The Anchor

The guards dumped Elliott on the rain-slicked sidewalk three blocks away from the luxury high-rise.

"Stay here, human," the guard ordered, preparing to rush back into the building to fight. "The master gave us orders to ensure your survival."

Elliott sat on the wet concrete, shivering in his oversized cardigan. The night was cold. He was safe. He was entirely, mundanely human again. There was no magical possession, no terrifying vampire playboy looming over him, no impossible wealth or danger. He was just an awkward archivist with student debt.

It was exactly what he had wanted yesterday.

And it felt like absolute ashes in his mouth.

Elliott squeezed his eyes shut. His brilliant, logical mind raced. The possession was severed, yes. But he remembered the translation. He remembered the specific wording of the Sumerian text he had decoded in the Crimson Lounge.

* The soul bleeds to consume, unless the vessel offers the bridge. A willing anchor equalizes the tide.*

Cassian hadn't needed to sever the bond. The possession was happening because the magic viewed Elliott as a passive victim to be consumed. But if Elliott voluntarily offered his blood—if he willingly accepted the bond—it wouldn't be a possession. It would be a true, equal soul-binding.

Elliott scrambled to his feet. He pushed his glasses up his wet nose. He was not going to sit on the sidewalk and be a helpless victim. He was a researcher, and he had the solution.

He didn't wait for the guards. Elliott sprinted toward the high-rise. He slipped through a shattered side door in the lobby, bypassing the chaos, and threw himself into the service elevator, punching the button for the penthouse.

The doors dinged open on the top floor.

The penthouse was a war zone. Cassian’s guards were dead or incapacitated. Malakor stood over Cassian, his boot pressed against Cassian’s bleeding chest, the dark broadsword raised high for the decapitating strike.

Cassian looked up, accepting his fate, his eyes empty.

"Hey, ugly!" Elliott yelled from the elevator doors.

Malakor paused, turning his grotesque, scarred face toward the sound.

Cassian’s eyes snapped to Elliott, absolute terror washing over his dying features. "Elliott... no... run..."

Elliott didn't run. He sprinted across the ruined, glass-strewn floor. As he ran, he pulled the heavy, metal-cased mechanical pencil from his cardigan pocket. Without breaking stride, he slashed the sharp metal tip across his own palm.

A line of bright, crimson blood welled up instantly.

"What are you doing, you pathetic little blood-bag?" Malakor sneered, turning his sword toward Elliott.

Elliott slid to his knees on the slick floor right beside Cassian, ignoring the towering warlord. He slammed his bleeding hand directly onto Cassian's chest, right over the vampire's failing heart.

"I am Elliott Vance," Elliott shouted, his voice ringing with absolute, nerdy defiance. He stared directly into Cassian’s shocked, dimming eyes. "And I voluntarily accept this bond! I offer the bridge! I am your anchor!"

The universe stopped.

The blood from Elliott’s hand soaked into Cassian’s shirt. It didn't trigger a violent violet flash. It triggered an explosion of blinding, brilliant, warm gold.

The true soul-bond, balanced and willing, ignited.

Cassian gasped, his spine arching off the floor. The missing half of his immortal soul, supercharged by the willing, unconditional anchor of a mortal heart, rushed back into his body. His horrific wounds knitted themselves together in a fraction of a second. The lethargy of death vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, apocalyptic surge of pure, immortal power.

Malakor swung his broadsword down.

Cassian didn't even look. He simply raised his hand and caught the blade of the magical broadsword in his bare palm.

The steel shattered into a thousand pieces.

Malakor stumbled backward, his grotesque face twisting in horror as he realized the magnitude of the power radiating from the resurrected vampire lord.

Cassian stood up. He wasn't bleeding. He wasn't weak. He radiated a terrifying, god-like aura of golden and crimson energy. He looked down at Elliott, who was clutching his bleeding hand, looking up with wide, terrified eyes.

"You came back," Cassian whispered, a smile of devastating, absolute worship breaking across his flawless face.

"You owed me a translation," Elliott squeaked.

Cassian let out a dark, rich laugh. He turned his burning gaze to Malakor. The playboy was gone. The apex predator had returned, and his hoard had been threatened.

"You touched my soulmate," Cassian snarled, his voice a vibrating, demonic boom that shattered the remaining intact glass in the penthouse.

Cassian moved faster than light. He grabbed Malakor by the throat, lifted the massive warlord into the air, and with a single, brutal twist, tore his head completely off his shoulders.

The remaining assassins took one look at their decapitated leader, dropped their weapons, and fled into the night.

Cassian dropped the body. He turned back, the feral violence instantly melting away as he dropped to his knees in front of Elliott. He gently took Elliott’s bleeding hand, his glowing eyes softening into pools of profound, desperate love.

"You idiot," Cassian breathed, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to Elliott’s bleeding palm, sealing the wound instantly with his cool lips. "You brilliant, stubborn, magnificent idiot. You could have died."

"We established that logic isn't really factoring into this dynamic anymore," Elliott said, his voice shaking. He looked at the terrifying, beautiful monster kneeling before him. "The obsession... was it just the curse? Or..."

"The curse amplified it," Cassian interrupted softly, reaching up to gently wipe a smudge of dirt from Elliott’s cheek. "But it didn't create it. I am centuries old, Elliott. I have seen everything this world has to offer, and I was entirely bored with all of it. Until you told me to fill out a library form. I love you. Deeply. Obsessively. Willingly. The bond only made it permanent."

Elliott swallowed hard. His cynical armor, the walls he had built to protect his nerdy, lonely heart, completely crumbled. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Cassian’s chest.

"I'm going to need you to dial back the murder, though," Elliott mumbled into the ruined silk shirt. "I have a very low tolerance for gore."

Cassian wrapped his arms around the human, burying his face in Elliott’s messy hair, letting out a long, shaky sigh of absolute relief. "Anything you want, my little bird. Your word is my law."