Mystic Falls smelled like gunpowder, damp oak, and the cloying, metallic scent of predators trying very hard to pretend they were the ones at the top of the food chain.
I leaned against my vintage black motorcycle a gift to myself for surviving my "training" years and adjusted the sleeves of my dark leather jacket. My reflection in the rearview mirror was unfamiliar yet right: black hair, messy and thick, contrasting with eyes that were a piercing, glacial blue. I looked like a boy designed to be a prize, but the way I carried myself suggested I was the one holding the trophy.
My hands were wrapped in fresh gauze. My "father" a man who spent more time cleaning silver-tipped bolts than checking my homework called it a rite of passage. I called it a messy Tuesday with a rogue vampire in the Appalachian foothills.
"Mystic Falls High," I murmured, watching the students scurry toward the entrance.
I strolled into the hallway just as the bell rang. I didn't rush. Hunters don't rush; we arrive exactly when the prey is most vulnerable.
As I walked, I felt it. The shift in the atmosphere. The "predators" in the building—the ones with the century-old secrets and the ring-enhanced sun-walking—stiffened. I could feel their gazes locking onto the back of my neck. To them, I probably smelled like the finest vintage they'd ever encountered. A "universal singer." A siren call in a leather jacket.
I smirked. Let them come.
I walked into History class, sliding into an empty seat near the back. Two rows down, a girl with long brown hair and a look of permanent concern Elena Gilbert was whispering to a blonde girl who looked like she'd already planned her own funeral arrangements for the sake of aesthetic.
And then there was him. Stefan Salvatore.
He was stiff, his back a rigid line of suppressed instinct. He didn't turn around, but I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped his pen.
As every hunter would, I gathered information about the prey I'll be hunting.
"Mr. Thorne, I presume?" the teacher, a man who looked like he'd seen a few ghosts himself, asked. "Alaric Saltzman. You're late."
"The road had other plans, Mr. Saltzman," I said, popping the 'p.' My voice was smooth, carrying that edge of casual amusement that usually made people either want to kiss me or run for their lives. "But I'm here now. Ready to learn about... what are we on? The Civil War? Fascinating how much blood people are willing to spill over a patch of dirt."
Alaric gave me a long, searching look. He was a hunter, too or trying to be. He smelled like vervain and desperation. I gave him a wink.
After class, I didn't wait to be approached. I headed for the parking lot, but a blur of movement stopped me behind the gymnasium.
Stefan Salvatore stood there, his expression a mask of "tortured hero" that I found instantly exhausting.
"You," Stefan said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "What are you? Your blood... it's not right."
I leaned back against the brick wall, crossing my arms. I didn't flinch. I didn't even reach for the silver-etched stakes hidden in my tactical boots. I just smiled a slow, creeping grin that reached my eyes but offered no warmth.
"You're Stefan, right? The 'good' brother?" I chuckled, the sound sharp and humorless. "You've got that look, Stefan. The one where you're constantly apologizing for existing. It's a bit much, don't you think?"
Stefan took a step forward, his eyes darkening to a hungry amber. "I asked you a question. You don't smell human. But your heart... it's beating. Loudly."
"It's called adrenaline, Stef. You should try it sometime without the existential crisis," I teased, tilting my head. "And as for what I am? I'm the thing your ancestors used to tell stories about to keep you from getting too cocky."
I took a deliberate step into his personal space. I was shorter than the average vampire, but in that moment, the air around us turned glacial.
"I know what you are," I whispered, my voice dropping to a lethal silkiness. "I know about the 'diet,' the guilt, and the girl you're stalking to make yourself feel alive again. But here's a tip from the new guy: Don't test me. Because while you're busy worrying about your soul, I'm busy worrying about how many pieces I can cut you into before you stop healing."
Stefan bared his teeth, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest.
I just widened my grin, my blue eyes flashing with a predatory light that made him hesitate.
"Venari incipit, Stefan," I murmured. "The hunt begins. Try to stay interesting."
I walked past him, my shoulder brushing his, and didn't look back. I had a town to map, a coven to track, and a whole lot of monsters to remind why they were afraid of the dark.