Page 44 of Vampire Soldier
The gift box is gone.
The lingerie. The tissue paper. The dress. All of it.
My breath catches as I stare down into the empty drawer, my hand still hovering over it like maybe I’ll blink and it’ll all come rushing back. But there’s nothing. No note. No mess. Just pristine emptiness, as if it had never been there in the first place.
I’d left it here, locking it away to deal with later. I hadn’t hidden it. That was the point.
I slowly slide the drawer shut again, fingers tight on the handle. I want to feel relieved—maybe the sender got the message. Maybe it’s over. But unease crawls up my spine instead. Because, regardless, it means someone was rifling through my desk and technically stole from me. A quick look through the rest of my drawers confirms the gift is the only thing missing.
Letting out a breath, I shake my head. Nope, not dealing with this right now. Not when there’s a dress rehearsal about to start. I force myself to breathe and let it go. I’ll deal with it later. Who knows, maybe this means my mysterious admirer reclaimed it. I’ll do the mental gymnastics to assure myself that’s a good thing and not creepy at all.
By midday, I’ve checked my phone at least a dozen times for messages from Charlie. Most are updates that she’s “still alive” and that Joséphine has let her try raw cookie dough because “rules don’t apply to vampires.” The last one is a photo—Charlie with a cookie the size of a small plate, half-eaten, her smile crumb-dusted and proud.
My heart squeezes. She’s okay. Happy, even. It’s the only reason I’ve managed to keep it together today.
I meet Perry near the dressing rooms and we start ticking through last-minute details: lights, cues, rigging, microphone battery checks. We’re halfway through the checklist when Amber jogs up with her corset half-laced and panic on her face.
“I think the clasp tore—I heard it pop right before we finished the warmup.”
“Let me see,” I say, gesturing her behind the curtain that leads to quick-change alley. Tara is already kneeling by one of the mannequins nearby, fabric pinned between her fingers like a surgeon mid-procedure.
“Tara!” I call. “We’ve got a wardrobe emergency. Can you?—”
“I heard it.” She rises in a smooth, practiced motion and crosses to us, inspecting Amber’s costume with a precision that makes my heart rate start to slow. Tara, the waif-like seamstress who looks as if almost all color has been sapped from her, works with the Nightshades as one of their personal tailors and designers. Perry had been the one to introduce us when she’d arrived, giving us both a not-so-subtle reminder that no one else knows Malachi’s true nature.
“I’ll need five minutes,” she says. “Don’t touch anything.”
Amber nods, then glances at me. “Thank you. I swear it wasn’t like this yesterday.”
“You’re fine. This is why we rehearse and do final checks,” I reply, managing a smile.
The rest of the dress rehearsal rolls forward on adrenaline and stubborn pride, a strange mix of chaos and control that leaves my skin buzzing. Dancers leap, pivot, stretch like living works of art under the wash of stage lights that warm the floor like melted butter. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, hairspray, and faint cinnamon from someone’s perfume. My clipboard becomes an extension of my hand, practically fused to my palm from the way I’m clenching it.
Calls come fast—lighting cues, prop resets, curtain transitions. The backstage crew flows like a well-oiled machine, Tara barking minor adjustments from the wings like a field general while Perry handles a last-second soundboard correction with calm, practiced fingers. There are hiccups, of course—one of the feather fans briefly catches on a rigging line, and a heel nearly goes flying during the tap segment—but everyone recovers like pros.
I pace the aisle that bisects the restaurant seating down the middle, muttering cues under my breath, my heartbeat matching the beat of the bassline pouring through the floorboards. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s coiled tight with nerves, but somewhere under that tension is something else—pride. Real, biting, breath-catching pride.
By the final number, I’m vibrating from head to toe. My vision swims slightly from the strain of staying hyper-focused, but I don’t dare blink.
The music swells. Dancers surge into their closing formation. The final lift hits dead center, spotlight slicing down like a blade of glory.
They nailed it.
Applause breaks out, loud and genuine. A few dancers bow dramatically, someone lets out a war whoop that echoes into the rafters. There’s laughter, a flurry of clapping, and for a precious handful of seconds, all the pressure I’ve carried for the last three weeks fades like mist under stage lights.
I let myself laugh too. My chest expands for the first time today without feeling like it might crack open.
“You all crushed it,” I say, clapping my hands together. “This is the energy I want tomorrow night. Bring that, and we open with a bang.”
Erin throws an arm around Amber, both breathless and glowing, and looks at me. “It’s all thanks to our fearless leader!”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling wider now. Maybe a little too wide. Maybe enough that it makes the tension behind my ribs sting again—but for once, it’s a good kind of sting.
Perry jogs over from the wings, waving slightly, a glint of amusement barely hidden behind his usual professionalism.
“Blake—Malachi wants to see you upstairs.”
My stomach tightens. Not in the good way.
