Like every cliché horror movie ever made, that's when he opened his eyes.
And that—right there—was my cue to get the hell out of the cage.
I didn't scream. I yanked that door open, slipped through like a greased eel, slammed it shut behind me, and locked it up in record time. Not even Usain Bolt could've outrun that panic-fueled sprint.
Now standing on the outside of the cage, I bent over with my hands on my knees, heart trying to do the cha-cha inside my chest.
Salem appeared beside me, silent as death, curling around my ankles like he hadn't almost been trapped in there with Mr. Undead and Unclothed. He gave me a judgmental look like this was somehow my fault.
I glared down at him. "Don't. Even."
We both stared through the bars, waiting.
I was sure I'd seen it—his eyes. Not red, not glowing like Hollywood nonsense. No. They were the darkest brown I'd ever seen. Deep and ancient, like a bottomless well that knows things.
I counted slowly in my head. One... two... three...
I hit ten like a creep with nothing better to do and then—movement.
The vampire sat up.
His back was to me, broad and built like some Renaissance statue come to life. He rubbed the back of his neck like he'd just woken up from a nap and not, you know, literal undeath. Then he rolled his shoulders—and holy hell, those muscles.
I mean—damn. Who gave him permission?
Slowly, with terrifying ease, he stepped out of the coffin.
Still naked. Still not caring. Still... so very naked.
Nice butt, my brain whispered.
"NO," I whispered back to myself. "Don't even think about it."
He tested his legs, like a newborn fawn. A terrifying, sexy, blood-drinking fawn. Then he turned around.
Yep. Still got that stake in his chest. Still very undead. Still wearing that wicked smile like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And then?
The room got cold. Freezer-door-left-open-in-a-snowstorm cold. The kind of cold that creeps under your skin and whispers, Run.
The air leaked out of the cage, seeping toward me. Every instinct in my body screamed nope nope nope.
Then he grinned wider, fangs glinting.
"Boo," he said in a low, taunting snarl.
That was it. I was gone.
Up the stairs like I was possessed, skipping two at a time, not looking back. I'm not one of those dumbasses who waits around to be eaten—I was OUT.
The cat? He'll survive. He probably speaks vampire anyway.
I slammed the basement door behind me with a bang, chest heaving, cold sweat dripping, pulse a full drumline in my ears.
What. The actual. Hell.
"You look stupid," said an amused voice behind me.
I jumped—screamed, actually—and whipped around so fast I nearly tripped over the rug.
There was no one. No one. Just me... and my bathroom sink... and my cat.
Salem.
Who was currently sitting very smugly on the edge of the tub, licking his paw like he hadn't just delivered a verbal roast from the beyond.
My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
"Who—who said that?" I asked the air, backing up like the mirror might suddenly develop vocal cords.
No response. No ghosts. No hidden demons.
Just... Salem.
I narrowed my eyes. "Where did you come from?"
Salem glanced up, completely unfazed. "You're asking me? When you left me down there with Mister Bitey-McFangs?"
I screamed.
Like, full-throated horror movie heroine scream.
My cat talked. My CAT just talked to me.
"Shut it, woman. You're hurting my ears," the voice continued—calm, lazy, like this was just another Tuesday.
I backed into the door, hand clutching my necklace, eyes wide like a cartoon character two seconds before the breakdown. "I've lost it. I've officially lost my damn mind."
The cat yawned. "Honestly, the signs were all there."
He gave himself one last lick, then looked up at me with his weirdly human-like black eyes.
"Why do women always scream?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "Is it a ritual? Is it hormonal?"
Then I immediately clamped both hands over my mouth like that would stop the world from collapsing in on itself.
"My—you—you just TALKED. You TALKED. My cat just TALKED to me!"
I gaped at him. "You're… you're talking. Cats aren't supposed to talk!"
"Dogs aren't supposed to eat their own poop, but here we are. The world is full of surprises, love."
I blinked. Hard. "How are you—what are you?"
"Rude," he said, stretching with a casual flick of his tail. "I was going to explain everything, but now I'm thinking I'll let you spiral a little longer. It's more entertaining."
I looked at my cat like a ghost.
"I've always been able to talk," Salem replied lazily, as if this were not the most reality-breaking moment of my entire life. "You just never shut up long enough to notice."
"Shut it—shut your whiskered face right now—"
I paced the room in small, frantic circles, muttering a series of increasingly unhinged statements to myself:
"I brought a vampire back to life. I accidentally caged myself in with him. He's naked. I may or may not have checked out his butt. Now my cat talks. Yep. Definitely having a psychotic break."
"Not psychotic," Salem yawned, stretching like he wasn't blowing my entire understanding of the universe to pieces. "Just magically overdue. You're finally unlocking things."
"I don't need to unlock you, I need therapy!"
I slid down the wall until I hit the kitchen tiles, legs sprawled out, palms on my forehead.
"I can't handle this," I mumbled.
Salem padded over and hopped into my lap like he didn't just upend my entire belief system.
"You're going to have to handle it," Salem said, curling into a purring loaf on my lap like this was his therapy session, not mine. "Because Vampire Naked downstairs? Yeah… I think he's awake. And I think he doesn't like your pretty little cage."
I stared at him.
No. Nope. No way.
"Did… did digging up vampire graves come with hallucinations?" I asked the air, my knees, the ceiling—whoever the hell was listening. "Because I think I'm experiencing one. Yup. Full-blown hallucination."
Salem purred louder. Smugly.
"I need a fucking drink," I muttered, lifting him off my lap and stumbling to the kitchen like a drunk raccoon breaking into someone's trash.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he called after me.
"My cat isn't talking," I chanted under my breath like a protection spell. "My cat isn't talking. My cat isn't fucking talking."
I yanked open the fridge door. The cold air hit my face like a slap. I grabbed the first thing that looked alcoholic—beer, thank the gods—and twisted it open with shaking fingers. Half-walked, half-staggered to the couch. Sat down. Chugged.
"It's just the effect of the magic," I mumbled to myself between gulps. "Just… residual spell backlash. Maybe psychic residue. Maybe I opened a brain portal. Who the hell knows."
The cold beer numbed my tongue. The room tilted a little. Salem jumped onto the back of the couch behind me, his tail flicking over my head like punctuation.
I ignored him.
Just one more sip.
Just close your eyes for a second.
Just—
Darkness.
Total, blessed, beautiful nothingness.
The exhaustion of the night, the adrenaline crash, the spellwork, the grave-digging workout, the beer—it all finally caught up to me like a sucker-punch from the universe.
I passed out right there on the couch, legs hanging off one side, beer bottle still in hand, vampire in the basement, and a talking cat who was now snoring gently on my shoulder.