The next morning, I woke up in a laundromat dryer.
Not metaphorically.
Literally inside a warm industrial dryer, curled up like a wet sock with Nyra purring like she owned the place. A sticky note was taped to the door:
"Saw you crawl in last night. Didn't call the cops. You owe me a soda. – Janitor Mike."
I groaned. My back cracked in five places. I crawled out, checked for fangs in my neck, and limped toward the vending machine. The soda button shocked me. Again.
So far, the curse came with zero benefits and a growing list of injuries.
By noon, I'd made it back to campus. Sort of.
I was hiding in the student library's restricted section behind a bookshelf titled "Paranormal Cryptobotany." Nyra sat on my shoulder, cleaning her paw like we weren't fugitives being hunted by magic law enforcement.
"Why are we here?" she asked.
"I need to find out what this curse is—and why everyone with a glow stick and a badge wants me detained or decapitated."
"You're going to get caught."
"That's the spirit," I muttered.
And that's when the lights flickered.
The air got cold. Not air-conditioned cold—coffin cold. The books started shaking. One of them whispered "run" in Latin. Not helpful.
"Let me guess," I said, backing up. "Not a janitor."
A figure stepped out from between the shelves. Pale skin. Impossibly sharp cheekbones. Black coat. Eyes like dried blood under moonlight.
Definitely not on the faculty.
"Ezra Vale," he said with a thick, timeless accent. "You are unclaimed. And unguarded. Your blood sings."
"...Gross."
"I am Agent Silvark. Licensed vampiric contractor for the Council of Etheric Enforcement. You are in violation of magic regulation code 42-F. You are to be detained."
I held up my hands. "Okay, two things. First: I don't know any code 42-F. Second: is this going to involve biting?"
He vanished.
Literally. Gone.
Nyra shouted in my head: > "DUCK!"
I dove. A blur shot over me and sliced a row of books in half with a dagger made of shadow.
I rolled behind a shelf and fumbled in my bag.
No spells. No runes. Just a calculator, two highlighters, and… my old power bank.
I grinned.
"Nyra. On three, scream like you're on fire."
"What?"
"One."
"Ezra—"
"Two."
"You absolute psycho—"
"Three."
Nyra let out a banshee-level screech. Silvark blinked, distracted for a half-second. I threw the power bank—wired to my phone—and activated a feedback loop I'd been tinkering with in electronics lab.
It exploded in a burst of static, and a blue light.
Silvark staggered.
I tackled him with a mop I'd stolen from the hallway and jammed it into his ribs like a wooden stake. Didn't kill him. But he definitely wasn't expecting that.
He hissed and teleported away in a swirl of mist.
Nyra blinked.
"You just power-bombed a licensed vampire agent with a mop."
"Yeah," I gasped. "I think I'm getting better at this."
"You're also definitely on every watchlist now."
"Worth it."