Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            Hopefully, I remember how to.

            I kneel in front of Max, ignoring his nauseating, fear-drenched heartbeat, the way he hisses at me to get away. “Dude, I’m trying to help you avoid an iron chair, or however it is that your people extract information, so—”

            Something wet lands on the front of my tank top.

            Because Max spit on me.

            “Ew.” I gasp, disgusted, but before I can—I don’t know, spit back?—Lowe’s hand presses against Max’s chest and pins him to the couch.

            “What the fuck did you just do?” he grunts.

            “She’s a Vampyre!”

            “She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”

            “Sorry. Sorry. Please don’t— I’m sorry.” Max starts sobbing.

            Lowe turns to me. “Do you accept?”

            “Accept . . . the spit?”

            “His apology.”

            “Oh.” Oh my God. What is happening? “Sure, why not? It was so . . . sincere and spontaneous. Just, hold his head still, and don’t let him move—yes, hands on the chin. Okay, this will take a second, don’t let him wiggle away.”

            I start with my thumb at the base of Max’s nose, and my index and forefingers on his forehead. Then I wait for Max to calm down and meet my eyes.

            At the fourth attempt, I get a lock. Max’s brain is soft, and overagitated, and easy to sink into. I stitch his mind to mine and then scramble it a little—a temporary interference. I don’t stop until I’m extra sure that my hold on him is tight, and when I pull back, his body relaxes at once, pupils suddenly blown wider. Behind me, I hear some murmurs and a soft “What the fuck?” but it’s easy to push it out, just as easy as it is to let my eyes do what they’re supposed to.

            For the thrall.

            Humans say that we have magical mind-control powers. That our souls can body-snatch theirs and tie them up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Much like everything else, though, it’s simple biology. An additional intraocular muscle that allows us to shift our eyes at high speed and induce a hypnotic state. Vampyres who are talented thrallers, like my father, can do it without touching their victim at all, and much more quickly. But they are rare, and for the mediocre ones like me, who need someone to be restrained to initiate a thrall, it can be an unwieldy practice.

            There are some caveats, too. The thrall only works on other species, and not every brain is equally responsive. And, of course, entering people’s minds without consent is an act of violence, and deeply unethical. Just because we can, it doesn’t mean that we should. But Max did try to hurt Ana, and he might do it again. Plus, my morals are just not that solid.

            “Okay.” I lean back, vigorously rubbing my eyes. The thrall requires a lot of energy. “He’s all yours.”

            Everyone stares at me open-mouthed. And my mind might be playing tricks, but I’m almost positive that they’ve all taken a step back from me.

            Except for Lowe, who’s almost too close.

            “You guys might wanna hurry. This will only last ten minutes or so.” I point at Max’s state of unresponsive stupor. “He won’t just word-salad his life story at you. You need to go ahead and ask him questions.” No one speaks. Did I accidentally thrall them, too? “Something like, ‘Why were you trying to take Ana, Max?’ ”

            “I was tasked to take her to the Loyals, where she could be used as leverage, to force Lowe to step down as Alpha,” he recites tonelessly.

            The room explodes in a flurry of panicky, suspicious mutters that have nothing to do with Max’s answer. In fact, I’m pretty sure I catch a “Microwaved his brain.”

            “The thrall,” Lowe murmurs.

            “Yup. That’s it. No deep-frying involved.” I stand and grimace at the spit on my shirt. It’s starting to seep through—gross.

            “I thought it was a myth,” Cal whispers. “That our elders used to scare us.”