Chapter 6

The lock clicked into place behind me, the quietest sound in the world, but still too loud. I stood there for a moment, listening—half expecting something to shift in the shadows, for a voice to cut through the silence, for my father to be standing at the top of the stairs, watching.

Nothing.

The house was dark, still.

I exhaled slowly. I made it.

My fingers trembled as I slid the deadbolt into place. Not from fear. Not exactly. More like the slow unraveling of adrenaline, the way it left everything hollowed out in its wake. My jacket felt heavier than before, the weight of dust and blood settling into the fabric. I shrugged it off, wincing as pain shot across my shoulders.

Right. The bruises.

I needed to move. To clean up. To sit down. Something.

I forced myself up the stairs, step by step, careful to avoid the one that creaked. Habit. Even now, my brain worked in routines, in small measures of control. I wasn't worried about my father finding me like this—not really. The car wasn´t in the driveway.

Better safe than sorry.

I pushed into my room, shutting the door quietly behind me, my hands already reaching for the lamp on my desk. Warm, dim light filled the space, washing over books, notebooks, scattered papers—all normal things. Safe things.

I caught my reflection in the mirror across the room. Not safe. Not normal.

I looked wrecked.

The bite stood out first. The puncture wounds had already stopped bleeding, but the skin was darkening—deep red bruises spiderwebbing outward, smeared with dried blood. The rest of me wasn't much better. My shirt was torn at the collar, and when I pulled it over my head, the movement sent a fresh wave of pain rolling down my spine. I turned slightly, checking the damage in the mirror.

My entire back was a bruise.

Purple, black, sickly yellow along the edges. I hadn't even noticed half of them earlier. Not when I was still running on instinct, still feeling the ghost of heat curling in my veins.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax, forcing myself to stay in the moment.

One thing at a time.

I moved to my desk, grabbing the first-aid kit I kept stashed in the bottom drawer. My fingers worked mechanically—pulling out gauze, medical tape, antiseptic. The bite needed to be covered. I poured alcohol over it, inhaling sharply as the sting cut through the lingering haze.

Pain meant I was still here.

The bandaging was sloppy, but it would hold. My hands were steadier now, but my thoughts weren't. They kept circling back, replaying the moment over and over.

The attack. The bite. The fire.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat under my palm. Slower now. Calmer. But beneath it, something else stirred.

The magic.

I swallowed, shifting my fingers to where the pentagram had rested earlier. The skin wasn't burned, not really, but it felt different. Like something had sunk in, etched beneath the surface. I flexed my fingers, pressing against the memory.

I'd spent months carefully studying structured magic. Tracing sigils. Memorizing incantations. Practicing controlled rituals, shaping power through discipline and precision.

And then, in a single moment, I had done something completely different.

No incantations. No preparation. No carefully drawn circles. Just instinct, pain, and will.

And it had worked.

Better than anything I had ever studied.

I shuddered, gripping the edge of the desk.

Structured magic was a slow, careful thing—contained, controlled, like a river forced through narrow channels. It was meant to be safe, predictable.

What I had felt in that alley?

It was a wildfire.

Untamed. Hungry.

It hadn't just burned through the vampire. It had burned through me, too. It had taken something—pain, blood, maybe even life—and turned it into power.

And for a second—just a second—I hadn't wanted it to stop.

That was the part that scared me.

Not the vampire. Not the near-death experience. The way the magic had felt.

Because right now, bruised and exhausted, I should feel like a mess.

But I didn´t.

I felt more awake than I ever had before.

The thought lodged itself in my skull, restless and nagging.

What if I tried again?

The idea shouldn't have even occurred to me. I should have wrapped up my wounds and gone to sleep, grateful to be alive. But instead, I found myself tracing my fingers over the pentagram, searching for that lingering heat, that spark, that fire.

I inhaled slowly, centering myself, the way I had when I practiced spells. But instead of reaching for something external—an incantation, a sigil, a ritual—I reached inward.

Nothing.

My brow furrowed.

I tried again. I pictured the alley, the heat rushing through my veins, the wildfire surging outward.

Nothing.

The magic was there, I could feel it, like something half-buried just beneath my skin. But it wouldn't come. It wouldn't ignite the way it had before.

Because it hadn't been a choice.

It hadn't been something I controlled.

It had been reactionary. Instinctual. A defense mechanism.

And without the pain, the blood, the desperation, it just... wasn't there.

I exhaled, slumping back into my chair, rubbing a hand over my face.

Of course.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

A part of me felt relieved. Another part... frustrated.

I forced myself to stand, forced myself to move toward the bed. I was too wired to sleep, but I needed to at least try.

I clicked off the lamp, sinking into the mattress, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

I told myself I was done thinking about it. That I would deal with it tomorrow.

But the memory of fire still flickered beneath my skin.

And I didn't know if I wanted it to go away.

***

The smell of coffee and something buttery drifted through the house as I made my way downstairs, every step sending a fresh reminder of last night's brilliantly bad decisions straight to my spine.

I felt like hell.

Not in the poetic, existential way. In the bruised, stiff, everything-aches-and-even-my-hair-hurts way.

The high was gone. The heat. The energy. What was left was a body that had been through it and was now making its displeasure known in full.

I adjusted my turtleneck as I entered the dining room, rolling my shoulders just enough to confirm that, yes, my back was still one massive bruise. Perfect.

My father sat at the head of the table, perfectly composed as always, flipping through the morning paper with an amused sort of patience, like he already knew everything printed inside was yesterday's news. My mother sat across from him, chardonnay absent but a cup of coffee firmly in hand, her nails tapping idly against the porcelain rim.

She glanced up as I stepped in, brows pinching slightly. "I didn't hear you come in last night."

Because I practically ghosted my way in like a fugitive? Probably best not to say that.

"Didn't want to wake anyone," I said smoothly, moving to grab a plate. "Would've felt bad disturbing your beauty sleep."

She made a humming noise, somewhere between acknowledgment and mild skepticism, but didn't push.

I took a seat and immediately regretted it, sinking into the chair just a little too fast. My ribs objected. So did my back. So did… honestly, everything.

My father turned the page of his newspaper.

Then, without even looking up—

"So," he said, voice pleasant, "did you have fun at the party?"

My stomach did a thing.

Not panic, exactly. More like a full-body internal brake screech, because I knew that tone.

The perfectly casual delivery. The kind that implied he already knew the answer and was just waiting to see how well I'd lie about it.

I didn't immediately answer, focusing on spreading jam on a slice of toast like my life depended on it.

"…Party?" I echoed, finally, carefully neutral.

His smile was downright warm as he folded his newspaper neatly, setting it aside.

"Oh, come on, son. It's tradition." He gestured loosely, as if this was all common knowledge. "First Thursday of the school year? High schoolers go out. Party. Get a little reckless." He took a sip of his coffee, eyes twinkling over the rim. "Surely you didn't let the night go to waste."

God, he was enjoying this.

Across from me, my mother sighed softly. "Richard."

"What?" My father feigned innocence, setting his cup down with a polite little clink. "I was young once too. I understand these things." He glanced at me again, smirking just enough to be insufferable.

I chewed a slow bite of toast, weighing my options.

If I denied everything, he'd assume I was covering for something worse. If I admitted too much, I'd just encourage whatever game he was playing.

So I settled for exactly enough truth to be useless.

"Went to the Bronze. Hung out with friends. Nothing wild."

My father made a humming noise, mirroring my mother from earlier. "Well. That's a relief."

I could feel the joke coming before it even left his mouth.

"Wouldn't want you getting into trouble."

The mildly strangled sound I made into my coffee was not voluntary.

My mother's exasperation? Also not voluntary. She shot my father a look, one that did nothing to dissuade the pleased amusement playing at his expression.

I swallowed my coffee, clearing my throat. "I'm always responsible."

My father actually laughed.

"Of course you are, son."

It was entirely possible I hated him.

I made a note to never, under any circumstances, get arrested in this town. Not because of whatever charges might follow—but because I'd never hear the end of it.

I turned to my mother instead. Safer conversation. "Anything interesting in the news?"

She took a slow sip of coffee before answering. "The usual."

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Vague.

I glanced toward my father, but he had already picked up the newspaper again, expression unreadable.

Great. That's not ominous at all.

I let the conversation lull, focusing on getting through breakfast without wincing too obviously.

***

I woke up to a hand on my shoulder, firm enough to jolt me but not rough. Pain lanced through me, turning the simple touch into a full-body reminder of last night's mistakes.

"We're here, kid."

I blinked blearily, the world tilting as I forced my head up. Everything ached. Mr. Dawson stood outside the open car door, giving me that usual mix of mild amusement and vague disapproval—like he knew I'd had a long night but wasn't paid enough to care.

I groaned, rolling my neck and immediately regretting it. "You sure? Feels like I got hit by the car instead of riding in it."

I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the exhaustion as I glanced out the window. The school lot. Right.

I groaned, shifting in my seat, which only made every bruise protest. "Damn. I was really hoping this was all a bad dream."

Mr. Dawson snorted. "No such luck. Now, go be a model student."

I muttered something unintelligible, mostly for my own satisfaction, and pushed myself up. The movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through my back and neck, reminding me—again—that falling asleep in a moving car after getting my spine rearranged had been a mistake.

Still. Better than nothing.

I stepped out of the car and immediately spotted Tom, Jake, and Ben waiting near the lot. Tom, ever the charismatic ringleader, was leaning against a light post like he had personally designed the morning just to piss me off.

The moment he saw me, he grinned.

"Look who finally decided to join us! Damn, Wilkins, you were a party animal last night. Really wasn't expecting that from you."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Neither was I."

Jake made a disgruntled noise, clearly still bitter about his failed conquest. "Well, you sure as hell weren't playing wingman."

I side-eyed him. "You still mad about that? She was a little much, man. You'd have regretted it this morning."

Jake shot me a skeptical look. "Doubt it."

I smirked. "You sure? I mean, she seemed like the type to really sink her teeth into a guy."

Tom barked out a laugh. "Okay, that was actually funny."

Jake rolled his eyes, but I could see the gears turning in his head, the subconscious part of him probably relieved he'd dodged whatever weird bullet that had been.

Ben, meanwhile, was staring at us like he had personally been robbed.

"I can't believe I missed the party." His voice was theatrically pained. "I had to stay home and babysit my sister while you guys were out having the time of your lives."

I snorted. "Time of my life? Yeah, sure, let's go with that."

Tom clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning. "Don't worry, Benny boy. There'll be other nights."

Ben sighed dramatically. "It won't be the same."

Jake huffed. "You missed nothing, dude."

I smirked. "Yeah, just me, a killer dance floor, and Jake's wounded pride."

Jake flipped me off as we made our way toward the school.

As we crossed into the schoolyear, the usual morning chaos was in full swing. and it didn´t take me long to spot Megan with clique were exactly where you´d expect. Front and center. She was in the middle of a conversation with one of her friends.

When she caught sight of us, she stopped talking and smirked. "Well, if it isn´t last night´s star attraction. "

Tom grinned. "Right? Wilkins was cutting up the dance floor like a pro. Who knew?"

Megan´s expression flickered with amusement as she gave me a once-over. "And here I thought you were all bookish, and well-mannered."

I gave her a slow once-over in return. "Careful, Megan. Keep looking at me like that, and people might talk."

Her smirk didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—mild surprise, maybe, or just amusement at the audacity. Either way, she didn't look displeased.

"Let them," she shot back, tilting her head just enough to make it clear she was enjoying herself.

Tom, grinning like he was watching his favorite sitcom unfold, clapped me on the shoulder. "Look at you, Wilkins. One wild night and suddenly you're Mr. Smooth."

The hit sent a sharp jolt through me, my vision flickering for half a second. Pain flared, fast and blinding, but I forced a slow breath through my nose and kept my expression easy.

"So anyways, we are going to have a club meeting today. Got to prep topics for the school paper. "

Megan groaned like I'd just announced a pop quiz. "Already? Ugh. I was hoping we could ride out the new-school-year grace period a little longer."

"News doesn't wait," I said. "And Mrs. Harper wants us to have something ready before the week's out."

"Let Emily know if you see her before me, we need to put together a shortlist before lunch so we don´t waste time in the meeting."

Megan sighed dramatically. "Fine But if I get stuck writing about cafeteria menu changes, I´m blaming you."

"No promises, " I said.

Jake groaned. "You guys are actually doing work for this? I thought clubs were supposed to be fun."

Tom smirked. " Look at it this way—you are getting a a front-row seat to Richie slowly turning into a full-fledged journalist."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I´m sure this exactly how Pulitzer winners start."

Megan´s friends had started drifting back into their own conversation, losing interest, and the general buzz of the schoolyard signaled it was about time to start heading inside.

"Alright," I said. "Let's get this day over with before the hall monitors start acting like we're committing crimes just for standing in the wrong spot."

***

The library was quieter than usual by the time we headed to the club meeting, which wasn't surprising. Most students weren't exactly rushing to spend their free time here.

Megan and I got there first, grabbing a table near the back. Emily showed up a few minutes later, arms full of folders and loose sheets of paper that she dropped onto the table with the kind of force that suggested she had very little patience left for the day.

I glanced at the pile. "That all ours?"

Emily sighed. "This is everything from last year's Gazette. Layouts, headlines, scheduling notes—basically, what we're working with."

Megan leaned back in her chair, looking at the mess like it personally offended her. "This feels like way too much effort for a school paper."

Emily ignored her, flipping through a few pages. "We need to finalize the topics today. First issue goes out next week, and I'd rather not spend the entire weekend scrambling to put it together."

I nodded. "Alright, let's keep it simple. First paper of the year, we don't need to reinvent the wheel."

Megan perked up. "Good. Because I'm not writing anything about cafeteria food or student council meetings."

I smirked. "Don't worry, I wasn't going to assign you a deep dive into Sunnydale's parking lot policies."

Emily tapped a pen against the table. "We should start with what worked last year. Popular topics, recurring columns, that kind of thing."

I flipped open one of the older editions and scanned the headlines. Most of them were exactly what you'd expect—welcome messages from the principal, sports team updates, reminders about upcoming events.

Megan, who had absolutely no interest in any of that, stretched her arms over her head. "Alright, since I'm here against my better judgment, I call dibs on fashion. First issue of the year? We should do a what's in, what's out list."

I snorted. "What exactly is 'out' this year?"

She rolled her eyes. "Scrunchies, obviously. Low-rise jeans if you don't have the waist for them. And if I see anyone wearing socks with sandals, I'll personally write an exposé."

Emily scribbled something down. "Megan—fashion column. Got it."

Megan smirked. "Glad we're all in agreement."

I skimmed another paper, tapping my fingers against the edge. "I could do something on Sunnydale High Traditions. Maybe a breakdown of the first-week party thing and other weird school customs."

Emily nodded. "People like stuff like that. Helps fill space, too."

I raised a brow. "Glad to know I'm so useful."

Megan smirked. "Don't let it go to your head."

Emily glanced up. "We'll also need someone to cover Homecoming. Early predictions, what to expect—basic stuff."

Megan lifted a hand lazily. "I can do that. Fashion and Homecoming go hand in hand."

I looked at Emily. "You writing anything, or just making sure we don't ruin your layout?"

She didn't even hesitate. "I'll stick to making sure this thing actually looks readable."

"Fair enough."

We jotted down a few more ideas—student club highlights, a ranking of the best and worst school lunches, an updated list of who's who in the school scene. Nothing groundbreaking, but solid first-paper material.

Emily stacked her papers with practiced efficiency. "If we stick to this, we should be able to get everything finalized by Monday. Just send me drafts as soon as you have them."

Megan groaned. "Ugh, deadlines."

I smirked. "Welcome to journalism."

Emily finished jotting down a schedule and stood, gathering her things. "Meeting over?"

I glanced at the list of topics. "Yeah, I think we're set."

Megan stretched. "Great. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than talk about schoolwork."

She strolled off, flipping her hair for good measure.

Emily gave me a look. "If she misses a deadline, it's on you."

I grinned. "Noted."

She sighed, muttered something about why did I sign up for this, and left me at the table, staring at our notes.

First issue of the year.

Hopefully, nothing too weird happened before we could get it printed.

But in Sunnydale? That was asking for a miracle.