San Myshuno — Skyline Club
New Year’s Eve into Midnight
The whole crew arrived in a burst of laughter, coats, and glitter — the kind of chaotic, joyful swarm that turned heads even in San Myshuno. They spilled out of the rideshare in a tangle of linked arms, breath fogging in the icy air. It was New Year’s Eve, the streets pulsing with neon and noise, and for once, nobody was thinking about weddings or responsibilities or the weight of their usual lives. Tonight was supposed to be fun. Out with the old, in with the new. New year, clean slate, new hope.
Briar Rose flashed a grin at her twin sister, Iris — both of them shimmering in sequins, radiant under the streetlights. Brad Cunningham trailed behind them, already wearing the resigned smile of a man who knew he had lost the battle to keep Bri out of trouble. Jasper Hargrave and Pierce Lockwood followed with the air of men who had accepted their fate: they were here to dance, drink, and survive whatever chaos the Cameron women unleashed.
Maeve Cameron, newly engaged and glowing, nudged Pierce with her shoulder. “Feels like a bachelor party,” she teased.
“Or a bachelorette,” Iris countered.
Bri smirked. “Let’s not jinx it. I’d like to actually see Maeve make it to the altar this time.”
Maeve snorted. “Yeah, I will. You just worry about staying married this time.”
Their laughter rose into the cold night — weightless, bright, the kind that belonged to people who believed the night ahead belonged to them.
The club was everything they had hoped for — a glittering, pulsing upscale cavern of sound and light, packed shoulder‑to‑shoulder with affluent tourists and VIP locals desperate to forget the year behind them. Music thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating up their legs. The air smelled like champagne, expensive perfume, and the faint metallic tang of winter clinging to coats, which were already overflowing the tiny coat‑check alcove. The DJ — one of the famous ones, naturally — shouted the next chart‑topper into the mic.
“Oooh, I love this one! Come on, guys!” Iris squealed.
“Yes, come on! We’re not at a dance club to stand around. Let’s go dance!” Bri tried to grab Brad and Jasper, while Maeve and Pierce politely declined.
“NO,” Jasper said, shaking himself free. “I am not gonna twerk my moneymaker to a song where the singer proclaims she wanted to be ‘yo hoe.’ Knock yourselves out, ladies, if that is your message for the evening. I am not anybody’s hoe, unless my wife tells me otherwise.”
Brad wiggled out of Bri’s grip too. “Sorry, Bri. Really not my thing. I’ll pass.”
Before the twins could drag anyone else, the DJ’s voice thundered over the speakers:
“ALRIGHT SAN MYSHUNO — ENOUGH WITH THE WARM‑UP! TIME TO GET REAL ABOUT THIS PARTY! THIS ONE GOES OUT TO ALL THE HOT LADIES IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT — WHO’S READY FOR WAP?!”
The crowd screamed.
The beat dropped — heavy, filthy, unmistakable — and Cardi B’s voice hit first, rapid‑fire and razor‑sharp, slicing through the club with that chaotic, commanding cadence only she could deliver. A half‑second later, Megan Thee Stallion slid in with her signature swagger, that low, confident drawl that made the whole room move like it was under a spell.
Iris, mid‑sip of her cocktail, froze. Her eyes went wide. Then she hurriedly finished the sip, shoved the glass into Pierce’s startled hands, and spun around like she’d just heard a divine calling.
“Oh my GOD, I HAVE to dance to this!”
“Guys! Come on! This isn’t a stand‑and‑lean club, this is a DANCE club! So let’s get dancing!” Bri insisted, throwing her hands up — but everyone declined again, a wall of stubborn, boring resistance.
“Boo, losers!” Iris groaned — and in a heartbeat, she grabbed Bri’s hand. The twins were swallowed by the dance floor, their sequins catching the lights like twin constellations. They moved together effortlessly, laughing, hair flying, the kind of joy that made strangers smile just watching them.
Maeve and Pierce stayed near the bar, Pierce’s hand warm and steady at the small of her back. He hadn’t been a dancer before his accident, let alone since — not with the limp he still carried and the occasional twitch or misfire his nerves liked to throw at him — but he was here for her anyway. And Maeve looked like she was glowing from the inside out, newly engaged to him and finally, finally happy.
Pierce leaned down toward her with a grateful sigh, brushing a quick kiss to her cheek as he did. “Thank you for not dragging me out there.”
Maeve smirked. “Please. I’m not wasting my engagement glow on watching you dislocate a hip and then push you down the aisle in a wheelchair.”
He huffed a laugh, then slid his arm around her waist and pulled her in closer, nuzzling her temple in that soft, absentminded way he only ever did with her. “I know I’m the grandpa of the group here,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “but… what does WAP mean?”
Maeve choked — violently — on her drink. She doubled over coughing and laughing, eyes watering, while Jasper immediately patted her on the back like she was dying.
“Easy, killer,” Jasper said. “Trust me, Pierce — if you don’t know, you don’t want to find out.”
Brad lifted his glass in agreement. “From what I could understand from the lyrics, which isn’t much, I second Jas. It’s… definitely about adult enthusiasm. Very adult. The triple X rated kind.”
Pierce blinked, baffled. “So… not a new dance move?”
Maeve wheezed. “Oh my God, absolutely not.”
Jasper shrugged. “Well, there are moves involved. Just… usually horizontal.”
Maeve nearly folded over again when she caught Pierce’s expression — the exact moment the shoe finally dropped.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, brushing her thumb over his cheek, “I love you so much. Your complete ignorance of anything modern is honestly one of my favorite things about you. Innocent and naïve like a newborn kitten. It’s like dating a very handsome vintage painting— gorgeous, slightly cracked, and completely priceless.”
Pierce took that in stride — the mockery, the affection, all of it — and his answering smile was slow and wicked. He slid a hand to her hip, then lower, pulling her flush against him before kissing her with a sudden, confident heat that made her laugh against his mouth.
“Good,” he murmured, voice low enough only she could hear. “Because I’d rather do all those things to you than listen to someone sing or rap about them.”
Maeve grinned against his lips, fingers curling in his shirt. “Putting a ‘WAP’ on the schedule for later.”
He kissed her again — brief, claiming, delighted — before she pulled back with a breathless laugh, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
Brad watched Bri from a few steps away, that soft, helpless smile tugging at his mouth — the one he only ever had for her. He was relaxed. Tonight was supposed to be easy.
Jasper was in rare form. Despite refusing to dance with the girls to that very song, he still swung his hips with the beat — that exaggerated, mocking little sway he did whenever Cardi B’s voice hit the speakers, like he was physically incapable of not reacting even while protesting the entire concept of dancing to this. Two drinks in, loud and sarcastic, he leaned into Maeve’s ear to deliver some crude commentary about the song’s filthiest lines, making her laugh so hard she nearly spilled her cocktail.
Then, because Jasper never knew when to stop, he turned that hip‑sway directly at Brad.
Brad — straight‑laced, Brindleton Bay‑bred, Old‑Guard lineage doctor Brad — froze like someone had just pointed a spotlight at him. Jasper shimmied closer, doing a ridiculous body roll that absolutely did not belong anywhere near a man with a medical degree.
“Stop,” Brad said flatly, holding up a hand like he was warding off a demonic toddler. “No. Absolutely not. Jasper, give it a rest! Get off me, get lost!”
Jasper cackled, delighted, and immediately redirected the same move toward Maeve.
“Oh no,” Maeve laughed, backing up with her hands raised. “Nope. I’m not saving you from yourself. Don’t make me empty a bucket of ice over you, weirdo!”
Jasper wiggled his eyebrows and kept going anyway, hips swaying, shoulders rolling, the picture of chaotic confidence.
That was when Pierce stepped in. “Alright, Casanova,” he said, catching Jasper by the shoulders and trying to rotate him away from Maeve. “Let’s not start whatever this is.”
But Jasper, slippery as ever, twisted out of his grip — and in one dramatic flourish, he grabbed Pierce by the waist and yanked him into a sudden, aggressive Tango step.
Pierce stumbled forward with a startled laugh. “Jasper— no. Absolutely not.”
Jasper dipped him. DIPPED HIM. Right there in the middle of the club.
Maeve choked on her drink. Brad made a strangled noise. Even Bri and Iris, mid‑dance‑floor chaos, glanced over and cackled.
“It’s ART, Pierce,” Jasper declared, holding him in the dip like they were auditioning for Dancing With the Stars: Unhinged Edition. “Respect the craft.”
Pierce shoved at his chest, laughing despite himself. “Let me go before I ask Dr. Cunningham for a tranquilizer for you.”
“Oh please,” Jasper said, hauling him upright again. “Brad would never drug an artist.”
“Brad would drug you,” Brad joined in, straightening his shirt. “Gladly. Happily. With a smile.”
Jasper grinned, unbothered. “Worth it. Vive la révolution!”
Pierce pointed a warning finger at him. “If your revolution involves my hips or my fiancée again, I’m calling security. Sorry Brad, every man for himself here.”
“You are my security. Oh, I do declare, Mr. Lockwood — my DEAR Mr. Lockwood,” Jasper swooned, collapsing against him like the heroine of a sappy romance play taking her final bow.
“Good grief,” Pierce muttered, pulling him upright, steadying him. “What are you on? I should sue the club for overserving you.”
Everyone was laughing — Maeve, Pierce, Brad —as Jasper was buzzing with energy — magnetic, reckless, alive. The kind of alive that always made people gravitate toward him without even realizing it. Everything felt right. Everything felt safe. Everything felt like the start of an awesome new year, the kind where nothing bad could possibly happen.
But, as in such light moments often happens, along came a spider.
The man approached Iris first — too close, too confident, too familiar. He didn’t just lean in; he pressed in, sliding up behind her like he’d already decided she was his for the night. Iris jerked away with a disgusted glare. Then again, when he tried it a second time. Then she gave him the full stink‑eye.
“Get lost and rub up against someone desperate like you, you nasty ass.”
He grinned, unbothered — the kind of grin that said he’d already rewritten her rejection in his head. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t act shy now. Women who dance to this kind of music aren’t exactly hard to get.”
Iris stiffened. “EXCUSE YOU!? Fuck off!” she screamed against the music, already moving toward Bri.
He followed, undeterred, and grabbed her wrist like he had a right to keep her there.
Bri yanked her twin free instantly. “Ew! Go away, creep. Take a hint!”
Brad stepped in, calm and diplomatic. “Excuse me. She’s here with her husband. And this is my… wife. Both ladies are taken.” A bit of a white lie, but Bri was his fiancée and as good as his wife again. Just a few more months.
The man sneered, looking Brad up and down with contempt. “Didn’t ask you, babyface. Are you even old enough to drink, stiff? Get lost when adults talk.”
Jasper was there in an instant — all mouth, no brakes, no filter. He stepped between them, jaw tight, eyes sharp, voice dripping with lethal Hargrave sarcasm.
“Wow. Look at you, big bad boy. Groping women. What is next, you gonna kick a puppy like a total fan favorite, you airhorn? Or is that too advanced for you? Oh, and I am THE HUSBAND of the one you were trying to fondle, and here to nope you out of that idea, bitch. Like my friend already told you, both ladies are taken. So, run along and fuck off like a good little creep, you weirdo, before I help you leave.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
Jasper leaned in, smirking. “Buddy, if you are trying to impress someone with your evil glare, you are doing a fantastic job… of proving your mother should’ve swallowed. You should’ve been no more than a half‑assed blow job.”
“Jasper—” Brad hissed. “Let it go.”
“Nah,” Jasper said, eyes locked on the man. “Do I look like Elsa from Frozen to you? Then again, the longer I look at this bruh here, the more he starts to resemble the donkey from Shrek — if the donkey had a drinking problem, unresolved mommy issues, and… well, let’s just say a very disappointing situation happening south of the equator. Freakin’ incel!”
That did it.
The man snapped.
He shoved Brad hard in the chest — not enough to injure him, but enough to make him stumble back a step.
Jasper reacted instantly.
“Hey, pick on someone your own size, fucktard!” he barked, and shoved the guy back — a full‑body, two‑handed shove that sent the man skidding across the sticky club floor.
The man swung.
A wild, sloppy punch meant for Jasper’s jaw.
Jasper ducked under it with surprising speed. “Really?” he scoffed — and before the man could recover, Jasper planted a sharp kick squarely in his ass.
The guy lurched forward, arms flailing, stumbling into a table and knocking over two drinks. People gasped. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted.
It should have ended there.
A stupid club scuffle. A drunk idiot flirting with someone else’s woman. A loudmouth husband defending his wife. Peacocking, scuffle. A daily occurrence in most clubs.
But the man straightened slowly — too slowly — and when he turned back toward Jasper, something in his face had changed.
Not fear. Not embarrassment.
Anger. Predatory interest. A cold, assessing stillness.
Iris saw it first. “Jas… watch out.”
Jasper lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I work out every fucking day, I’ll mop the—”
The man moved. Fast. Too fast.
Before anyone could react, he had Jasper by the throat. Jasper’s strangled sounds were muffled as the man dragged him away with inhuman speed, disappearing into the hallway.
“Oh no. SHIT!” Bri yelped, grabbing Iris’s wrist and sprinting after them. Maeve ran too. Brad followed. Pierce limped behind, old injuries flaring but adrenaline pushing him forward.
He caught up with Brad and Maeve in the hallway — dark, strobe‑lit, disorienting. They looked around wildly, breathless, until—
A scream.
Female. Real.
“Bri!” Brad shouted. “BRI, where are you?!”
“This way!” Maeve decided and sprinted in that direction.
Brad followed close behind. A metal door hung open, leading into a dark alleyway.
And that was where they found them.
Jasper slumped lifelessly against a wall. Bri and Iris collapsed in twisted, unnatural positions on the ground. Blood everywhere.
Maeve’s scream ripped out of her before she could stop it. Pierce froze, then lurched forward, panic locking up his limbs as he wrapped his arms around Maeve, her whole body gone rigid with shock.
The night that was supposed to be harmless had turned into something else entirely.
Brad didn’t scream. He didn’t freeze. He triaged.
In the space of a heartbeat, his mind snapped into emergency‑mode: Jasper — massive blood loss, unresponsive, unknown trauma. Iris — down, pale, not breathing visibly. Bri — conscious, moving, least injured.
Jasper would die first. Iris second. Bri last.
His body moved before his emotions could.
Brad dropped to his knees beside Jasper before the others had even fully registered what they were seeing. His training took over instantly — two fingers to the carotid, checking for a pulse, checking for respirations, checking for any sign of airway compromise. Jasper’s skin was cold, too cold, and the wounds along his neck were already darkening.
“Jesus—” Brad breathed, leaning in, eyes narrowing as he assessed the pattern. “This isn’t a clean laceration… edges are torn. Looks like a serrated blade or— I don’t know what.” His voice stayed steady, clinical. “Jasper, can you hear me? Jas, stay with me. He’s alive, but unresponsive.”
Maeve already had her phone out, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. Pierce limped toward Brad, breath ragged, old injuries flaring but ignored.
“Call 911!” Brad barked, not looking up.
“Maeve’s already dialing,” Pierce said, crouching beside him, bracing himself against the wall. “What can I do?”
“Pierce, take your fingers and press here — like this. Even pressure.” Brad guided Pierce’s hand into place, firm and precise.
Behind them, Bri stirred — a soft groan, a trembling push to her elbows. Her hair was tangled, her cheek scraped, but she was conscious. Shocked, disoriented, but conscious.
Brad spared her a quick, practiced scan: pupils equal, breathing steady, no obvious deformities. Relief flickered through him — brief, sharp — before he turned back to the real emergencies.
Iris wasn’t moving.
Brad crawled to her next, hands already slick with Jasper’s blood. He pressed his palm to her neck, searching for the source of the bleeding — and found it. A tear, deep and pulsing. Arterial. His stomach dropped, but his voice stayed steady.
“Okay. Okay. Iris, stay with me,” he said, applying firm pressure. “Active arterial bleed. I need more hands. Now.”
Blood seeped between his fingers anyway.
“Maeve, how long did they say it’ll take them to get here? One of you needs to go out front and guide the ER crew back here — this alley’s a maze and we’re losing time.”
Behind him, Maeve’s voice trembled. “Brad… I didn’t call 911.”
Brad’s head snapped up, eyes sharp, frantic. “Maeve, I can’t manage two critical patients in the back of a cab! I need a trauma team, I need an OR, I need blood units and vascular clamps! She’s bleeding out, and Jasper’s close behind!”
Maeve swallowed hard, tears gathering. “I know. That’s why I called someone who can definitely help — and fast.”
Before Brad could respond, the air shifted — a sudden cold, a pressure change, like the alley itself inhaled.
Three figures materialized out of the shadows.
Brad jerked back, nearly losing his grip on Iris’s wound. Pierce stumbled to his feet, instinctively shielding Bri, who was still trying to sit up.
Cesare moved first.
He didn’t waste time on introductions or explanations. He dropped to Jasper’s side, fingers pressing to his throat, jaw tightening at what he found — or didn’t find. Riordan knelt beside Iris and Bri, his movements swift, clinical, ancient.
“Briar Rose is okay,” Riordan said, voice steady. “Shock, minor injuries. She’ll recover.”
He shifted to Iris, his expression darkening. “Iris is bad.”
Cesare didn’t look up. “Jasper’s worse. No choice.” His voice was low, final. “Riordan, Caelan, one of you help me, the other go and get the other enforcers and then help get everyone else to the castle.”
Forgotten Hollow
Castello di Vannucci
The parlor felt like stepping into another century — all carved dark wood, oil portraits whose eyes seemed to follow them, and velvet-upholstered furniture that looked too old and too expensive to actually sit on. Maeve, Pierce, and Brad perched together on a Renaissance‑era settee that creaked under modern weight, each holding a steaming cup of coffee they hadn’t quite managed to drink.
The castle was warm, but the atmosphere wasn’t. Everything felt too still, too quiet, like they’d been placed inside a museum exhibit titled Mortals Awaiting News.
Pierce kept glancing at the vaulted ceiling as if expecting bats. While his mind still denied it, his instinct already figured out the situation. Maeve’s hand never left his knee. Brad sat forward, elbows on his thighs, staring into the fire as though he could will answers out of the flames.
Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor — soft, deliberate, unmistakably authoritative.
Cesare and Riordan entered the room.
The shift in the air was immediate. Ancient authority walked in with them.
Cesare’s expression had changed — something grave, something older than any of them could comprehend — and Brad felt his stomach twist before the man even spoke.
“Apologies for making you wait. I trust my staff tended to your needs with sufficient care.” Cesare’s tone was courteous, but there was an undercurrent of gravity that settled the room. “I understand you all seek answers, so I will not waste your time with pleasantries. Allow me to explain the situation.”
His voice shifted into something steady and clinical — but not in any way Brad recognized from modern medicine.
“Jasper had lost a dangerous amount of blood. The wound on his neck was not a feeding bite. It was torn, forced. This was not done to satisfy a need. It was done to kill him. The attacker was enraged and not in command of himself.”
Cesare inclined his head slightly toward Brad, almost respectful. “You examined the wound, young Dr. Cunningham. You saw the irregular tearing. That is not how my kind feeds. It is how we maim. Had we arrived minutes later, the rogue would have succeeded, for Jasper would have slipped beyond recovery. Iris’s wounds were different, but no less lethal. In either case, we were left with no choice, not if we wished to avoid losing them both.”
Maeve swore under her breath, sharp and furious. Pierce’s eyes went wide, his knuckles whitening around his mug. Brad stared, confused, horrified, trying to reconcile the clinical facts with the impossible reality.
“So you’re saying— you’re saying you—” Brad stammered.
“I had no choice,” Cesare said gently, though the authority in his voice carried the weight of centuries. “Under our law, when a mortal is injured by one of us in such a way and cannot speak for themselves, the decision falls to their next of kin — usually the spouse, or their parents. Jasper and Iris are each other’s spouses. Both were incapacitated. Therefore, their parents decided in their stead. Jasper’s parents agreed. Iris’s parents did as well.”
Maeve closed her eyes, jaw clenched. Pierce swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as he tried to catch up. “I am sorry — agreed to what? And what about Bri?”
“Ah. Yes.” Cesare folded his hands behind his back, the gesture elegant, almost courtly. “You see, Mr. Lockwood, she was injured — however, our Dr. Cunningham’s considerable medical knowledge would have sufficed to heal her, given time. But she was conscious when I explained the situation to the parents and… ah…”
He shot Riordan a pointed glance.
Brad shot to his feet. “And what?”
Cesare lifted a calming hand, the motion smooth, practiced. “Why don’t you sit down, young Dr. Cunningham. Please… Brad.”
“Oh God,” Brad whispered, sinking back onto the couch. “What happened?”
“Briar Rose was conscious and able to shed some light on the events leading to this,” Cesare said quietly. “As you are already aware, the altercation began inside a dance club and then moved into the alleyway. The rogue vampire went for Jasper. He intended to maim him. It was personal. He struck without restraint — which, as I likely do not need to explain, is a grave violation of our laws. They are strict for good reason.”
Maeve’s breath hitched. Brad’s jaw clenched.
“When Iris saw Jasper go down, she went for the attacker immediately. Briar Rose followed her. Both sisters fought him with everything they had.”
Pierce swallowed hard. “So, this is real. All of it. The speed. The strength. The blood. This wasn’t some… insane person or some freak accident. This was a vampire. And you both are vampires as well.”
Riordan inclined his head. “Yes, Lockwood, that is correct. As for the girls doing what they did, they are Camerons. Of course they did. That part surprises nobody here.”
Pierce swallowed hard. He knew vampires existed — Maeve’s father was one, and he’d met a few others in passing — that had been a fact he accepted and ignored mostly, but this was different. This was a castle full of them. Remote. Ancient. And he had no idea where “here” even was after that teleportation. For the first time, he felt the weight of being mortal in a room where that was… unusual.
Cesare’s gaze flicked toward him — brief, assessing, impossibly perceptive. He didn’t pause in his explanation, but his tone shifted by a fraction, a subtle softening that felt like a hand placed on a shoulder without ever touching.
“You are safe here, Mr. Lockwood,” he said, as if stating a medical fact. “No one in this castle or beyond will harm you. Nobody would dare. You are under my protection, and that is not a small thing.”
The words landed with the weight of centuries behind them — not comforting in the human sense, but grounding, undeniable.
Then Cesare continued, voice steady, clinical in its own ancient way — the tone of a physician who had practiced long before modern medicine existed.
“The rogue grew angry when they interfered. He threw Briar Rose into a wall with enough force to nearly knock her unconscious. I do not have to tell you, Dr. Cunningham, how much worse that could have ended for her — broken neck, back, skull, internal bleeding, or brain damage. I assure you she sustained none of that, though she will have significant contusions along her back. She was incapacitated enough that she could not rejoin the fight.”
Brad closed his eyes briefly — he could picture the bruising already, the deep, spreading kind that would take days to fade even in a healthy human, not to mention the pain that went along with such injuries.
“Iris, however,” Cesare went on, “was not deterred. She even managed to injure him. She scratched his eye. She kicked him hard enough in a… delicate area to stagger him, then jumped him and bit and scratched him into a bloody mess. She did real damage — which, I admit, is difficult for me to pretend not to admire, though I generally condemn violence.”
Pierce stared. “Iris did that? To a vampire?”
“Yes,” Cesare said simply. “And it enraged him further. His retaliation was not controlled. He struck out blindly. His claws caught her neck. The injury to her artery was not intentional — but it was severe and would have been lethal within minutes. She was hurt because she fought to save her husband. Again, I cannot help but be rather impressed by my great‑granddaughters. I like to think the Vannucci blood runs strong in them.”
Silence fell — heavy, cold, suffocating.
Pierce mouthed the word great‑granddaughters, then looked at Maeve in disbelief. She nodded and whispered, “If you think that’s bad, I better not tell you he’s my great‑grandpa too. Bri, Iris, and I are cousins as you know.”
Pierce went pale. He had known vampires existed. He had not known he was sitting in a Renaissance castle surrounded by an entire vampire lineage, one his future wife was directly related to.
“Signore Vannucci — Cesare — please. What about Bri?” Brad asked, his voice rough and cracking, realizing the leader of the vampires was leading up to something more.
Only then did Cesare shift to the next part, his tone gentling.
He sat beside Brad, posture impeccable, voice softening in a way that somehow made everything worse.
“You see, my dear Bradford, there have been several sets of twins — even triplets — in our ranks. And the curious observation is that if one chooses between mortality and immortality, the other always seems to follow. I am not aware of any exceptions to this rule. I have a desk bending under the weight of applications from multiples begging to be made the same.”
Brad stared at him, unblinking.
“I tend to grant such requests swiftly,” Cesare continued, “as my experience is that ‘no’ is never an acceptable answer in such cases. More often than not, if declined, they seek alternate ways to do it themselves — which is never in anyone’s best interest.”
Brad’s voice cracked. “Are you telling me Briar Rose is… she has… that you have—”
“Yes, Dr. Cunningham.” Cesare’s tone was gentle but firm, the kind of calm that came from centuries of certainty. “That is what I am telling you. Iris had no choice, but Briar Rose made hers. I understand this may be a shock, but please try to think sensibly.”
He paused — not for effect, but to give Brad a moment to breathe.
“I am sure you are aware that these three were born with the spark, are you not?”
“I’m sorry,” Brad said, shaking his head. “I’m not following. What spark?”
Maeve leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “Brad… he’s telling you Jas, Iris, and Bri were born as vampires. They just got unturned before it ever had the chance to manifest.”
“Exactly.” Cesare’s tone slipped in like silk, polite and impeccably measured, carrying that effortless old‑world elegance he never seemed to lose. “This — while obviously unplanned and far from ideal — is, in a way, merely returning the three of them to the destiny that was always theirs.”
“Unturned? Returning to … destiny?” Brad echoed, his voice croaky and weak.
Riordan stepped in, his voice low and unhurried — the kind of voice that belonged to candlelit parlors and handwritten letters, not dance clubs and modern chaos. There was a softness to it, but not weakness; it was the softness of velvet over steel.
He looked every bit the gentleman he had once been — meticulously tailored clothing, silver cufflinks, hair swept back with old-world precision. His features were striking in that timeless way: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that had seen too much to be easily surprised.
“Before you think that thought through,” he said, with the quiet finality of someone who had delivered bad news too many times, “allow me to clarify. Unturning is no longer an option. There were… experimental cases, yes. But the side effects were catastrophic. It has since been outlawed. Permanently.”
He glanced toward Brad, not unkindly.
“It is not safe. There will be no more unturning.”
The words landed with a quiet finality that made Brad’s vision blur at the edges. For a terrifying second, he thought he might actually faint — his knees went loose, his stomach dropped, and the room tilted like a ship in rough water.
But decades of training snapped into place. The part of him that had stood through sixteen‑hour surgeries, that had delivered bad news to families, that had built a medical empire on steadiness and precision — that part forced him to stay upright.
He locked his jaw, breathed through the dizziness, and stayed conscious by sheer will.
Brad stared at them all, the fire crackling somewhere far away, the truth settling like ice in his chest. Cesare was still speaking, lips moving with that calm, ancient cadence, but Brad couldn’t hear a single word.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
And he didn’t know if that was a good thing, or a terrible one. He didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know what this meant for Bri — for Jasper, for Iris — for any of them. He didn’t even know what it meant for him.
All he knew was that the ground had shifted beneath him, and he wasn’t sure it would ever stop moving. The future felt like a hallway with no lights — he could sense it stretching ahead, but he couldn’t see a single step of it.
When he finally found his voice again, it sounded thin and unfamiliar. He asked to see Bri.
Cesare gave a solemn nod — not pitying, not cold, simply acknowledging the inevitability of the request — and gestured for Brad to follow.
Brad rose on unsteady legs. He didn’t know much about vampire hierarchy, not really, but even he understood one thing: Cesare was the highest of them. The one they all deferred to. The one whose word carried centuries of authority. Being escorted personally by him wasn’t just unusual — it was an honor. A gesture of respect he wasn’t sure he deserved.
The realization only made his pulse pound harder.
Cesare led him through a narrow stone corridor, down flight after flight of ancient stairs. The air grew colder, older, heavier with every step. The walls were carved with symbols Brad didn’t recognize, and the flickering torchlight made the shadows stretch like living things.
Brad’s heartbeat echoed in his ears. Every footfall sounded too loud. He felt like he was descending into a place he wasn’t meant to see.
By the time they reached the catacombs, Brad felt as though he had stepped out of the world he knew and into something fictional. Or a movie set. Or a nightmare.
The chamber was vast, lit by sconces and candles, the stone floor polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. Several coffins were lined up in a ceremonial row, each one carved with ornate patterns that looked older than most countries. The air smelled faintly of incense and something metallic beneath it — blood, memory, or both.
Brad stepped further and immediately saw them — Chase and Hailey, standing together with haunted eyes; Colton and Maddie, pale and shaken; Connor and Keira, holding hands tightly. All of them turned when Brad appeared, their expressions a mix of grief, fear, and something like apology.
He walked past the first two coffins, and his breath caught.
Jasper lay in one, dressed in clean clothes, his face washed, his hair combed, his hands folded neatly over his chest. He looked like he was being prepared for a funeral. Iris lay the same way — peaceful, still, heartbreakingly pale. They looked dead.
Brad forced himself to keep moving, even though every instinct screamed to stop, to breathe, to get his bearings. But he couldn’t. Not when Bri was somewhere ahead. Not when he didn’t know what state she was in. Not when the world had already tilted so far off its axis he wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.
When he reached the third coffin, Bri was awake.
She lay propped slightly, holding her mother’s hand. Hailey pulled back the moment she saw Brad, giving him space. Chase squeezed Brad’s shoulder as he passed. Connor did the same, his expression soft with sympathy before he stepped away with the others.
Bri looked up at Brad with a sad, trembling smile.
“I am SO sorry, Braddy. I had to.”
“Oh, Bri… God, you scared me.” His voice came out raw. He leaned over the coffin, bracing himself on the edge. Then he bent down and pressed a soft, trembling kiss to her temple — barely a touch, more breath than contact, as if he were afraid she might break. Or worse — as if he were afraid he might.
“Forgive me?” she sniffled. “I am so sorry, but I had to.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” His voice cracked. “Bri, you know this isn’t my thing, but we got so close again to being together forever, I can’t let you slip away. I don’t fully understand what this means — for you, for me, for us, for our children — but I know your parents and brother were vamps when I first met you. Still are now. Nothing has ever happened to me or my kids, no matter how rough things got between us at times. I want to say I don’t care, but that would be a lie. But I still want you, Bri. I’ll learn. I’ll adjust.”
He didn’t add the part sitting heavy in his chest — I’m scared, Bri. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of what this means. I’m scared of what you’ll become. But I’m more scared of a world without you in it. He didn’t have to. She knew.
“You will? Oh, Braddy!” Her face crumpled, and she started sobbing. She tugged him closer, shifting aside until he finally gave in and slid into the coffin beside her.
The moment he settled next to her, Bri wrapped a leg around him and sidled up against his front, clinging to him with a kind of desperate relief that made Brad’s heart race. Not just from closeness — from the surrealness of it all. From the knowledge that this might be the last time she felt warm.
“Okay, this is… different,” he muttered, trying to arrange his left arm in a way that let him lie on his side facing Bri in a coffin clearly made for one. The face he made over the awkwardness set Bri giggling through her tears.
“I really am sorry, Brad. I don’t know how this happened, or why, especially now, but please don’t give up on me.”
“I won’t. But whoever is responsible for this has to be held accountable. That can’t be right.”
“Oh, trust me,” Bri said, wiping her cheeks, “the rogue vampire who did this is long gone.”
“Well, can’t we put out wanted posters in vampire hangout spots or something?”
“No, Braddy, you don’t understand. That guy is dead. Like, completely dead. Gone. Forever.”
“How?”
Bri pointed to Caelan, who stood in the corner like a statue carved from shadow.
“That’s what he does. Hunts and kills vamps who attack mortals. Among other things. He is fast and nobody can escape him. That guy never stood a chance.”
Brad swallowed hard. “Comforting thought.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “What’s gonna happen now?” Across the room, Caelan shifted his weight — a tiny movement, but enough to make Brad’s pulse jump.
“Well,” Bri said, “I have to take a sort of… dirt nap… while I transform. In here. When I rise again, my training starts. I have to learn a lot — how to be self‑sufficient, how to be safe around people without fangs, how to control everything. And sun immunity, eating, all that. I mean… I should be okay by the wedding date. If… you still want to keep it.”
There it was — the fear he hadn’t voiced reflected back at him. Not fear of her. Fear for her. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing the future they’d finally, finally been close to grabbing.
“Bri,” Brad said, cupping her cheek, “I am so desperate to be with you at long last, I’d marry you if you were a zombie with limbs falling off. That’s what Superglue is for.”
She laughed and kissed him, and they melted into each other, making out for a long, quiet moment in the dim candlelight.
“Thank you for being… well… you,” she whispered. “You’ve always been so understanding. I don’t know why I was afraid of how you’d react. I kept imagining you freaking out, being disgusted by me and what I’m becoming.”
“Agh, me?” Brad scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bri. I’m loving all this. The creepy guy you just told me kills immortal vampires is standing in the corner watching us. I’m in an underground dungeon with a bunch of fanged creatures. In a coffin. With my bride, who will die now and then rise with fangs just in time for our wedding. Did I mention that I’m in a coffin. Life is but a dream.”
Bri burst out laughing and kissed him again.
“Well,” she teased, “if you like it that much, maybe we should get one of these babies for our bedroom for when we feel kinky.”
Brad snorted. “Sure. And since I’m the one who’ll actually die someday, let’s hope it happens in my sleep. Then you can just close the lid and send me on my merry way to become worm food.”
Bri laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes — and for the first time that night, the fear loosened its grip on both of them.
She curled closer, her forehead resting against his. “Stay with me until I fall asleep?”
“Try getting rid of me,” Brad murmured, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing slowed, steadied. The tremble in her hands faded. The candlelight flickered across her face, softening the sharp edges of the night, making her look almost like the girl he fell in love with at sixteen — stubborn, radiant, impossible not to follow into trouble.
“Brad?” she whispered, already drifting.
“Yeah?”
“This is gonna be the last time you’ll see me breathe. If I… if I wake up slightly different… don’t be scared of me. I am still me, just .. slightly changed.”
He kissed her forehead. “Bri, I’ve seen you before coffee. I can handle anything.”
She let out a sleepy laugh — the last sound she made before her eyes fluttered shut and her body went still, settling into the unnatural quiet of the turning.
Brad stayed exactly where he was, one arm around her, the other resting on the edge of the coffin. He listened to the faint hum of the catacombs, the distant footsteps of enforcers, the soft murmurs of her family giving him space.
He didn’t move.
Not when the candles burned lower. Not when the chamber grew colder. Not when Caelan shifted in the shadows like a silent sentinel.
He stayed because she asked him to. He stayed because he loved her. He stayed because he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
And beneath all of that — beneath the devotion, the fear, the surreal absurdity of lying in a coffin with the woman he loved — there was a quiet, trembling truth he didn’t dare say aloud:
I’m scared, Bri. But I’m here.
He didn’t even notice someone approaching until a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
“Brad,” Chase said softly, his voice thick but steady. “Son… we need to seal it now.”
Brad blinked, disoriented, still half in the moment with Bri. “Just… just another minute.”
Chase shook his head gently. “I know. I know you want to stay. But this part… she has to do alone. And we can’t delay the sealing.”
Hailey appeared beside him, eyes red but calm. “Come on, sweetheart. Let us help you.”
Brad swallowed hard, looking down at Bri one last time. Her face was peaceful, serene in a way that made his chest ache. He brushed a thumb across her knuckles, then forced himself to loosen his grip. He leaned down and kissed her one last time. She didn’t respond. It felt like kissing a dead person. Brad stiffened at the odd, hollow sensation — a reminder that she was already halfway between worlds.
Connor stepped in on the other side, offering a steadying hand. “We’ve got her,” he said quietly. “We’ll take care of her. I promise.”
Brad let them help him out of the coffin. His legs felt unsteady, his chest tight, but he didn’t resist as Chase guided him back a few steps. The room felt colder now, as if the air itself were bracing for what came next.
Hailey leaned over her daughter, smoothing Bri’s hair back with trembling fingers, kissing her cheek before stepping away. There was something in her eyes — pride, grief, resignation — that made Brad’s stomach twist.
Connor nodded to Caelan.
The enforcer moved forward, in tandem with his son Connell, silent and precise, hands settling on the heavy lid. Their movements were ritualistic, practiced, almost reverent. This wasn’t just a coffin closing. It was a threshold.
Brad’s breath hitched.
As the top began to slide into place, he whispered into the dim, echoing chamber:
“I’ll be waiting for you, Bri. I’m not going anywhere. Please just come out of this in one piece. You too, Jas and Iris. I do hope you all make it out of this.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
And the lid sealed with a soft, final thud — a sound that felt far too small for how enormous it was. It echoed anyway, bouncing off stone walls, settling into Brad’s bones like a cold truth.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the closed coffin, at the ornate carvings that suddenly felt like a barrier between him and the life he thought he was about to have. When she rose again — when any of them did — they would still be themselves. But not entirely. Not in the way he knew. Not in the way he understood.
He didn’t know what version of Bri would open her eyes next. He didn’t know what version of him would be waiting.
With a long, shaky exhale, Brad turned to rejoin Pierce and Maeve — feeling, for the first time all night, like he was walking away from something he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully get back.
EchoesOfLegacy 