Sebastian Ivashkov scrambled around the corner, puffs of white escaping his lips as the cold air washed over him. He was panting heavily, eyes wild as he searched for someplace—anyplace for him to seek sanctuary. Where the hell was a church when a guy needed one? Or his box. Where was his box.
He knew that the Strigoi chasing him was just playing games, now. If the monster had wanted to, he could’ve snapped the Moroi’s neck in seconds. Sebastian was tripping over himself, trying to run away, and trying not to pass out from the exertion.
And then, he ran into a cold hard figure. He stumbled back, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. Looking up, he met the hard red eyes of his torturer. A hand clenched in his shirt, lifting him to his feet. Trying to recall what he could of his magic, he tried to summon enough air to blast the Strigoi off of him. The only happening was a small ruffle in the breeze—and that was questionable if it was caused by him or not.
Feeling his body slammed hard against the alley wall, a loud groan spilled from his lips, stars flashing in front of his vision. “Son of a—” he hissed out, before feeling fangs sink into the skin of his neck. The hiss turned into a scream as the pain burst through him for that split moment.