That night, the thirst came. Not a craving—a command . She found herself standing over a deer in the woods, her teeth elongated without her willing it. She drank. And when the blood hit her stomach, her magic screamed .
Bonnie Bennett had died more times than any witch should. She’d faced hellfire, phantoms, and the crushing weight of a thousand dead souls. But this—this was different.
“I’m not a vampire,” she told Elena’s ghost. “I’m something else. Something this world hasn’t named.”
She was still a witch. But her magic now fed on blood, not nature.
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