The Return
The knock echoed like a death toll through the candlelit study. Heavy, deliberate.
Riordan stood at the threshold, the firelight catching the sharp cut of his jaw, his striking features—a blend of Italian and Irish blood from his mother, and the unmistakable Japanese lineage of his father—etched into his regal, commanding presence. His large, expressive eyes—black as coals, unnervingly deep, and preternaturally glowing in the dim light—held calculated intensity, scanning the room with a gaze that always seemed to know too much.
Cesare had raised him, had saved him from his mother’s irreverence, her cold rejection of the son she deemed unworthy—had shaped him into something far greater than an abandoned child: His right hand. His voice of reason. His shield against chaos. From the time Riordan was a teenager, he had become indispensable—Secretary, PR agent, mediator, strategist. He was the steady presence that Cesare relied upon, the one who could navigate the delicate balance of diplomacy and war with terrifying ease.
And now—now, Riordan was here to ensure that Cesare finally faced what he could not delay any longer.
“Uncle, it is time.”
Cesare closed his eyes. The inevitable weighed heavy on his chest. Slowly, he exhaled, setting down the half-finished drink he had barely touched all evening.
He was stalling. Because he wanted to do this. But he also didn’t.
It was a choice he had already made, a decision he would not undo—and yet, part of him resisted. The weight of it pressed against his ribs, curling somewhere deep inside him, where logic and emotion fought a silent battle.
With slow deliberation, he pushed up from his chair, the ancient wood groaning under the absence of his weight. Shadows danced across the towering bookshelves—centuries of knowledge, buried secrets, the history of those who came before. And now, the history of those about to rise.
Cesare carried himself with startling composure, even in adversity. Perhaps because he knew—deep in his marrow—that no creature walking this earth was more powerful than him. He was striking, timeless, a presence carved by centuries yet untouched by their decay. But once you knew him, once you understood where he had come from, the illusion faded—you no longer saw just an immortal leader, you saw the Florentine nobleman, the Renaissance banker, the man who had once dined with legends whose names now only existed in books.
Warm dark brown hair, always pulled back in a low ponytail, framed his sharp features—a style unchanged, timeless, one that had marked nobility and control in centuries long past. His Roman nose, strong and distinguished, lent him a profile that could have been carved into marble, reminiscent of rulers and warriors of old. His complexion remained rich with the depth of Tartosa, unaltered by centuries without the sun. And then there were his silver eyes—light, piercing, unreadable, ancient.
He was dressed in his usual attire, effortlessly understated yet wholly fitting—a crisp white shirt, a dark vest, and tailored pants that placed him in any century without ever seeming out of place. No matter the circumstance, no matter the era, Cesare always belonged.
He stepped from his study and turned.
Standing before him was his son—his heir. The silver eyes of their bloodline gleamed in the dim glow of the hearth, a reflection of power, lineage, and responsibility. A force of discipline and calculated destruction. His broad, battle-hardened frame carried the unmistakable air of a man who existed purely to serve a purpose—one of lethal precision. His dark, tightly braided hair framed the sharp lines of his jaw, his silver eyes devoid of hesitation. Born with the affliction known as Lack of Humanity, his mind was wired differently from most of his kind—cold, ruthless, efficient. Cesare had seen the danger in him early and had done what any intelligent ruler would: he shaped his son into his weapon. Now, Caelan was more than just feared—he was inevitable. If the Coven Enforcers hunted you, if Caelan was sent to retrieve you, then your fate had already been decided.
And beside him stood Leeora. Caelan’s illegitimate daughter with a witch, from a forbidden union of days long past. Her mother long gone, yet Leeora never aged.
She was power incarnate—a daughter forged in war, rejection, and relentless determination. She was neither fully welcomed by vampires nor witches, and so she had made herself into something else—something greater.
Leeora, the Necromancer.
The fire-born goddess, draped in effortless might. Bronze skin kissed by something eternal, fiery-red hair cascading like flames down her back. But it was the eyes that set her apart—the chilling silver that marked her as his, and yet, the pulse of ancient magic that made her other. She commanded the dead and the living, a feat few witches had ever mastered. She would not age, would not falter. She was eternal. And she knew it.
She had been betrayed, used, nearly executed by her own grandmother, and yet she had thrived beyond them all. The daughter of two worlds, denied by both, yet now more powerful than either.
“So…” Leeora’s lips curled into something smug, teasing. “You’re finally asking me to do what you scolded me for last time?”
Cesare’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t wrong.
“This is different,” he murmured.
Leeora arched a brow, the smirk widening. “Sure, grandfather. Well, shall we then?”
Without another word, Leeora turned on her heel, leading them downward. The halls of the vampire stronghold stretched before them, cavernous and ancient, but she walked with absolute certainty. She knew this place like she knew herself, though few outside the bloodline ever had that privilege.
Since she was a tiny toddler, her father had brought her here in secret, sneaking her into the castle’s depths so she could know his world—so his family could dote on her away from the scrutiny of their kind. She had memorized its walls, its corridors, its silences.
Tonight, those silences hummed with something far greater than memory.
Stone beneath their feet. Cold air thick with magic. The castle itself seemed to exhale, shifting around them, whispering promises of resurrection.
And then—the resting place.
It was not a crypt born of sorrow but of reverence.
Not urns. Coffins.
Their places had been set as if awaiting this moment all along.
Ancient, sealed with binding spells that had kept their forms untouched by time.
Cesare had done it himself—sealed their bodies within, their forms untouched by time, protected against decay. The spells had been his own, woven in grief yet constructed with eerie precision. He had bound them with ancient magic, whispering incantations even as he mourned, as if somewhere deep inside, he knew—he always knew—this moment would come.
Scarlett had been taken by death after bringing their seventh mutual child into the world, never knowing she would never hold him, never watch him grow. Blaine had fought to stay alive for nearly three years after her passing—not just for their newborn son, but for the many children they had raised together.
Nine in total—some born of their blood, others taken in through tragedy and circumstance, yet all loved, all theirs. Blaine had had a son from his first marriage, Blake, a boy he and Scarlett raised alongside his half-sister Celeste after their mother and stepfather died in a car crash. Then came the fosters, the strays they could never turn away, and the children born of Scarlett’s own flesh.
But without her, Blaine could not endure.
He had fought, had tried—had clung to fatherhood as his last tether to the world. Yet grief had a way of eroding even the strongest foundations, and for Blaine, it stole more than just his will—it stole his voice.
Music had been his birthright, his lifeblood, his place in a dynasty of artists whose names echoed through time. He had come from a long line of musicians, ones who shaped the industry before and after him, ones whose children carried the torch. And for most of his life, Blaine had been one of them—the songbird, the icon, the untouchable force who could bend hearts with his voice.
Until Scarlett was gone.
After her death, the melodies faded. The chords rang hollow. His voice—the very thing that had sustained him through every hardship—vanished.
And in the end, even his love for their children could not keep him here.
Now, he lay before Cesare, silent, unmoving, a relic of the man he once was—his resting place waiting to be unsealed.
Leeora stepped forward.
“Leave. Now.”
Her voice was firm, sharper than before—not teasing, not playful, but absolute. The air tightened, the temperature dropping as raw magic pulsed at her fingertips.
“It’s for your protection. What will happen here… is not for mortal or vampire eyes.”
Then, without turning, she added, “Not you, Father. I need help.”
There was no hesitation. No room for refusal.
Caelan did not move, did not blink, did not question. He understood.
The others hesitated, even Riordan, his sharp coal-black gaze flickering toward Caelan for guidance. But Caelan’s expression remained unreadable, his stance unwavering.
“Go,” he murmured, his voice a low command.
And they obeyed.
Doors shut. Silence fell.
Then—the gruesomeness began.
The world changed.
Magic exploded like a storm through the chamber. Shadows twisted violently, coiling against the walls as an unseen force ripped through reality itself.
The castle shook.
Every candle snuffed out at once.
The Return to the Living
Leeora exhaled sharply, her entire frame trembling from the sheer force of the magic she had wielded. It had taken everything—every drop of power within her—to pull them back. Sweat glistened against her bronzed skin, and though her silver eyes still gleamed, her body felt impossibly heavy.
She nearly faltered—but Caelan was there.
And for once, his touch was not the grip of a warrior but the steadiness of a father.
Without a word, he lifted her, pulling her into his arms like she was still the tiny girl he once carried through these very halls in secret. He was careful, precise, unhurried—as though, for just this moment, she was fragile.
Leeora pressed her forehead against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut. She never wanted to be weak. She never wanted to be vulnerable. But tonight, the magic had drained her beyond resistance.
Caelan held her a moment longer than necessary, then shifted her weight gently, placing her onto a chair.
Still, he did not let go—not yet.
A strand of sweat-dampened red hair had fallen across her temple, sticking to her skin. Without hesitation, he brushed it away, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—real linen, old, worn, kept out of habit rather than necessity.
Wordlessly, he dried her forehead, the gesture not meticulous, not calculated—just… natural.
Only then did he step back.
Only then did he pour the wine, pressing the glass into her hands before murmuring, “Drink.”
Leeora took a slow, shaky sip, closing her eyes briefly before whispering, “It’s done.” She sighed. “Call them in.”
Caelan said nothing. Just one brief nod.
But this time—this time, he pressed a kiss against her temple before turning toward the sealed doors.
His silver eyes locked onto the ancient barrier, unreadable—waiting.
Caelan moved without hesitation, sweeping through the halls with silent precision, his presence demanding but controlled. He did not need to call out—the others were already waiting.
And one by one, they entered.
Cesare stepped forward first, his movements measured but tense, his emotions simmering beneath his composure.
Branwen, however, did not hesitate.
She gasped—sharp, raw, an exhale of disbelief—and took the final steps forward.
And then—everything else vanished.
Because Scarlett was there.
Because her daughter was going to live again.
The Awakening
And then—breath.
The first inhale after death.
Scarlett stirred first.
Cesare stood at the edge of eternity, staring down at his greatest loss and his greatest hope.
Her lashes fluttered. Silver eyes opened. And for the first time in years—years steeped in grief, in longing—Cesare saw life in them.
His breath caught.
“Scarlett Rose… my beautiful flower…”
She was perfect.
Alabaster skin, raven-black hair spilling over her shoulders, the unmistakable silver eyes of his bloodline.
His hand trembled as he touched her cheek, reverent, hesitant—as if afraid she might break.
“You were always meant for more than to just fade into death, you were always meant to endure, for all eternity, so smart, graceful and beautiful inside and out,” he whispered.
And then—the turn.
Cesare had not turned another in centuries. He had remedied failed turns by others, salvaged lives otherwise doomed to slip into decay—but not in a very long time had he turned one himself. His blood was ancient, raw, untamed. His bite was not merely transformation—it was rebirth.
His fangs pierced her skin.
Lightning cracked.
Scarlett arched, energy tearing through her veins. Magic ruptured the silence, her body convulsing, power thrumming so violently it shook the walls.
And then—it was done.
Scarlett was reborn.
Then came Blaine.
His transformation was violent, his mortal body rejecting, resisting, then succumbing to the force of Cesare’s turn.
But unlike Scarlett, he retained warmth to his complexion.
His bronzed glow endured.
And yet, when his eyes opened—those unnaturally light green irises—something had changed.
Something new, powerful, supernatural.
Family
Branwen stood frozen, deep ocean-blue eyes locked onto the impossible sight before her—her daughter, standing before her once more. For years, she had carried the weight of Scarlett’s sudden absence like a wound that never healed. And now—now, Scarlett was here.
A gasp, barely audible, slipped past Branwen’s lips before she surged forward, gathering Scarlett into her arms, holding her close as if afraid she might slip away again. The contrast between them was striking—Scarlett, delicate, model-thin, still and poised, while Branwen, with her soft curves and unwavering presence, clung to her daughter with the force of a woman who had mourned too deeply, too long.
Scarlett did not breathe. She did not have a heartbeat. But she was warm, vibrant, alive in ways that defied nature.
And yet, Branwen felt something stir deep within her—a rush of emotion so fierce it tightened her chest, made her hands tremble.
Her tears fell in silent streams, dampening the raven hair she had longed to stroke again
Behind her, Caelan stood rigid, his broad, battle-hardened frame unmoving, though his silver eyes flickered with something unspoken. A warrior. A protector. But even he wasn’t immune to this moment.
Branwen barely registered anything else—not Cesare’s quiet presence at her back, not Blaine’s knowing smirk, not the world itself.
She had her daughter again.
And for this moment, that was everything.
Branwen held Scarlett tightly, refusing to let go even as emotions overwhelmed her. Whispering into her daughter’s ear things nobody else could hear, making Scarlett equally as emotional, as she clung tighter to her mother.
Then, as Branwen pulled back—her ocean-blue eyes shifted.
Blaine stood there, grinning like an idiot, watching the reunion unfold with his usual brand of amused irreverence.
And without warning—Branwen hugged him too.
There was nothing delicate about it. No hesitation, no awkwardness—just the full, unapologetic embrace of a woman who knew exactly what this man meant to her daughter.
“You drive me insane, Blaine,” she muttered, pressing a hand against his ridiculous mop of shaggy hair as if scolding a misbehaving boy. “But you make her happy. And you love her so much that you died without her, and for that—you’ll always have a place in this family. Love you too, sweet boy.”
Blaine blinked. For once, words failed him.
And then—Cesare stepped forward.
His silver eyes locked onto Scarlett, an entire century’s worth of grief and regret swimming beneath the surface.
“Letty…my petal, oh, how I have missed you.” His voice was low, raw, carrying the weight of years that felt endless. “Three years, yet each day without you rang like a century of pain.”
She turned, and before she could speak, he pulled her into his arms, pressing a firm kiss against her forehead—as if grounding himself in the reality that she was truly here.
His grip was solid, unrelenting—a father’s love that could never be broken.
When he finally released her, he didn’t let go completely.
For a moment, Cesare simply looked at her, taking in every detail—the face he had ached for, the daughter he had lost, the impossible return that now stood before him.
His silver eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, softened.
Then, with the quiet reverence of a man who never took anything for granted, he lifted a hand, gently caressing her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin—a warm gesture, real.
He exhaled, pressed a firm kiss against her forehead, lingering just a beat longer than necessary.
Then, finally, he turned to Blaine.
“May I now finally be forgiven?” His voice was low, raw, carrying the weight of the wedge that had separated them for far too long.
Blaine tilted his head, as if considering. Then—he smirked.
“Eh… maybe.” he grinned, then shrugged. “Ah, fuck it, why not?! Come here, daddy-in-law dearest!”
Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Cesare, pulling him into a hug so strong that Cesare stiffened immediately.
“You know I don’t do this,” Cesare muttered, clearly enduring more than reciprocating.
“Well, and I don’t normally die and rise again, yet, here we are. We don’t do a lot of things, old man, until we do. This one’s overdue.”
Cesare sighed but didn’t pull away right away. When he finally did, he took a few steps backwards, as if trying to put enough distance between them to curb another outburst like that.
And then—Riordan stepped forward.
Without ceremony, without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around them both, pulling them into an almost fierce embrace—one of loyalty, of family, of something unshakable. “Glad to have you back. You were both sorely missed, more than words could explain.”
Blaine chuckled, but the sound came out rough, worn—his voice not quite settled back into itself.
“Man, this is weirdly sentimental.” His words carried a strange undertone, as if speech itself felt foreign, like his body was still adjusting to being alive again.
Scarlett turned, meeting Caelan’s gaze, and for a rare moment, his silver eyes softened.
Then—without hesitation—he stepped forward and hugged her. Even placed a mildly awkward kiss atop his sister’s head. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t hesitant. It was brief, tight, full of unspoken things. A warrior’s embrace, one meant for family.
Then—Blaine stepped forward. Arms wide, smirking.
He cleared his throat, then grinned—slow, mischievous, downright wicked.
“Can’t wait for the hugs and kissy-face from ole Creepy Caelan over there.”
Caelan’s silver eyes hardened instantly.
Without warning, he shoved Blaine straight back, sending him stumbling a step.
“I don’t hug! And most definitely do not kiss!”
Blaine blinked, then scoffed. “You hugged her! And you puckered up. And you have a son, saying you do kiss … and more.”
Caelan lifted his chin slightly, tone clipped, scathing, unmistakable.
“She is my sister. My son is with my wife. You, however, are nothing but an irritating blemish upon the ass of eternity.”
Blaine clutched his chest dramatically.
“Wow, the love is just overflowing here. I’m touched, really.”
Caelan rolled his shoulders back, his silver eyes narrowing like a storm brewing.
“Oh, you want to be touched?” His voice was low, dangerously even—the kind of tone that preceded violence.
He cracked his knuckles.
“I’ll be happy to touch you—with both fists.”
Blaine grinned wider, clearly thrilled at his own success in provoking him.
“Aw, Teddybear, you’re threatening me, how adorable. Violence is your language of love, huh? I feel so loved.”
Scarlett laughed outright, shaking her head. “Some things really never change,” Riordan covered his mouth with his fist, hiding a smirk. “Nope, it would appear not.”
Caelan just rolled his eyes, muttering something undoubtedly insulting under his breath.
Then—with exaggerated elegance—Blaine puckered his lips, air-kissed in Caelan’s direction, even waving at him with a theatrical flourish. “Yeah, me too, MUAH, brother. Still waiting for that huggy from Caeley-pooh.”
Scarlett snorted, covering her mouth, utterly amused. Riordan smirked but wisely said nothing.
Caelan, however, stiffened.
His silver eyes flickered toward Blaine with the kind of disdain only years of rivalry could breed—sharp, cold, unwavering.
He exhaled slowly, his expression betraying not even an ounce of amusement.
“You’ll die ten times over waiting, you insufferable guttersnipe.” His tone was flat, clipped, razor-edged. And then, with chilling finality—
“And don’t call me brother. I am HER brother. Never YOURS, you pestilent plague on my existence. Toilet paper stuck to my shoe! That’s what you are to me!”
Blaine grinned, wiggling his brows, kissing the air at his brother-in-law, looking entirely too amused as he lifted his arms slightly in exaggerated invitation.
Caelan didn’t hesitate.
He was still several steps away, but his stance had already shifted—shoulders squaring, the kind of movement that preceded bloodshed. He was coming straight for Blaine, unwavering, the fight inevitable.
Blaine, ever the showman, lifted his hand—purely for effect, purely to toy with him.
“Aww, I can feel the love. Come here, you big grumbly Teddybear, you …”
Caelan’s silver eyes flashed.
“Oh, you are going to be feeling something, alright! I’ve had it with your bullshit now!” His voice low, sharp, as his footsteps closed the gap.
But before he could get close—Blaine flicked his wrist.
The motion was casual, thoughtless, meant only to add some flourish to his latest taunt.
And yet—
Caelan was suddenly airborne.
Without even touching him, Blaine had tossed him clear across the room.
The impact rattled a nearby table, knocking over a decorative vase, sending papers fluttering, chairs screeching against the floor.
Stunned silence.
Then—Blaine looked down at his own hand, turning it over, flexing his fingers as if seeing it for the first time.
“Whoopsie! Well, damn,” he murmured, rolling his wrist experimentally. “Not sure what that was, but I am not hating!”
Cesare and Branwen stood off to the side, watching the chaos unfold.
Branwen , still sobbing, pressed her face into Cesare’s shoulder, her fingers gripping at his sleeve. But even as her emotions wrecked through her, she kissed him—soft, lingering, a silent thank you. The only reason he had allowed this—the only reason he had broken the sacred laws of life and death—was because Branwen had asked him to. Because she had begged. And now, she could hold their daughter again.
Cesare now pulled away from his beloved wife, leaving one hand firmly around her waist as he exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers of the other against his temples.
“Blaine, please, stop antagonizing Caelan and by all that is holy, be careful with that. This is why I refrain from turning. My turns are very powerful. Please do be mindful.”
Scrambling up, Caelan grumbled, dusting himself off.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me! Father!”
“It can’t be helped.” Cesare’s voice was measured, tired, already resigned to the chaos unfolding.
“On that note—welcome back, my beautiful rose, Scarlett. And you too, Blaine.
Rest up, both of you—you will need it. I want to see you in my study first thing tomorrow for extensive training on how to be what you are now.
Scarlett will only need a light refresher—she has always been powerful, born of my bloodline. But you, Blaine—you now hold powers far greater than you can comprehend. You will need to learn to control them—and yourself. Am I clear?”
Blaine saluted, then huffed dramatically, crossing his arms.
“But Daddy Dearest, I just got up from my dirt nap and am not tired at all, pretty please, can Letty and I stay up and watch some TV or play on our phones? Speaking of—where is my phone? My entire life is on that thing!”
As he started patting himself down, searching his pockets, Caelan snorted.
“You were dead for almost six months, you moron. Someone probably tossed it. Maybe check up your arse, idiot. That’s where I would have put it.”
Blaine turned to Cesare, his expression pure betrayal.
“Daddy, Caelan’s being mean to me. I think he is begging to go on another flight through the room.” Blaine said, while jerking both wrists to no avail.
Cesare had already closed his eyes, exhaustion etched into his features.
“Quit this and go to bed, Blaine. You too, Scarlett. And please, Blaine, I beseech you, stop calling me daddy.”
His tone left no room for argument, but Blaine still tried.
“Yeah, sure thing, Pops. But—”
Scarlett cut him off, pressing a hand over his mouth.
Then, with an almost knowing smile, she stepped forward—kissing her father’s cheek, then her mother’s, running a hand across her brother’s cheek and briefly hugging Riordan.
Finally, she turned to Leeora, who was standing once more.
She hugged her niece, whispering into her ear.
“Thank you.”
Pulling away, she kissed Leeora’s cheek, then turned toward Blaine—leaning in, whispering something only he could hear.
His entire demeanor shifted. His eyes widened, as did his smile.
His grin—slow, knowing, something wicked—spread across his face before he abruptly grabbed her hand, dragging her toward the exit.
“Night all!”
The door fell shut behind them.
A pause.
Caelan exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“Wonder what she said to him …”
Cesare didn’t even bother to look up.
“I don’t. And frankly, I don’t need to. It’s obvious enough. The one silver lining in all of this—rebirth always means infertility. Our saving grace. That’s all I’m going to say about this now.”
Instead, he poured himself a large helping of bourbon, downing it in one smooth gulp when his wife wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss against his skin.
“Thank you, for bringing her back. And him too.” Her voice was soft, full of relief. “My heart was broken without our daughter, and life had gotten so dull and boring without him.”
Cesare sighed, resting his glass against the table.
“Yes, we most definitely won’t have to fear being bored ever again. With Blaine back and the new powers …” He shook his head, silver eyes briefly flickering with a rare, wry amusement. “He was a handful as a vampire before. I shudder to think what it will be now.”
The Homecoming
A gust of black mist curled through the opulent mansion’s grand living room, twisting like a storm trapped within its own force. The chandelier flickered—shadows stretched, curled, then collapsed inward.
Then—just as suddenly as they appeared—the air snapped back into place.
Solid. Real.
And standing in the center of the room, like ghosts who refused to stay buried—
Scarlett and Blaine.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then—chaos.
Vivien’s wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor as she jerked upright, letting out an audible gasp—half scream, half disbelief.
Liam’s entire body tensed, instinct kicking in—his arm snapping out in reflex as if shielding Blaine Jr. before logic caught up.
And Chandler?
Chandler yelled outright, stumbling backward so fast he tripped over the couch falling backwards onto it, his script forgotten in the mess of papers tumbling to the ground.
“What the—?! NO—?! HOW—?! WHAT—?! “
The words barely formed, broken fragments of pure shock.
But none of them mattered.
Because curled up on Liam’s lap—small, perfect, entirely oblivious to the supernatural forces shifting around him—
Was Blaine Jr.
The son Blaine had raised for nearly three years before dying.
The son Scarlett had never gotten the chance to hold.
A soft gasp escaped her lips—raw, aching, her silver gaze locking onto her child like a woman starving for lost time.
“Oh, my baby…”
Blaine didn’t hesitate.
One smooth stride forward, and he lifted Blaine Jr. from Liam’s arms as though no time had passed, as if they had never been apart.
Scarlett’s breath hitched, hands trembling as Blaine turned toward her—offering her their child.
“Take our baby,” Blaine murmured, his voice softer than anyone expected. “Make up for lost time.”
Scarlett choked back emotion, her arms closing tightly around the boy.
He wriggled for a second, then settled—green eyes, his father’s eyes—blinking up at her curiously.
She pressed a firm kiss to his soft curls, exhaling shakily.
It was real.
Vivien, usually composed and unreadable, pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, green eyes still wide with disbelief. Chandler was still gaping, still backwards on the couch, staring at the two arrivals, muttering something incoherent under his breath.
But Blaine?
Blaine was grinning again.
The TV screen flickered, cutting to sweeping drone footage of Del Sol Valley’s largest arena, its massive digital marquee flashing:
“Homage to Blaine Cameron: A Night of Legends.”
Scarlett tilted her head, watching as news anchors ran through the event lineup—renowned musicians paying tribute, performing Blaine’s greatest hits, honoring the impact he left behind.
Vivien stood frozen, one hand gripping Liam’s arm, her green eyes locked on her parents, returned from the dead.
Chandler, equally stunned, still lay motionless on the couch, his jaw slightly slack.
Even toddler Blaine Jr., nestled in Blaine’s arms, seemed momentarily distracted by the bright flashing images.
Blaine grinned, eyes gleaming with unmistakable amusement.
“I mean, look at that. Dead for six months, and I still sell out the arena in Del Sol Valley.”
Scarlett exhaled, shaking her head.
“Blaine, do not think what I think you are thinking!”
He leaned back, smug as ever.
“What do you mean, Letty? That I’m a little offended I don’t get to headline my own tribute show?”
Vivien finally blinked, swallowing hard.
Scarlett sighed.“Blaine, I respect your choice that we won’t hide the truth, I am on board with it, secrets always will out. But you are not crashing your own tribute concert, Blaine.”
Blaine’s grin widened.
“Watch me.”
Then—with a burst of shadows, he vanished in a black cloud.
Scarlett let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as realization dawned.
“Well, there he goes. Yup, that’s your daddy, get used to it,” she mused, kissing Blaine Jr.’s forehead. “Looks like we won’t be hiding anything at all from anyone. This is going to be chaos.”
Her gaze lifted toward Vivien and Liam—the ones who had held this household together.
“Speaking of chaos, call your siblings, Viv, my angel. Have them all come here as soon as they all can make it. Dont’ say why. We will explain everything then. I would hug you, but think you would have a nervous breakdown, so all in due time. And yes, this is really me, and your daddy – well, in temporary absentia for now on account of his usual dumbassery – and yes, we are back to stay. I will call my parents and everything will make sense soon, I promise. And then we all celebrate.”
Her voice was sharp, decisive, regal—the voice of a woman who had returned from the grave to reclaim her throne.
Blaine Cameron: The Eternal Encore
It was meant to be a tribute concert, nothing more.
A gathering of artists paying homage to a legend long thought dead.
The crowd was electric. Voices roared as the band finished their set—until the lights flickered.
A sudden surge rattled through the venue.
Then—everything cut out.
The stage plunged into darkness.
The speakers died, the giant screens blinked into nothingness, and for one long, suffocating second, the only sound was the gasping confusion of thousands.
Then—a shadow moved.
A figure stepped forward, the dim emergency lights casting jagged silhouettes against the backdrop—shaggy shoulder-length hair, piercing green eyes catching the glare of what remained of the spotlight.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Then—the microphone crackled to life, the first sound since the chaos began.
And he spoke.
“Guess who’s back in black, bitches.” His voice, deep and rasping, carried through the venue like a command.
“I can guess what you all are thinking, but no—I am not a hologram. You are looking at the real deal.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
“Back from the dead, complete with a new set of fangs again. So… BOO, bitches. BOO! The Blainster is in da house now!”
Chaos.
Screams tore through the crowd.
Fans bolted toward the exits, scrambling, tripping over chairs, desperate to flee from what had to be some kind of trick, some nightmare.
But then—
Nothing moved.
The doors did not budge. The exits jammed, locked tight—not through force, but through will.
And Blaine felt it.
He hadn’t spoken a command.
He hadn’t needed to.
The power—the control—it was in him now, thrumming beneath his skin, pulsing in his veins, waiting for him to embrace it.
Grinning, Blaine snatched the bass guitar from a stunned band member, slinging it over his shoulder with practiced ease.
And he played.
The first low, vibrating notes hummed through the arena, deep and steady, rattling through the massive speakers as the power surged back to life.
And the moment he belted out the first note, everything clicked.
His voice. His gift.
It wasn’t part of his original vampire abilities.
But it was now.
He could will compulsion into it, push feeling, drag emotion from every soul within reach.
It compelled happiness, sorrow, longing—magic woven into the raw rasp of his voice.
The fleeing fans? They stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-breath.
Their panic evaporated, replaced by something else entirely.
Every ear was captive.
Every heart was his to command.
At home, Vivien, Liam, Chandler, and toddler Blaine Jr. watched, speechless.
Eyes locked on the TV screen, silent, unable to process what they were seeing.
Scarlett exhaled, staring at her husband, at what he had become.
“Ah shit! This is gonna get really interesting now. Looks like I came back to dealing with not one, but two toddlers.”
From that night on, Blaine was no longer just a returned legend.
He was an immortal icon.
Family Traditions
Later that same day Chris froze mid-step, his gaze locking onto something he was sure wasn’t real.
His brain stalled. His mouth moved before his mind caught up.
“Mom. Dad. Look there—”
“Chris, I am on the phone!” Connor hissed at his teenage son.
“Mom … hey mom …”
“Chris, NOT NOW!” Keira dismissed him too, typing feverishly on her cell phone.
“Dad. DAD!”
Connor exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead before asking the person on the other end of the line to hold. Then, with his signature brand of aggravated parenting, he turned to his son, voice flat with frustration.
“Listen, you Ding-Dong, I know thinking is currently not your strong suit—see Exhibit A on your belly, with that scribbled homage to a girl who ended up dumping you to run off and elope with another bro! Reminds me to get you scheduled for a tattoo removal. Easier when that ink is still fresh.”
Keira groaned, rubbing at her temple before looking around if any of the other family members pouring through the front door of the Cameron Mansion had overheard. Connor wasn’t wrong, but did he have to be so loud about it? But Connor was still going on.
“Still not sure whom to report to the police—you for somehow getting a fake ID, or that tattoo artist for believing that you little idiot could be eighteen. So, I am on the phone, I am busy, but your Aunt Vivien said it was urgent, so here we all are, just let me get my work shit straight before we listen to the next Cameron drama we’re about to head into. If you wanna be useful, go find your grandparents, they said they’d stop by Iris and Jas’s to pick them up. It’s down the street from here so they should be here already, especially the way my lead-footed dad drives. Go find them.”
Chris pointed wildly toward the entryway, voice sharp, insistent, not backing down.
“No! Dad, there is Great-Grandpa Blaine! Over there!”
Connor sighed.
“Yes, I have seen the statue millions of times, kid. Do me a favor and go find us seating in the dining room and try to cultivate a functioning brain. You’re about to go to college with that wet cookie up in your head!”
“No, you are not hearing me! MOM! DAD! THERE! Look already! The real Great-Grandpa and Great-Grandma over there! THERE! LOOK! Not statues! And they are holding the little Blaine! LOOK!”
And before either of them could dismiss him again, Chris grabbed both their heads, forcibly turning them toward the living room doorway.
Both phones dropped simultaneously.
Blaine stood there, Scarlett at his side, Blaine Jr. resting easily against his shoulder—green-eyed, curious, utterly oblivious to the storm of reactions brewing.
Connor stared. Keira gasped outright. Christian was still standing there, arms half-raised as if he had forgotten how to move.
Blaine smirked, heading over, Scarlett following, both flashing the barest hint of vampire fangs, Blaine’s green eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Hey grandkiddie. Keira. Chris.”
“What the fuck!?” Keira blurted out.
Scarlett smiled softly, knowing how much this moment had to shock them. They had received the same reactions over and over, along with fainting spells, nervous breakdowns, screams, … sofas, couches and beds all over the sprawling home were filled with the ‘carnage’.
Blaine exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he took in their reactions.
“Uh oh, Letty, there must be hella cats out there, getting everyone’s tongues today. That’s exactly what everyone else said. Except your Uncle Blake. He said something like ‘URGHS!’ before he went down. He’s lying in the living room, nearly had a heart attack. Since you’re a doc, maybe you could keep an eye on him. The doctor we called just left, said he’d be okay.”
Connor blinked sharply, finally finding his voice.
“Yeah, speaking of ‘urghs’ and dead – last time I saw you, that’s kinda what you were, Grandpa. Thanks again for kicking the bucket in our guest room, cool move, bruh! So, pardon the surprise here. We all were at your funeral. Yours too, Grandma.”
Scarlett exhaled, shaking her head slightly.
“Yeah, we know, sweetie. Sorry about that. Figured if we put ‘We have risen’ on the e-vite, nobody would come.”
Keira covered her mouth, eyes wide.
Blaine grinned at his young son, nodding toward him approvingly.
“Oh, hey, and thanks for everything. I picked wisely, putting you in charge of this little one here. Knew you’d do everything right, kiddo. Blaine Jr.’s fine, acting like we never left. He even recognizes his mother somehow.”
Chris looked between them, still processing, while his dad answered.
“I didn’t do much with Blaine Jr, except come here and check in as often as I could. Aunt Vivien is raising him with Liam. I mean—was raising him, they deserve the kudos. Wait, so let me get this straight. You’re both back. Living here in DSV? And with fangs again? We’re doing all THAT again?! Don’t get me wrong, happy to see you both back, but … seriously?!”
Blaine didn’t just grin.
He flashed full fangs, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.
“Fangs and a lot more power than ever, oh sweet grandbaby of mine. This is gonna be REAL fun now.”
Scarlett sighed, shaking her head at him.
“Come on, you guys, let’s get you seated. We got a huge family—we need to put you all somewhere we can drop this bomb with enough fainting room.”
She glanced toward Connor, arching a brow.
“Good thing we have the family doctor here now. Guess you’ll be busy, Con-Bear.” She breathed a kiss on his cheek.
Connor exhaled sharply, rubbing at his forehead.
“I knew it. I knew tonight was gonna be a damn nightmare. Didn’t expect this, but probably should have. We’re Camerons alright. We don’t do normal. Fucked up and completely deranged, that is our brand.”
Keira swatted his arm, still too stunned to form full words.
Christian just mumbled, dragging a hand down his face.
“Dude … what even is my life right now? I am only 17 and already all this fucked up shit. What is 35 gonna be like? And you both were worried about a little tat I got. Look at this shit here.”
“Look at your fake ID again, bigmouth. Oh, wait, you can’t the shredder ate it. Keep talking and I will try to get rid of your dumbass tat the same way!” Connor grumbled. “If it at least looked decent … instead it looks like Blaine Jr. drew it on ya with crayons!”
“It’s in Indie’s handwriting! Cos that cheating bitch meant something to me!” Chris howled back then ran off.
With a sigh, Scarlett went after him.
Revelations
The mansion was alive with conversation—half stunned, half in delirious disbelief. The family had gathered in the foyer, filling every inch of the estate, spilling into the dining room and living room as if awaiting judgment itself.
And in the center, on the landing of the large staircase—Scarlett and Blaine.
Cesare stood behind them, arms crossed, unreadable, as Branwen pressed a soft hand to Scarlett’s shoulder. His words, explaining everything, still rang out across the marble floors.
Vivien and Liam had already claimed their spot beside Blaine Jr., eyes locked onto their formerly-dead parents.
Blake—still pale from his near heart attack—sat on a comfortable chair some of the younger family members had carried in for him, grumbled something incoherent, rubbing at his chest.
Connor kept glaring between them, as if willing his brain to accept it. Keira had regained some composure but still gripped her husband’s arm too tightly.
Scarlett finally exhaled, scanning the faces of generations of their family—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, legacies carried beyond the grave.
Then, she set her hands down on the railing, posture straight, unflinching.
“Well.”
Her silver gaze swept across them.
“Like it or not, we’re back. And this time, we are here to stay. Oh, my beautiful babies, things are going to change, and it will be wonderful … and forever.”
“Hell yeah! I can do some hella fun shit now kids. This is gonna be epic!” Blaine added, with his signature crooked smirk.
The room erupted.
EchoesOfLegacy 