Chapter 1: The Man Behind the Music
Boston, 2026.
Fog hung low over the Charles River like a silken curtain veiling a performance no one was meant to see. The streetlights cast long golden fingers across the brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill, flickering like candle flames in the mist. The city felt quieter than usual—held in suspense. Reyna Throne, a sharp-eyed journalist with a reputation for chasing phantoms and legends, leaned against the iron railing near Louisburg Square, notebook in hand, eyes wide with purpose.
She wasn't here for a politician's scandal or a celebrity affair. No, tonight was about someone—or something—far less tangible. A whisper. A shadow. A myth.
Cassian Dray.
A name etched into the whispers of Boston's musical elite. A pianist said to play once a decade, at venues so obscure they vanished after the performance. Reyna had pieced together clues from blogs, vintage flyers, deep web forums, and a woman named Lucia who swore she saw a man playing Chopin in a storm-soaked alleyway... in 1996.
Every story spoke of the same thing—an impossibly beautiful man at a grand piano, conjuring music so profound it made you weep. A man who hadn't aged in over three centuries.
And tonight, Reyna had finally found him.
The Allegro Theater was an abandoned concert hall tucked between a glass skyscraper and a forgotten brownstone. Its marquee was long-dead, its ticket booth shattered, vines crawling up the façade like nature trying to reclaim it. But beneath its decayed elegance, the door was ajar—and a note taped to the window read: Midnight Sonata, one night only.
Reyna's heart thudded.
She stepped through the door.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and time. Candles lit the stage in warm pools of amber light, arranged in careful symmetry. The theater seats were faded red velvet, worn and cracked. Every sound—her breath, the click of her boots—echoed.
Then the lights dimmed further.
And he appeared.
Cassian Dray.
He walked across the stage like smoke—tall, lean, wrapped in a black coat that shimmered like oil in candlelight. His skin was pale, sculpted like alabaster. His jet-black hair swept behind his ears, revealing cheekbones sharp enough to wound. But it was his eyes that caught her breath—eyes like old ink and blood-stained parchment. Timeless.
He sat at the Steinway.
And played.
The first note struck like a heartbeat. The second—like a secret unfolding. His hands danced across the keys, not merely performing but speaking, confessing, haunting. Reyna forgot to breathe. The music was not of this world. It felt like drowning in memory. Like being seen by someone who knew every version of you—past, present, and future.
Tears slipped down her cheeks without warning.
When it ended, the silence was complete.
No applause. No movement. Just Cassian rising, bowing once, and vanishing into the shadows backstage.
Reyna stood rooted to the floor.
She had just witnessed something no camera could capture, no article could explain. But her instincts—the ones that never failed her—screamed: follow him.
Outside, the fog had thickened. A few others had gathered—hipsters, musicians, eccentrics drawn by rumors—but Reyna was the first to leave the theater. She cut down a quiet alley, scribbling in her notebook, replaying every note, every flicker of candlelight. But as she rounded the corner, she heard it—
A shuffle.
A man, greasy and broad, stepped from the shadows. He reeked of liquor and desperation.
"Hey, pretty thing," he slurred. "That music got you all soft? Lemme walk you home."
Reyna tensed and stepped back, but he grabbed her wrist.
"I said—"
He didn't finish his sentence.
In a flash of motion—so fast she didn't even see him arrive—Cassian was there. One hand gripped the man's shoulder. The other, his throat. The mugger gasped, kicked, but didn't break free.
Cassian's voice was like velvet soaked in menace. "Let her go."
He did. And ran.
Reyna stood frozen.
Cassian turned to her, eyes glowing faintly crimson. Not just with anger—but hunger.
"You shouldn't walk alone in this city," he said softly, as if scolding the wind.
She swallowed. "You—how did you…?"
But he was already turning away.
"Wait!" she called. "You saved me. I should thank you. Maybe even… interview you."
His smile was faint. Melancholic.
"I don't do interviews."
"But you exist. You're real."
He paused. "You've been following me."
She flushed. "Researching."
Cassian studied her with ancient, unreadable eyes. "Curiosity is dangerous."
"So is living," she countered.
That made him laugh. Quiet. Sad.
Then he walked away, disappearing into the fog.
Reyna stood in the silence, her heart racing. She clutched her notebook. Her hands trembled—but it wasn't fear.
It was exhilaration.
She'd found him.
And this story was just beginning.
Chapter 2: The Phantom's Trail
The morning after the performance felt unreal.
Reyna stared at her reflection in the mirror of her small North End apartment, mascara smudged, eyes wide with exhaustion and wonder. Had it really happened? Had she seen him? Had he really saved her? She'd written down everything she could remember—every detail of the performance, every flick of his wrist on the piano, every syllable of his voice as he whispered danger and disappeared.
The tape recorder in her bag had failed. No audio. No video. Just static and the soft click of the recorder shutting off.
But that didn't matter.
She had seen him. She had felt him.
And more than anything, she needed to know who Cassian Dray really was.
By noon, Reyna had turned her kitchen into a war room. Newspaper clippings, online printouts, and grainy screenshots were taped across the walls. Candles from the night before still burned faintly in her mind, but now they were replaced with fire of a different kind—obsession.
Cassian's name popped up sparingly across music history records. A 1930s review from a Paris salon concert. A single black-and-white photo from the 1800s that bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Mentions in obscure vampire folklore sites—of a pianist whose music could stir the dead, whose appearance never changed.
The deeper she dug, the stranger it became.
There was no birth certificate. No tax records. No performance contracts. His trail was like footprints in snow—appearing for a moment, then vanishing entirely.
Reyna took a breath and closed her laptop. She needed something real. Something now. Maybe the old concert hall held more secrets.
The Allegro Theater was already boarded back up by the time she returned.
Not locked. Sealed. As if it had never opened.
The marquee was bare. The note on the window—gone.
She glanced around. No pedestrians. No signs of last night's small crowd. It was like the performance had been a dream only she remembered. A feverish hallucination conjured by candlelight and piano keys.
But there was something.
Near the steps, tucked beneath a broken tile, she spotted a small piece of folded parchment. She knelt and pulled it free.
The ink was faded, written in elegant script.
"For those who seek beauty in sorrow, beware—some music was never meant to be heard twice."—C.D.
Her heart pounded. She turned it over. Nothing.
But she knew it was from him.
Cassian.
Back at her apartment, Reyna dropped the note beside her keyboard and slumped into her chair. Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor.
Grant: Still working on that "vampire pianist" angle?Grant: Reyna. Babe. You're so much better than conspiracy TikTok bait.Grant: We need a story I can pitch to the Globe, not a cryptid.
She rolled her eyes. She typed a single response.
Reyna: I've seen him.
Three dots blinked. Then nothing.
Typical.
That night, she dreamed.
Of music.
But it wasn't Cassian's piano—it was her own heartbeat, pounding like a drum. She stood in the Allegro Theater again, this time alone on the stage. The seats were full—but the people had no faces. Just shadows. In the front row sat a woman with eyes like hers, older, regal, with silver strands in her raven-black hair. The woman opened her mouth.
"You are not ready," she said. Her voice echoed like thunder under water. "But you will be. He will come again."
Reyna jolted awake in a cold sweat.
The clock read 3:33 AM.
And someone was watching her.
She whipped her head to the window.
Nothing. Only fog.
She rose, slowly, and opened it. Cool air drifted in. The street below was quiet. A cat darted between garbage bins. Her breath clouded as she leaned out and peered down both ends of the street.
Then she heard it.
A single note.
Piano. Low. Melancholy. Faint.
Coming from somewhere below. Her heart skipped.
She grabbed her coat, keys, phone, and bolted down the stairs.
The sound led her to an alley three blocks from her building. An old church with a rusted bell tower stood at the end, its windows black with grime. The melody—delicate and haunting—seeped through the cracks like mist. The doors were unlocked.
Inside, the sanctuary was empty.
But the music still played.
She followed it down a side corridor, deeper, beneath the pulpit, into a storage basement lit by a single flickering bulb. Dust covered everything—except the grand piano in the center of the room.
It was beautiful. Immaculate. Out of place.
And Cassian was there.
Sitting at the keys.
He didn't stop playing when she entered. His eyes remained closed, lost in whatever sorrow he was pulling through the keys. It wasn't until the final note echoed and dissolved into the air that he finally spoke.
"I thought I told you curiosity is dangerous."
Reyna's voice trembled. "Then why do you keep leading me to you?"
His eyes opened. Dark. Intense. Unapologetically old.
"I don't. You're doing that all on your own."
They stared at each other. Something flickered in his gaze. Not annoyance. Not malice.
Recognition.
"Why are you watching me?" she asked.
He rose from the piano slowly, the candlelight casting long shadows across his cheekbones. "Because you are not what you think you are."
Reyna swallowed. "You mean a journalist?"
"I mean… human."
Chapter 3: Of Monsters and Music Boxes
The words echoed inside Reyna like a tuning fork struck to her chest.
"You are not what you think you are."
She stared at Cassian, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and defiance. "What the hell does that mean?"
Cassian's face remained calm—almost too calm. Like someone who had seen wars, plagues, revolutions, and heartbreaks that left cities in ashes. "It means you should go home. Before I tell you more than you're ready to understand."
Reyna stepped closer, unwilling to be dismissed. "You saved me. Twice. You've played music that's haunted me since I left that theater. And now you're stalking my window and leading me into cryptic basements. Don't pretend this isn't deliberate."
"I don't stalk," he replied coolly. "I… monitor. There's a difference."
"Oh, I'm so comforted," she snapped. "You know what I think? You knew I'd be there that night. You wanted me to see you. To write about you."
Cassian's expression darkened like a storm cloud forming behind his eyes. "I don't care for publicity."
"No. But you do care about me," Reyna said, her voice quieter now. "Don't you?"
For the first time, Cassian faltered. His gaze flickered, just for a second, like an old memory cracked through his defenses.
Then he turned from her, walking back to the piano.
"You look like someone I once knew," he said softly.
Reyna blinked. "Someone who died?"
Cassian didn't answer.
She stayed as he played again. A new song. It started sweet—a lullaby. Then it curved into something tragic, aching, like the last light of dusk before winter swallowed the sun. She sat down across from him on a dusty velvet chair, pulling her knees to her chest. For ten full minutes, they said nothing.
When the last note faded, Cassian rested his fingers on the keys like they were bones he'd rather not disturb again.
"I don't write music," he murmured. "I remember it."
Reyna tilted her head. "From where?"
He looked up. "Everywhere. Vienna. Kraków. Alexandria. New Orleans. And now… here."
She hesitated. "You're really that old, aren't you?"
Cassian let out a breath. "Three hundred years, give or take a decade."
"And you're a vampire."
He didn't blink.
"I should be more freaked out," she admitted.
"You're not."
"I'm not."
A silence settled between them. One of understanding. One of impossible truths blooming in impossible places.
Reyna eventually stood. "I have questions."
"I'm sure."
"Why me?"
Cassian rose too, circling around the piano. "Because you're… different. You see what others overlook. You hear what others silence."
"That's not a reason."
His eyes found hers again. This time, they weren't cold. They burned with the intensity of a man who'd lived too long and trusted too little.
"You're drawn to me," he said. "The same way I'm drawn to you. But that isn't just attraction, Reyna. It's blood."
She froze. "Excuse me?"
"There's a lineage in you. Old. Powerful. Unawakened. It pulls on me like gravity."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your family," he said. "They were vampire hunters."
Reyna blinked. Laughed—just once. "Okay. Now I am freaked out."
"You should be."
"I don't—my parents are accountants. My grandmother died when I was fifteen. She knitted and drank black tea. I don't come from some secret society of Van Helsings."
"No," Cassian said, stepping closer. "But you come from something much older than them. And it's starting to wake up."
She stared at him, heart pounding.
"Wake up?" she repeated.
"You've felt it. Haven't you? The instincts. The dreams. The cold in your spine when you're near me."
Reyna felt herself shiver.
He wasn't wrong.
She had felt something—something unexplainable—since the moment she first saw him. Since that first note. A part of her mind tugging toward him. Wanting to know him. Wanting… more.
"You're lying," she whispered.
"I don't lie," Cassian said. "Not to people I care about."
The words dropped between them like a match into dry grass. Reyna felt the heat crawl up her throat, but she wasn't sure if it was anger, fear, or something worse: desire.
Before she could speak again, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked it.
Unknown Number: Stop digging. You don't know what he is.
She looked up sharply. "Did you send this?"
Cassian was already looking toward the window, his eyes narrowing.
"No," he said. "But someone's watching you. And not just me."
They left the church through the back alley, Cassian moving quickly and silently like a wraith. Reyna followed, trying not to let her nerves spiral. Who else knew about him? About her?
"Was that a threat?" she asked.
"Possibly," he replied. "Or a warning."
"From who?"
Cassian didn't answer. But his jaw tensed.
They reached the street, the amber glow of Boston's lamps casting shadows on cobblestone. Then Reyna froze.
Across the street, standing perfectly still beneath a lamppost, was a tall man in a trench coat.
Pale. Elegant. Eyes locked on them.
He raised a gloved hand.
And smiled.
Cassian's body moved in front of her instinctively. "Don't move."
"Who is he?" Reyna whispered.
"A ghost," Cassian said. "One of many."
The man tilted his head. Then, without a word, he vanished into the mist.
Reyna's heart thundered. "What the hell was that?"
"An echo from your bloodline," Cassian said. "They're coming. You're waking up. And they can smell it."
Chapter 4: Ghosts in the Blood
They walked in silence.
The kind of silence that vibrated—not empty, but full of questions too dangerous to speak aloud. The fog had settled deeper over Boston's streets, veiling their path in damp uncertainty. Reyna stuck close to Cassian's side, her thoughts spiraling with every step.
Cassian finally stopped outside a wrought-iron gate enclosing an old townhouse on Revere Street. The building was tall, narrow, with ivy climbing up cracked brick walls and black shutters drawn over every window. It looked like the kind of house where time had folded in on itself and never left.
"This is where I stay," he said, pushing the gate open with a creak.
"You live here?"
"I keep my things here," he corrected. "Living is… generous."
Reyna hesitated at the threshold. Something about the house felt familiar, like a scent from childhood she couldn't place. Her hand brushed the iron gate. It was freezing cold.
Cassian turned back. "There's protection in the walls. Wards. Symbols. Most wouldn't notice."
She followed him inside.
The interior was even more haunting.
Dimly lit by antique sconces, the foyer opened into a parlor filled with relics: oil paintings of long-dead cities, stacks of first-edition books, a violin on a stand, and several music boxes—each ornate, delicate, and dustless. But the centerpiece of the room was the black grand piano, its surface gleaming under candlelight like obsidian.
Reyna moved toward it slowly. "You… play in here?"
"When the city sleeps," Cassian replied.
She ran her fingers lightly over the piano's edge, then looked up. "That man from earlier. The one in the coat. You said he's an echo?"
Cassian nodded. "That was Jean-Pierre Polnareff."
"Wait—the French vampire hunter?" Reyna asked, brow furrowing. "That's a real person? I saw that name in one of my vampire folklore articles."
Cassian gave a faint, knowing smile. "He's not just folklore. He and Edwardo Polnareff—his husband—are descendants of a very old line. Yours."
Reyna's blood chilled.
"I don't have cousins in France."
"Not cousins. Not exactly. They're from a fractured branch of your family tree. One that never stopped hunting. They've been watching since the night you entered the Allegro Theater."
Reyna sank onto a velvet chaise, hand to her temple. "This is too much. I'm not a vampire hunter."
"No. But your blood remembers. That's enough."
She looked up sharply. "What does that even mean—my blood remembers?"
Cassian didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked over to one of the music boxes and opened the lid. A soft lullaby spilled out, the notes dancing through the air like drifting snowflakes.
"That song," Reyna whispered, eyes widening. "I've heard it before. My grandmother used to hum it when I was a kid."
Cassian nodded solemnly. "She knew."
Reyna stood. "You knew her?"
"I knew of her," he said. "She left the Order long ago. Hid her bloodline. Changed her name. But she carried the memories. Passed fragments of them to you."
Reyna's hands were shaking now. "My whole life I thought she was just… this quiet, sweet old lady who drank tea and watched crime dramas."
"She was also one of the last to willingly walk away from the hunt," Cassian said. "Because she fell in love. And paid the price."
Reyna froze. "With a vampire?"
Cassian's silence was answer enough.
The fire crackled in the hearth behind her, the only sound in the room as Reyna stared into it, trying to reorder her understanding of the world. Vampires were real. Hunters existed. And somewhere inside her—maybe in her blood, maybe deeper—was a connection to all of it.
And to him.
"You said they've been watching me," she murmured. "Why? What do they want?"
"Some want to kill you," Cassian said calmly. "Others want to use you. If they believe you're waking up..."
"I'm what? A threat?"
"Or a key."
Reyna's breath caught. "A key to what?"
Cassian turned back toward the window, looking out into the dark. "To something much older. Something your ancestors were meant to protect the world from. Something that was once your blood's creator—and its destroyer."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "The Original."
He nodded once.
Reyna felt her chest tighten. "But if the vampire hunters were created to destroy vampires… and they came from the first vampire… then—"
Cassian turned back to her, his eyes unreadable. "Then it means the first vampire wanted to undo his own creation. And he created a bloodline strong enough to do it."
She sat heavily on the edge of the chaise.
"And now I'm part of that legacy," she muttered.
"Yes."
"What happens if I just… ignore it?"
Cassian's jaw flexed.
"You won't," he said.
She looked up at him. "Why not?"
"Because your dreams will get worse. Your senses sharper. Your body will begin to change. You'll start noticing things other people can't. And eventually, your bloodline will call to the others—those who serve the first vampire."
Reyna felt sick.
"I never asked for any of this," she whispered.
"No one does," he said gently.
Reyna looked at him, really looked at him. There was sadness in his eyes—deep, patient sorrow—but there was something else too. Longing. Regret. Affection he hadn't yet dared name.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked.
Cassian stepped closer, slowly, until he stood right in front of her. "Because if you fall into their hands… they'll turn you into something worse than me."
She blinked. "And what are you?"
He gave her the faintest smile. "A mistake."
Suddenly, the candles in the room flickered.
Cassian's posture stiffened. "They're here."
"Who?"
He was already moving. "Not the Polnareffs. Something else. Stay here."
Reyna grabbed his arm. "No. I'm done hiding."
He looked at her with something close to awe. "Your grandmother would've said the same thing."
Then the front door blew open with a bang.
And the house was no longer theirs alone.
Chapter 5: House of Broken Shadows
The front door cracked against the wall like a thunderclap, splintering the silence with a force that felt otherworldly. Reyna instinctively ducked behind Cassian, heart hammering against her ribs. Wind funneled into the old townhouse, scattering loose sheet music and extinguishing three of the six candles lining the walls.
Cassian didn't flinch.
Instead, his body shifted into something less human and more... poised. Predatory. He didn't bare fangs or grow claws—he didn't have to. The change was in the stillness of his breath, the narrowing of his eyes, the unnatural quiet of a man who had survived centuries by sensing the moment before death came for him.
"Stay behind me," he said without turning.
"I'm not helpless," Reyna shot back, gripping a brass fireplace poker she'd snatched without thinking.
Cassian smirked despite the tension. "You're holding it backwards."
She flushed and corrected her grip.
From the open door came the unmistakable sound of feet—no, hooves—clacking against hardwood. Slow. Deliberate. Echoing.
Then a figure emerged through the archway.
Tall. Slender. Dressed in black robes that shimmered like oil slicks. Its face was hidden beneath a deer skull, horns curling outward, eyes like burning coals beneath bone. It didn't walk so much as glide.
Reyna stepped back. "What the hell is that?"
Cassian's tone dropped to glacial. "A Memory Warden."
The creature paused as if acknowledging its name. Then it cocked its head toward Reyna.
Cassian moved in front of her immediately.
"They're watchers," he explained, voice tight. "Sent by those who serve the First. They monitor bloodlines. Report awakenings."
"Awakenings—meaning me?"
"Yes."
The Warden didn't speak, but Reyna could feel it inside her mind like smoke curling under a door—testing thoughts, rifling through memories.
She gasped. "It's—inside my head!"
Cassian raised one hand. His fingers curled into a sharp gesture, and with a flick, the candles reignited all at once in a blast of heat.
The Warden recoiled with a hiss.
"Out," Cassian snarled.
The Warden took a step back, still silent. Then it raised one skeletal hand and pointed directly at Reyna. It tapped two fingers against its own temple, then slowly drew a line down over its chest—like marking a target.
Then it vanished into black mist.
The front door slammed shut on its own.
Reyna dropped the fireplace poker with a clang.
"What the fuck was that?!"
Cassian turned to her, gaze serious. "A message. You've officially been noticed."
"I didn't sign up for this!"
"I know."
She shook her head, pacing. "Okay. No. I'm sorry. This is too much. Memory Warden? Bloodlines? Vampire hunting Frenchmen who wear designer scarves and probably carry matching daggers? This is absurd."
"It's your reality now," Cassian said. "And you need to decide if you're going to face it or run from it."
Reyna opened her mouth—but no words came out. Instead, she walked toward the music box Cassian had played earlier, the one that had held her grandmother's lullaby. She touched it gently.
"Did my grandmother ever see one of those things?"
"She saw worse."
A beat of silence passed.
Then Reyna asked, "How long do I have?"
Cassian tilted his head. "Until the next one shows up?"
"No. Until I stop being normal."
Cassian's eyes softened.
"You're already changing," he said. "But the real shift won't happen until your instincts activate fully. Until your blood recognizes what it was bred to do."
Reyna looked at him. "And what is that?"
Cassian paused.
"To kill things like me."
Upstairs, Cassian led her to a library filled with ancient tomes and handwritten scrolls. The air smelled like parchment, cedar, and something metallic—faint, but ever-present. He pulled a thick leather-bound book from a shelf and handed it to her.
The cover read:
Throne Lineage — Wardens of the Veil
Her name. Her family.
Inside were diagrams, handwritten notations, and drawings of strange weapons—daggers that pulsed with light, relics carved with runes, and herbs Reyna only recognized from overpriced witchy shops on Instagram.
"These were yours?" she asked.
"They were your ancestors'. Passed down through your line. Hidden. Buried after your grandmother turned away from the Order."
Reyna traced a sigil on the page with her finger. "What happens if I choose not to awaken?"
Cassian looked at her with quiet regret. "They'll kill you anyway."
As night crept toward morning, Reyna sat by the fire, a mug of tea growing cold in her hands. Cassian stood at the window, watching the fog roll in again. Neither of them spoke.
Until she asked, "Were you ever… human?"
Cassian didn't look away from the window.
"I was," he said. "Once. A long time ago. I had a name, a brother, a home. Music. A future. Then I met someone who offered me eternity."
"Did you take it willingly?"
"I thought I was dying," he said quietly. "The choice didn't feel like a gift then."
Reyna looked into the flames. "Would you undo it?"
He turned then, facing her fully.
"If it meant you'd be safe? Yes."
A long silence passed.
Then Reyna asked the one question she hadn't dared yet.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Cassian crossed the room and crouched before her. Slowly. Intentionally. He reached up, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"I think," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I've already done too much to let you die."
Chapter 6: Echoes Beneath the Skin
It wasn't the first time Reyna had fallen asleep in someone else's house. But it was the first time she'd done so beneath the watchful eye of a vampire, with ancient scrolls on her lap and an invisible mark on her soul.
Cassian's home had quieted again. The air no longer hummed with magic or danger. Just the low crackle of a fire and the distant toll of a church bell—5 a.m. Reyna sat cross-legged on the velvet chaise, wrapped in a worn blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and something else… something that made her heart ache and her stomach tighten.
Cassian.
She glanced toward the piano. He was there again, his long fingers drifting across the keys. Not playing, just tracing them—like a man touching a lover he couldn't wake.
"You don't sleep," Reyna murmured, her voice hoarse from hours of silence.
Cassian looked over his shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded, weary. "Not in the way humans do. When you live this long, sleep is something you begin to fear. Too many memories."
Reyna clutched the book tighter to her chest. "I had one just now. A dream. Or… something else."
He stood, quiet as a thought, and came to her side. "Tell me."
She looked up at him, eyes glazed with sleep but alert beneath. "I was in a garden. An old one. Vines crawling up crumbled stone pillars. I was barefoot, holding a dagger. It was covered in blood, but I wasn't scared."
Cassian didn't interrupt.
"There was music," she continued. "A violin. Low and sad. I followed it through the garden until I found a woman tied to a stone altar. She looked like me. Same hair. Same eyes. She whispered something…"
Reyna hesitated.
"What did she say?" Cassian asked gently.
"She said, 'You must finish what I couldn't.' Then the altar cracked and the vines turned into veins, pulsing."
Cassian exhaled through his nose, a sound between awe and dread.
"You're remembering," he said.
"Remembering what? That wasn't a memory—it was a horror movie scene in my skull."
"No. It's deeper. Your blood is beginning to connect with its roots. Your ancestors were bound to more than just tradition. They were bonded to purpose. And dreams like that? They're echoes—fragments of what your lineage endured."
Reyna stood and paced, hugging herself. "So I'm not just changing—I'm becoming someone else."
"You're becoming you. All of you. Past and present."
"Terrific," she muttered. "Any chance I'll get super strength or some cool vision thing out of this?"
Cassian smiled softly. "You might. But it's not the gifts you should fear—it's the instincts."
"What instincts?"
He hesitated.
Then, "To kill. Without hesitation. Without mercy. That's what they trained you for—what they built you to be."
Reyna's expression turned cold. "And what if I don't want to be that?"
Cassian's face changed too, the weight of centuries pressing into his gaze. "Then you'll have to fight against everything your blood has been preparing for… since before you were born."
Later, Cassian took her to the upper floors of the house.
A narrow staircase wound up like a spine, leading to an attic that stretched wide beneath the slanted roof. The space was strange—half gallery, half vault. Weapons hung on one wall—daggers, bows, even crossbows carved with Latin inscriptions. The other wall was filled with framed sketches and crumbling pages of sheet music, all in Cassian's elegant handwriting.
In the center stood a single glass display case.
Reyna walked to it slowly.
Inside was a photograph. Black-and-white. Curled at the edges.
A woman with her hair in soft curls, smiling, her eyes fierce and familiar.
"My grandmother," Reyna whispered.
Cassian nodded. "Her name was Mireille. She was the last Throne to walk away."
Beneath the photo sat a gold locket. Inside, Reyna knew without touching it, would be her family crest—the Throne sigil she had only ever seen carved into the old bookshelf in her grandmother's study.
And beside the locket was a journal. Leather-bound. Locked with a strange clasp.
Cassian unlocked it with a small iron key and handed it to her.
"She left it for you. She knew this day would come."
Reyna opened the first page. The handwriting was familiar—slanted, elegant, maternal.
To my darling Reyna,If you are reading this, you have awakened. And I am sorry.
Reyna's fingers trembled.
This life is not easy. It is filled with choices that haunt us and instincts we must resist. But know this—you are not a weapon. You are not a monster. You are my granddaughter. And you have a heart stronger than any blade ever forged.
A tear slipped down Reyna's cheek.
Cassian said nothing.
As dusk approached again, Reyna stood in front of the attic window, staring out at the city.
"I want to know everything," she said.
Cassian was beside her. "You already know more than most."
"Not enough. Not yet. Teach me. All of it. About the blood. About the Order. About what's coming."
He was quiet for a long moment. "Once you begin, there's no going back."
She turned to him, fierce. "There already isn't."
Cassian looked at her like he was seeing something sacred. Then, with a slight bow of his head—
"So be it."
Chapter 7: Fangs and First Lessons
Cassian didn't believe in formal training.
He believed in instinct.
Which, for Reyna, meant one thing: she got her ass kicked. A lot.
They began in the cellar beneath his house—a stone-floored chamber with walls lined in weapons and faded runes. It smelled like dust, steel, and something deeper. Something old.
"You want to fight like a hunter?" Cassian asked, circling her like a panther. "Then stop thinking like prey."
Reyna adjusted the leather wrist guards he'd given her. "Pretty rich coming from a guy who drinks blood for breakfast."
Cassian flashed a grin, all fangs. "And yet here you are, in my basement, begging me to show you how to kill me."
"I said teach me to defend myself," she corrected. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd try harder."
His eyes glinted. "Careful, little Throne. You're starting to sound like one of us."
The first lesson wasn't about weapons. It was about breath.
Control. Focus. Energy.
"Hunter instincts live in the body," Cassian explained. "Not the mind. Thought is hesitation. Hesitation is death."
He had her walk blindfolded, listening for movement, tracking sound. By the third time she mistook the creak of a pipe for his footsteps and spun in the wrong direction, he caught her arm and whispered against her ear—
"Wrong again."
Reyna yanked away. "Maybe I'd hear better if you weren't breathing down my neck like a stalker with an art degree."
"You're the one who came to the monster's lair."
"I came to learn."
He stepped back, smile fading. "Then learn."
He threw the wooden dagger.
She barely caught it.
They trained for three days straight. Not that Reyna noticed time anymore.
Cassian never seemed to eat or sleep. He watched her as she practiced footwork, corrected her stances with the brush of his hand. Every touch sent sparks crawling across her skin.
He was always composed. Always distant.
Except when he wasn't.
Once, she stumbled during a block and fell hard onto the floor. Before she could curse, Cassian was kneeling beside her, eyes wide with worry that vanished as fast as it appeared.
"Careful," he murmured, voice too soft for a trainer. "You're not made of marble."
Reyna sat up, meeting his gaze. "Neither are you."
Cassian blinked. Just once.
And then he stood. Back to cold. Back to distant.
But for a moment—just for a breath—he hadn't looked like a vampire at all.
That night, she had another dream.
But this time, it wasn't of her ancestors. It wasn't her grandmother's voice or a garden of blood-soaked stone.
It was Cassian.
In chains.
His hands were raw. His body starved. He knelt in a burning cathedral, staring at a figure cloaked in white flame.
The figure whispered something in a language Reyna didn't recognize.
And Cassian—he wept.
She jolted awake, sweat slicking her back.
The dream had felt real. More than real. Like a memory... but not hers.
Was it possible?
Could their bloodlines be connected in more than myth?
The next night, she got her answer.
Cassian had gone out—something about securing a relic buried beneath the harbor. Reyna stayed behind, too sore and too stubborn to sleep. She was halfway through translating a Latin phrase from her grandmother's journal when the floor above her creaked.
She paused.
Cassian wasn't due back for hours.
Another creak.
She stood slowly, grabbing one of the training daggers. The cellar was dark now, lit only by the faint red glow of the runes lining the archways.
Then she heard it—
Breathing.
But not human.
Wet. Guttural. Like something that had lungs full of mud.
She stepped into the hallway. Her voice came out stronger than she expected. "You picked the wrong house to haunt."
A shape moved at the end of the corridor.
Pale. Emaciated. Clawed.
It dropped from the ceiling like a spider.
And hissed.
Its eyes glowed yellow. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, rows of uneven fangs glinting in the rune light.
Not Cassian.
Reyna raised the dagger.
"Oh, hell no."
The thing lunged.
Reyna dove to the side, barely missing its claws. It moved like broken clockwork—twitchy and fast, its limbs bending at wrong angles. She slashed out, catching its arm. Black ichor sprayed across the stones.
It shrieked.
Reyna scrambled backward, heart racing.
Think. Instinct. No hesitation.
The dagger pulsed in her hand. The runes on the walls flared brighter. The creature paused—just for a blink—distracted.
And she lunged.
Her blade buried deep beneath its ribs.
It screamed, louder than before, flailing—but Reyna didn't stop. She twisted the dagger, channeling all the fear, confusion, rage she'd been bottling for days.
With a sickening crack, the thing fell.
Then turned to ash.
She stood alone in the cellar, breathing hard, dagger shaking in her grip.
Cassian returned moments later.
He knew what had happened before she even spoke.
The scent of blood. The flare of the runes. The shift in the air.
He looked at the ash, then at her, expression unreadable.
"You summoned your gift," he said softly.
Reyna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I didn't summon shit. It came to me."
He stepped closer.
"Exactly."
Chapter 8: The Blood Broker
The next morning, the sky over Boston bled gold between rainclouds. Reyna watched it through the attic window, her reflection pale in the glass, the last 24 hours looping in her mind like a song she couldn't turn off.
She had killed something. Something not human. Something that hissed and clawed and wanted her dead.
And she hadn't screamed. She hadn't run.
She fought. She won.
Something in her had shifted—and it wasn't going back.
Cassian entered the attic without knocking, silent as usual. But he didn't wear his usual calm like armor this time. His movements were tense. Measured.
"You're taking me somewhere today," Reyna said before he could speak.
His brow arched. "I am?"
"You're wearing your serious coat."
Cassian glanced down at the black wool trench he'd buttoned to the throat. "It's raining."
"You hate the rain."
"I hate getting caught in the rain. I don't mind watching it."
"Which means you're going to a place you'd rather not linger."
He gave a faint, annoyed smile. "You're beginning to sound like me."
"I'm evolving. That's what happens when shadow-demons try to maul you in a basement."
Cassian folded his arms. "There's someone you need to meet."
Reyna's spine straightened. "Another vampire?"
"Of sorts."
They traveled in silence. Cassian didn't drive; he preferred to walk, always taking the side streets, the alleys, places GPS couldn't follow. Reyna kept up without complaint. She was used to cities whispering secrets when you walked slow enough to hear them.
They stopped in front of an old jazz club in Back Bay. The windows were tinted, the building tucked between two boutiques that didn't even glance its way.
Above the door: The Crimson Key.Below it, etched faintly into the glass: We Remember What Others Forget.
Cassian opened the door without knocking.
The inside smelled like red wine, cedarwood, and danger.
Dim lights glowed through velvet sconces. The walls were covered in old records, blood-red curtains, and framed sheet music penned by hand. A woman in a silk suit played jazz piano in the corner, eyes closed, fingers drifting like smoke.
And at the back, behind a crescent-shaped bar, stood him.
Tall. Slender. Ageless in a way different from Cassian—less haunted, more… amused. His skin was bronze-toned, lips full, cheekbones sharp enough to shame a sculptor. He wore a white suit that clung to him like moonlight, and when he saw them, he grinned like a wolf in a chapel.
"Well, well," he said, voice like warm brandy. "Cassian Dray. I thought you'd sworn off social calls."
Cassian stepped forward. "I'm not here for conversation, Lucien."
Reyna felt her body tense as the vampire's gaze slid to her like silk across skin.
"And this," Lucien purred, "must be the infamous girl with the sleeping blood."
Reyna narrowed her eyes. "That depends. Are you the vampire I'm not supposed to trust, or the one I end up owing a favor to?"
Lucien's grin widened. "Why not both?"
Cassian exhaled tightly. "She's awakening faster than I anticipated. We need access to the Archive."
Lucien's smile faded instantly.
"No."
Reyna blinked. "What's the Archive?"
Lucien ignored her. "You know what that place does, Cassian. What it takes. If you bring her there now, before she's fully awakened—"
"She'll die anyway," Cassian cut in. "Or worse. The Wardens already sent one of their beasts. She's been marked."
Lucien's expression darkened.
Then he looked at Reyna again—really looked. Not the flirtatious glance from before, but a long, lingering stare that saw through her. She felt it like a cold trickle down her spine.
"You have no idea what you are, do you?" he said quietly.
"I'm learning."
"You're a map and a matchstick. And everyone who touches you wants to read you or strike fire from your bones."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Reyna said.
Cassian stepped beside her. "We only need access for an hour."
Lucien tilted his head, then looked back toward the piano player. With a subtle motion, she stopped playing. The club went still. Everyone else—Reyna realized with a shock—had already left.
Lucien leaned in, voice velvet-dark.
"If she touches the wrong memory in there, Dray... it won't just awaken her blood. It'll call to him."
Cassian's jaw clenched. "I know."
Reyna looked between them. "Him meaning... the Original."
Lucien studied her. Then—almost reluctantly—he slid a key from his inner jacket pocket and held it out.
"Follow the hall behind the stage. Down the spiral stairs. The Archive is sealed with a breathprint spell. Cassian can open it."
Reyna reached for the key.
But Lucien didn't let go.
"Just know," he said softly, eyes locked on hers, "once you see what's inside… you'll never see yourself the same way again."
The door at the back of the club led into a stone corridor far older than the building it sat under. The walls were carved with old Latin, French, and languages Reyna didn't even recognize.
Cassian walked ahead, silent. Focused.
They descended the spiral staircase.
The air changed.
It became heavy.
Charged.
Alive.
At the bottom was a stone door etched with the same Throne sigil Reyna had seen in her grandmother's journal. Cassian pressed a palm to the center rune and breathed out slowly.
The door opened.
Inside was a circular chamber filled with glowing shelves—some of books, others of crystals, old weapons, dried herbs, and jars filled with what looked like swirling smoke.
"This," Cassian said, "is the Archive."
Reyna stepped inside, breath stolen.
It was like a library built by ghosts.
Every item whispered. Every page hummed.
She moved toward a table holding a cracked mirror. When she looked into it, she didn't see herself.
She saw her grandmother.
Younger. Dressed in hunter's robes. Face hard. Hands stained with blood.
The vision vanished in a blink.
Reyna turned to Cassian. "What is this place really?"
He met her gaze.
"The Archive stores ancestral memories. Your lineage. Every Throne who ever lived, every kill, every sacrifice, every betrayal—it's all here."
Reyna stepped backward.
"But you said—if I touch the wrong one—"
Cassian nodded. "Then the Original may see you."
Reyna swallowed. "And if he sees me?"
Cassian's voice was like steel dipped in grief.
"Then it begins."