he's actually manipulating them. "She triggered the ward. She knows where we live, what we are."
"She's also a student," Cain interjects. "Under Silas's protection, same as all of us."
"Silas isn't here to consult," the elder vampire says. "Which means we must make our own determination."
"Wait." My voice comes out stronger than I feel. "Determination about what?"
Lyra's amber eyes meet mine, and there's something almost pitying in her expression. "About whether we let you leave with your memories intact."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
"You're going to erase my memory?" I take a step back. "You can do that?"
"Compulsion," the hoodie guy explains, almost apologetically. "We can influence human minds. Make you forget things."
"That's—that's a violation. You can't just—"
"We can," the elder says simply. "And we have, when necessary to protect our existence. However, it's not a decision we make lightly."
"I vote for compulsion." The gothic guy raises his hand. "Clean, simple, she goes back to her dorm thinking she spent the night studying."
His sister nods. "Agreed. No harm done, and we maintain operational security."
"I disagree," Cain says immediately. "She deserves to know the truth. She's going to figure it out eventually anyway."
Lyra laughs, sharp and bitter. "Like your hunter is figuring things out? How's that working for us?"
"Zara isn't a threat."
"Yet." Lyra turns to the elder. "Sir, I recommend we proceed with compulsion. Standard protocol for exposure situations."
The elder studies me for a long moment. I meet his gaze, refusing to look away even though every instinct screams at me to run.
"Very well," he says finally. "Proceed."
A blonde girl appears from the shadows, I hadn't even noticed her standing there. She can't be more than nineteen, dressed in a vintage dress that looks like it's from the 1950s. Her smile is gentle as she approaches me.
"This won't hurt," she says, her Southern accent thick as honey. "You'll just feel a little sleepy, and when you wake up tomorrow, you won't remember any of this."
"Wait..."
But she's already reaching for my face, her fingers cool against my temples. Her eyes shift from brown to an eerie, luminous gold.
"Sleep," she whispers, and I feel something press against my mind. Not physically—it's like psychological pressure, trying to push its way inside my thoughts.
And then... nothing happens.
The pressure slides off, dissipating like water off oil. The blonde girl frowns, trying again. "Sleep. Forget. This night never happened."
Again, nothing. Her compulsion just... bounces off.
"What in the..." She steps back, confused. "It's not working."
"What do you mean it's not working?" Lyra moves closer, her entire demeanor shifting from icy to predatory. "Try again."
"I am trying. It's like..." The blonde looks at the elder. "It's like there's a shield around her mind. I can't get through."
The room goes very quiet.
"Impossible," the gothic guy says. "Humans can't resist compulsion unless they've been trained specifically against it, and that takes years."
"I haven't been trained for anything," I protest. "I don't know what's happening."
The elder stands, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps. Everyone else clears a path. When he reaches me, he tilts his head, studying me like I'm a specimen under a microscope.
"Fascinating," he murmurs. Then, louder: "May I?"
"May you what?"
"Test something." He extends his hand, palm up. Not threatening, just offering. "I promise not to harm you."
Against my better judgment, I place my hand in his.
His skin is cold—not corpse-cold, but definitely cooler than human normal. He closes his eyes, and I feel that pressure again, stronger this time. It's like someone's trying to open a door in my mind, pushing harder and harder against a barrier I didn't know existed.
Then he releases me, eyes wide with something that might be shock.
"Well," he says softly. "This is unprecedented."
"What?" Cain demands. "What did you sense?"
The elder turns to address the room. "She has a binding on her. Powerful magic, expertly woven. Someone with considerable skill placed a suppression ward on her mind—likely when she was very young."
"A binding?" I shake my head. "That's—no. Nobody's ever done magic on me. My parents are normal. Accountant and a teacher. We're boring."
"Your parents may be human," the elder says. "But you, Miss Okonkwo, are not fully so. You carry dormant witch blood."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense.
"Witches aren't real," I say automatically.
Lyra actually laughs. "You're standing in a room full of vampires after triggering a magical ward, and that's where you draw the line?"
"She has a point," the hoodie guy offers.
"Someone bound your magic," the elder continues, ignoring the interruption. "Locked it away so deeply you probably never showed any signs of power. But tonight, when you triggered the ward, the feedback cracked the binding. That's why compulsion won't work—your witch nature is protecting you, even unconsciously."
I sit down heavily on the sofa. "This is insane."
"This is reality," Cain says, moving to sit beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off him. "Zara, listen to me. If your magic is awakening, you're in danger. Uncontrolled power attracts attention. Bad attention."
"What kind of attention?"
"The kind that eats curious witches for breakfast," Lyra supplies. "Demons, rogue vampires, creatures that feed on raw magic. You're basically a beacon now."
The hoodie guy crouches in front of me, meeting my eyes with surprising kindness. "Hey. I know this is a lot. Trust me, I remember what it's like to have your entire reality rewritten in one night. But you need to understand—this changes everything. You can't unknow this."
"I don't want to unknow it." The words surprise me, but they're true. "I want to understand. I want..." I look around at all of them. "I want the truth. All of it."
The elder exchanges glances with Lyra, then Cain. Some silent communication passes between them.
"Very well," he says finally. "But if we're going to trust you with our secrets, you need to understand the stakes. If you betray this confidence, if you expose what we are to the outside world, we won't hesitate to eliminate the threat."
"You mean kill me."
"By any means necessary."
I should be terrified. Should be scrambling for the door, calling the police, running as far and fast as I can.
Instead, I extend my hand to the elder vampire.
"Deal. You teach me about all this..." I gesture vaguely at the supernatural insanity around us "...and I keep your secrets. I'm a journalist. I know how to protect sources."
He takes my hand, his grip firm and cold. "Welcome to the real Silvercrest, Miss Okonkwo. Try not to get yourself killed."