“The Lost Boys”
Forgotten Hollow had always been a place whispered about rather than spoken of. Nobody even knew where it really was, or if it was just a mythological place that never really existed. Only a few knew it was real and even fewer could even find it. A pocket of the world where the fog never quite lifted, where the air tasted faintly of iron and old secrets, and where the trees leaned in as if listening. Lanterns flickered behind shuttered windows, their glow swallowed by the perpetual dusk that clung to the valley like a second skin. It was a place that felt paused in time — not dead, not alive, but waiting.
And in that waiting lived the last remnants of vampire society, bound under Cesare Vannucci’s decree: no more fame, no more spectacle, no more rubbing mortal noses in immortality.
Not after Blaine Cameron had spent decades doing exactly that.
For years, the Camerons had been the exception. Scarlett Rose Cameron — Cesare’s firstborn daughter — and her husband Blaine, the immortal rock legend who strutted across global stages with fangs bared and a guitar slung low, raised eight children out loud. No shadows. No secrecy. No shame. They lived in Del Sol Valley, in the spotlight, in the chaos, in the noise — exactly where Blaine thrived. He loved the attention, the mythmaking, the spectacle. He fed on it as much as he fed on blood.
And for a long time, Cesare tolerated it.
But when Blaine Jr. — the youngest, the last-born, the one Cesare had always watched with a particular, ancient interest — turned eighteen, the indulgence ended.
Scarlett and Blaine — the older one, at least in years; his mental age and maturity level were another story entirely — were summoned back to Forgotten Hollow. To the mortal world, they simply vanished. Died, for all intends and purposes.
Fans mourned, speculated, obsessed for a while, as fans always do. Candlelight vigils. Tribute concerts. Conspiracy theories. Then, as Cesare knew they would, they drifted to the next scandal. Mortals forgot quickly — and Cesare had lived long enough to count on that. He scattered just enough breadcrumbs — a cryptic interview here, a staged sighting there, a conveniently timed rumor — to guide the world toward the conclusion he needed them to reach.
That the Camerons had met their makers.
Which, in a way, they had. Just not in the way anyone imagined.
The mortal descendants stayed in the world. They lived their lives. They aged. They had families of their own. And one of those families led to Channing.
“La La Land”
Channing Cameron had always been the golden one — literally and figuratively. Sun‑kissed, ocean‑raised, soft‑hearted in a way that didn’t fit the Del Sol Valley mold. His childhood in Sulani had been a watercolor of warm breezes and salt‑sweet air, the kind of place where the horizon felt close enough to touch and the days stretched long and lazy. The ocean had been his backyard, the tide his lullaby, the sand his playground. He grew up barefoot, bronzed, and blissfully unaware of how rare that kind of innocence was.
His parents, Reed and Cassidy, were older by the time they had him — actors who had spent their youth chasing roles, red carpets, and the kind of fame that flickered hot and brief. By the time Channing came along, they were done with all that. They wanted quiet. They wanted home. They wanted him.
They raised him with warmth, with trust, with the kind of love that made him believe people were good. His mother smelled like coconut oil and jasmine. His father always had a camera slung around his neck, capturing moments no one else thought to save. Their laughter filled the house like sunlight.
And then he got older. And the world proved him wrong.
The first time he opened up to someone, he was seventeen. A girl visiting Sulani with her influencer family — all ring lights, curated smiles, and the faint chemical scent of waterproof sunscreen. She flirted with him, laughed at his jokes, kissed him under the palm trees while the moonlight shimmered on the water. He’d thought it meant something.
The next morning, she posted the entire thing online. Not the kiss — the story. The name. The “exclusive.” The “inside scoop” on the Cameron heir she’d “accidentally” fallen for.
It was humiliating. But survivable.
The second time hurt more.
He was nineteen, in Del Sol Valley for a summer acting program. The city felt too loud, too bright, too sharp around the edges. He met a girl who seemed different — quieter, sweeter, someone whose smile didn’t look rehearsed. Someone who didn’t flinch when she learned his last name. He told her things he’d never told anyone. About Sulani. About his parents. About wanting to be more than just another pretty face with a famous lineage.
Two weeks later, she sold the story to a gossip site.
Not the scandalous parts — the personal parts. The soft parts. The parts he’d trusted her with.
He learned then that vulnerability was currency in Del Sol Valley. And he was bankrupt.
But the third time? That was the one that broke him.
He was twenty‑one, newly moved to Del Sol Valley full‑time into a fancy penthouse, trying to build a career, trying to honor his parents’ legacy. He met someone on set — an actress a few years older, someone he admired. She had a laugh like champagne bubbles and eyes that made him feel seen. She told him she liked him because he wasn’t jaded, because he was “refreshing,” because he still believed in people.
He let himself believe her. He let himself fall.
And then she used him.
Not for money. Not for fame. But for leverage.
She leaked private texts to make her ex jealous. She hinted at a relationship that didn’t exist. She let the tabloids spin it into a full‑blown romance scandal — and when Channing begged her to clear it up, she shrugged and said, “It’s good for both of us.”
It wasn’t.
It was the first time he realized people could smile at him while holding a knife behind their back.
After that, he stopped trying.
He kept things light. Kept things physical. Kept things temporary.
One night. Maybe two. Never more.
He didn’t let anyone close enough to hurt him again.
And then, six months ago, his parents died — both of them, within months, just like that. Cancer didn’t care that they were good people. It didn’t care that Channing wasn’t ready. It didn’t care that he’d never imagined a world without them.
He didn’t return home to Sulani because staying hurt too much. He sold his childhood home and stayed in Del Sol Valley because it was the only place he had family left. He moved in with Blaine because Blaine was the only person he trusted not to use him, not to twist him, not to break him.
Now he hides behind jokes and hookups and bravado. Now he pretends he doesn’t care. Now he keeps everyone at arm’s length.
Because the truth is simple:
Channing Cameron isn’t afraid of love. He’s afraid of being used again. He’s afraid of being exposed again. He’s afraid of losing someone again.
And he’s already lost enough.
“The Sound of Silence”
Blaine Jr. had grown up in the largest mansion in the Del Sol Valley Hills — a sprawling estate of glass and stone perched high enough to catch every sunrise and every scandal. The place had more rooms than he could count, more windows than made sense, and more ghosts of celebrity parties than he’d ever admit. At night, the city lights glittered below like a bowl of spilled diamonds; during the day, the sun poured through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows in warm, golden sheets that made the marble floors glow.
After his parents returned to Forgotten Hollow, the mansion felt too big. Too quiet. Too empty.
The silence echoed in the hallways, settling into corners like dust. Even the air felt different — colder, thinner, as if the house itself missed the chaos it had been built for.
And Blaine felt it too. He’d never admit it out loud, but the emptiness pressed on him in a way he couldn’t shake. Maybe because he’d already lost something once — something he’d never gotten back.
Before Channing. Before the mansion became a two‑man disaster zone. Before the jokes and the noise and the late‑night cereal debates.
There had been Lauren.
He’d met her at sixteen, during the semester he’d been exiled to Brindleton Bay — the “exchange program” everyone knew was really code for Blaine screwed up again. He’d expected boredom, cold weather, and academic punishment. Instead, he’d walked into AP Biology and found a girl with perfect posture, perfect grades, and a perfectly mapped‑out future who somehow saw past the chaos he wore like a second skin.
They were sixteen — too young to know anything, old enough to feel everything.
When the semester ended, neither of them let go.
They kept the long‑distance thing going for years — the rich‑kid version of long‑distance. Private jets. Red‑eye flights. Holiday breaks spent in one city or the other. Spring break in Sulani. Christmas in Brindleton Bay. New Year’s Del Sol Valley.
Lauren went to college early. Then med school. By her final year, she was already interviewing for residencies — most likely at one of her father’s facilities in Del Sol Valley or San Sequoia. Blaine had imagined her future so clearly he could almost touch it: her name on a clinic door, her white coat, her steady hands, her brilliance. He imagined himself beside her.
For the first time in his life, he’d wanted something that wasn’t handed to him. He wanted her.
And then everything fell apart.
Her older brother Graham died in a tragic accident. His fiancée was pregnant. The Cunningham world shattered. Lauren — steady, responsible, dutiful Lauren — stayed to hold her family together.
She told Blaine she couldn’t live his fast‑paced life. Not now. Not ever.
He tried to sway her. Begged her. Promised he’d change.
When she still said no, something inside him snapped. He said things he couldn’t take back.
She walked away. And Blaine let her.
He regretted it the second she was gone.
But now it was too late. No way back. No coming back from all that, no taking back harsh words that had been spoken. Something had broken between them. He knew it. He knew trying to fix it now would only make it much worse.
Since then, no girl had ever lived up to her. No one came close. And he refused — absolutely refused — to let anyone close enough to break him like that again.
And he knew by stalking her social feeds, and those of everyone else who knew her too, that she was still not seeing anyone new. It had been over six months now since the break. No. More. She remembered seeing photos of a maternity ward door and a caption “Nephew time times two!”. So around eight, nine months. Something like that. Forever, in the world he lived in, fast paced.
So when Channing asked if he could move in, Blaine didn’t hesitate. Noise was better than silence. Company was better than ghosts.
Now the two young men — related, but only in the kind of way that required a whiteboard and a headache to explain — lived together in the mansion overlooking the Valley. Two mortals tied to an immense Cameron legacy and a legendary vampire dynasty. Two heirs to a history built on fame, blood, and impossible expectations.
And somehow, they’d ended up with each other — roommates, friends, the only people in the world who understood the weight they carried.
“The Odd Couple”
They were keeping each other sane in the most Cameron way possible: by annoying the hell out of each other beside a luxury pool.
The afternoon sun hung low and warm, turning the water into a sheet of glittering turquoise. The scent of chlorine mingled with citrus from the lemon trees lining the patio. Channing lounged on a sunbed, sunglasses slipping down his nose, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone drifting toward sleep. His skin glowed a deep, honeyed gold — the kind of tan that made casting directors sigh and lighting techs weep with gratitude.
Blaine stood over him, casting a long shadow across Channing’s stomach. His expression was unreadable — that calm, slightly bored look he wore whenever he was about to do something deeply inconvenient to someone else. A look that hid far more than it revealed.
A single droplet of condensation slid down the side of Blaine’s glass.
He tipped it.
The cold splash hit Channing square in the chest.
With a strangled yelp and a flurry of flailing limbs, Channing lurched off the lounger like a man electrocuted. His sunglasses flew sideways, skidding across the stone patio. He stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling, before whipping around to glare at the dark‑haired figure standing over him.
“What is wrong with you, Blaine?!” he sputtered, shaking droplets off his arms like an offended golden retriever.
Blaine didn’t even blink. He just stood there, one hip cocked, expression flat and unimpressed — the exact look he wore whenever he was about to justify something objectively unhinged.
“You told me not to let you fall asleep in the sun again,” he replied, deadpan. “Last time you turned extra‑crispy and lost an almost certain callback because you looked like Larry the Lobster.”
Channing’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t ask you to empty a can of soda on me, you idiot!”
“Wasn’t a can.” Blaine lifted the glass, ice clinking softly. “Just whatever was left in my drink.”
“That is sticky as shit!”
Blaine didn’t bother arguing. He simply stepped forward, grabbed Channing by the wrist with a bored sort of efficiency, and shoved him straight into the massive, glittering pool beside them.
Channing vanished with another scream and a spectacular splash, water erupting upward in a sunlit arc.
Blaine watched the ripples spread, his expression still maddeningly calm.
Channing resurfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to his forehead, water streaming down the sharp lines of his face. Even soaked and sputtering, he looked like a man sculpted for a camera lens — tall, broad‑shouldered, sun‑kissed skin gleaming under the Valley light. His blonde hair darkened to honey in the water, and his aqua eyes flashed up at Blaine with wounded betrayal.
“You—are such an asshole.”
Blaine only smirked, the expression cutting across his face with lazy confidence. He stood over the pool’s edge, hands in the pockets of his board shorts, looking every bit the dark‑haired foil to Channing’s golden chaos. Where Channing was sunlight, Blaine was dusk — tall, lean, tan in a cooler shade, with hair so dark it was almost black and eyes the pale green of seaglass held up to the sun.
“No,” Blaine said, voice smooth as the water beneath them. “I fix problems. You were about to fry yourself, I fixed that. Then you whined about being sticky, voila — there’s a pool. Fixed. You’re welcome.”
“For what? Assault?!”
“For saving your career. Again.”
Channing swam to the edge, bracing his hands on the warm stone. Water dripped down his arms, catching the sunlight in a way that made him look like he’d been carved out of the ocean itself.
“There are nicer ways to wake someone up!”
“I know,” Blaine said, shrugging. “But I don’t kiss dudes.”
Channing blinked. “Who said anything about kissing?! You could’ve just shaken me awake like a normal person.”
“You don’t wake up like a normal person.” Blaine crouched down, elbows resting on his knees. “Last time you swung at me. I couldn’t chew right for days.”
“That was one time!”
“You aimed for my face. My moneymaker, you retard. Still pissed at you for that.”
Channing opened his mouth, closed it, then jabbed a wet finger upward. “You startled me.”
“You were snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“You do,” Blaine said, tone flat as a cutting board. “It’s like a baby walrus trying to breathe through a kazoo.”
Channing stared. “What does that even—”
“Exactly.”
Channing groaned and let his head fall back against the pool’s edge, eyes closing in dramatic agony. The sun caught on the droplets clinging to his lashes, turning them silver.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Right now I do.”
Blaine’s expression softened — barely, but enough for someone who knew him. He studied Channing with that infuriatingly calm look he always wore, the one that made Channing feel seen and judged and weirdly understood all at once.
“You’re welcome,” Blaine repeated quietly.
Channing cracked one eye open. “For what now?”
“For not letting you fry your face off again. You’ve got an audition tomorrow — you really want to walk in looking like suntan Barbie gone wrong?”
Channing scoffed. “Barbie? If anything, I’d be Ken.”
Blaine didn’t miss a beat. “Not if you let the sun roast your pencil‑dick off. Sun is serious. Someone who lost both parents to cancer should know better.”
Channing hesitated — just long enough for Blaine to know he’d won.
“Still didn’t have to dump soda on me,” Channing muttered.
“It was there.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Gee, wonder why.”
Blaine smiled — slow, crooked, and annoyingly charming.
“Walk of Shame”
The next morning, the mansion was quiet in that particular way it only ever was after a night of questionable decisions. Soft sunlight filtered through the massive kitchen windows, catching dust motes in slow, lazy spirals. The marble counters gleamed. The air smelled faintly of coffee, citrus, and the chlorine still clinging to Blaine’s skin.
Blaine padded into the kitchen shirtless, yawning, hair a mess, eyes half‑open — the picture of a man who had slept, but not well. He rummaged for coffee with the single‑minded determination of someone who would commit crimes for caffeine.
He’d just found the mug he liked — the chipped black one Channing hated, the one that looked like it had survived the Civil War and still read, in what used to be white letters, “World’s Okayest Son” — when he heard a door click.
Both he and Channing looked up at the same time.
A woman tip‑toed across the marble foyer, heels in hand, makeup smudged, hair wild in a way that suggested she’d been gorgeous before the night got to her. She froze mid‑step when she noticed the two men staring at her — one bleary, one amused.
Channing lifted his mug in a polite little salute. “Morning.”
She squeaked out a mortified “Hi,” cheeks flushing, then bolted through the kitchen and out the front door like a startled deer, sprinting toward a car with an Uber sign glowing in the window just outside the mansion gates.
The moment the door clicked shut, Blaine—still barefoot, still holding his chipped black World’s Okayest Son mug—turned to Channing with a slow, evil grin spreading across his face.
“Damn. Couldn’t even get yourself to have the driver take her home, huh?”
“She wasn’t worth waking him up for,” Channing muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s too early on a Sunday for that.”
Blaine blinked. “It’s Wednesday.”
Channing shrugged, opening the fridge like this was normal. “Same thing.”
Blaine stared at him like he was observing a rare, stupid species. “You’re one regular Prince Charming, huh? And by that I mean the jump‑scare kind of nightmare to anyone with tits. No wonder women have so many bad things to say about men. They all must’ve met you.”
From behind the fridge door, Channing shot him a look. “Oh, as if you’re any better.”
Blaine didn’t even blink. “I am better. I’m upfront. I tell every chick exactly what I’m there for — whatever helps out my pant‑dwelling alter ego in a pinch. That way nobody’s expecting me to carry them over the threshold after one good fuck.”
Channing froze halfway through taking a sip of water. “You… actually say that?”
Blaine shrugged, completely unbothered. “Not in those exact words. But the message is clear.”
Channing grabbed a bottle of water and leaned against the counter with a groan. “Well, you get what you give with me. If a chick is worth it, I’ll wine and dine her before a repeat performance after the initial test run. This one though was good for one thing and one thing only, and that’s all I’m gonna say about it.”
Blaine snorted into his mug. “Nice. Figured out your chick rating. Hers is trash if you made her call her own Uber to haul her raggedy ass back to wherever you found her.” He took a lazy sip, unbothered. “I like low‑maintenance in a pinch. When you’re done with her, give me her number.”
Channing snorted into his coffee. “Don’t bother. My Yelp review would be ‘Do not recommend.’ Skip that one.”
Blaine choked on his sip, coughing. “Dude! Then why was she still here in the morning?”
“She fell asleep right after we finally got to the good stuff,” Channing said, dragging a hand through his hair. “And I didn’t feel like waking her up again. She spent half the night talking about her crystal collection and how Mercury is in retrograde while blue‑balling me. I thought I was gonna astral‑project out of my own body just to escape. Eventually I just… well, used my pant-dwelling friend to redirect the situation so she’d stop talking.”
“Damn. You attract the weird ones,” Blaine laughed, leaning against the counter.
“You attract the clingy ones,” Channing shot back. “Remember that girl who tried to leave her toothbrush here after one date?”
“That was your date.” Blaine’s grin widened.
“Oh shit, you’re right.”
“I know I am. I don’t bring that shit home.” Blaine shrugged, casual as ever. “I screw my one‑night stress relievers in the car, like a normal nepo‑baby asshole. Cleaner that way. Nobody ever crosses my threshold. No walks of shame, no toothbrushes and no talk about crystal whatevers.”
“Aren’t you worried about the fallout?” Channing asked, raising a brow. “They might run straight to the next reporter with the full exclusive.”
“So what?” Blaine said, pouring more coffee. “All they do is look like a hussy. Some golddigging whore trying to angle herself someone like me? Whoever takes a source like that serious deserves the BS news they get. Plus, the stalkerazzi write shit about me whether I did something wrong or not. Might as well give them something accurate to clutch their pearls to for once.”
They dissolved into laughter — loud, unfiltered, echoing through the cavernous kitchen and making the mansion feel less empty, less haunted.
Two young men who had everything. Two young men who trusted almost no one. Two young men who somehow ended up trusting each other anyway.
“Enter The Dragon”
They were still laughing about Channing’s disastrous date — now sprawled across opposite ends of the living room couches, Blaine channel‑surfing with the remote dangling loosely from his fingers — when the front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the chandelier.
The sound cracked through the mansion like a gunshot.
“HELLO, MY FAVORITE DISAPPOINTMENTS! DADDY’S HOOOOOOME! Grab your socks and drop your cocks!”
The voice boomed through the marble foyer, echoing off the high ceilings with vampiric resonance.
Channing froze mid‑sip. Blaine didn’t even look up — he just closed his eyes like a man who had accepted his fate long ago.
Only one man on earth entered a room like that.
Blaine Cameron — the Sr., even though he didn’t look much older than the junior version of him. Immortal. Rock legend. Chaos incarnate.
He strolled in with vampiric speed, sunglasses on indoors, dark brown hair shaggy and longer than it had been in any of his last three album covers. He wore a leather jacket he absolutely didn’t need, boots that clicked dramatically on the marble, and a grin that promised trouble.
Channing groaned under his breath. “Oh god. Why is he here.”
Blaine Jr. didn’t look away from the TV. “Because the universe hates us.”
“Boys!” Blaine Sr. spread his arms wide like he was greeting a stadium crowd. “Look at you! Both of you look like poster children for some rehab center. When’s the last time you used your beds to actually sleep? I’m so proud.”
“Hi, Dad,” Blaine muttered, deadpan.
“Don’t ‘hi Dad’ me. I am here on official business,” Blaine Sr. swooped in, snatching the remote from his son’s hand with supernatural reflexes, the TV shut off with a buzz, as Blaine tossed the remote onto a credenza like a piece of hot coal. Then he dropped himself onto the opposite couch with the dramatic flourish of a man claiming a throne.
Channing blinked. “Official… what? What does that even mean?”
Blaine Sr. leaned back, boots up on the coffee table, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal eyes that sparkled with mischief and centuries of bad decisions.
“It means,” he said, “his mother and I have been talking.”
Both boys froze. Traded a glance and a frown.
Nothing good ever followed that sentence.
Blaine Sr. steepled his fingers like a man about to deliver a TED Talk no one asked for.
“We’re thinking about the future. The Cameron future. The mortal branch. The legacy of fame. The whole dramatic family‑tree‑soap‑opera bullshit.”
Channing whispered, “I hate this already.”
“Shut up, great‑grandbaby of mine — Great‑Grandpa’s talking and I’m not done.” Blaine Sr. pointed at them with a ringed finger, expression somewhere between exasperated and delighted. “You two are young men. Hot. Stupid. Full of hormones and bad decisions — been there, done that, still wearing the shirt. So listen carefully. Maybe take some notes on those Smartphones you always have growing out of your hands, since we all know your generation has the memory of a broken strainer.”
They exchanged a look — the kind that said brace yourself.
“When you’re young,” Blaine Sr. continued, “you should absolutely get the chaos out of your systems. Helps keep it in your pants later on. Speaking from experience. Sleep around now. Date disasters. Make mistakes. Party till you drop. Wake up in places you don’t remember getting to. Do dumb shit. Trust me, I’ve done all of it and more. Helps you not wonder ‘what if’ later on when reality strikes.”
“We know,” Blaine Jr. said flatly.
“Everyone knows about your legendary escapades,” Channing added.
“Good,” Blaine Sr. said, clapping his hands once. “Because here’s the deal.”
He leaned forward, sunglasses sliding even lower.
“Once you boys are done with fucking around — literally — we have a prize for ya. Survey says: the first one of you idiots who gets married and produces a kid—”
“Oh god,” Blaine whispered.
“—gets the mansion.”
Silence.
Then:
“WHAT?!” both boys shouted.
Blaine Sr. grinned like a man who had just thrown a grenade into a quiet room and was waiting to see who lost a limb.
“That’s right. Cameron Mansion. The big one. The crown jewel of the Hills. The estate everyone in DSV drools over. The one everyone wants — just like its owner. Which is me, before you get any dumb ideas.” Blaine Sr. jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “I own this shed, and I’m trying to find a worthy replacement for its keeper. I made eight babies, you’d think there would be someone worthy among all that, but so far, it looks like it boils down to you two fairies — stakes are high. Best get to it, since I was only on the mortal clock until Scarlett accidentally turned me, or that pretty boy namesake of mine over there wouldn’t even exist, ’cause Letty and I would’ve been long dead before we could’ve conceived his ungrateful ass, seeing how Channing’s grandpappy Blake was his brother with a sixty‑year age gap. So, since you both are on actual timers, tic-toc you little fuckers.”
He spread his arms wide, rings glinting, the leather jacket shifting just enough to reveal more tattoos — and the loose collar of his tee, the off‑color print reading “I Don’t Pull Out — I Create Legacies” already hinted at. Clearly, he had chosen it for the occasion, to make a point.
“Meaning: you’ve got big shoes and a lot of cradles to fill if you wanna reach my level. Find yourselves decent girls, not airheaded golddiggers and get fucking, sweet children o’mine. First one to the delivery room is the winner.”
Channing sputtered. “You’re bribing us to have kids?!”
“With MY home?” Blaine Jr. demanded. “Dad, this is my house. I grew up here. As did you. You are presumed dead, so I am your heir, at least officially. This is already mine. I don’t need to power-screw babies into some chicks when I am not even ready to date again – and you know why. You KNOW. You were there for the whole Lauren mess. You and mom both.”
“Nope, junior,” Blaine Sr. said cheerfully. “Your legacy math is off, and this is still mine. And your mother’s. And Blake — this blond bozo’s grandpa — was my son too. Your older brother. So, if ya follow tradition, Channing has even more right to it. That whole first come, first serve inheritance shit. Lucky for you, I am not a trad dad.”
He wagged a finger, grin widening. “But I seriously don’t recommend testing me on who really owns this place. Go ahead. I’m sure Cesare would love a few more fanged residents of Forgotten Hollow — or Forgot‑To‑Swallow, as I like to call it. Especially some with his own DNA in them. Oh, that excludes you, Channing since your great-grandma wasn’t actually my Letty. Oh well. We don’t really have many blonde vamps, so go ahead, piss me off till I feel like turning people.”
Blaine Jr. groaned. Channing snorted.
“So nope, not bribing. Incentivizing.” He now paced, boots clicking, jacket flaring dramatically. “Just like Cesare incentivized me and Junior’s mother to move to his shitty‑ass town — or else there’d be nothing left of me but a steaming pile of ashes. Didn’t sound like fun, and I was not gonna let mean daddy break my baby girl’s heart by offing me, the problematic son-in-law, and I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna give Caelan the satisfaction to finally be rid of me, so I just kinda… didn’t object. Plus, I always knew Letty hated leaving her hometown, she spent a few lifetimes living here with me in mine, only fair I spend the next few lifetimes with her in hers, and then we’ll see where the winds of change may carry us.”
He stopped, turned, and pointed at both boys with both hands like he was announcing a game show twist.
“But you know what they say about shit rolling downhill.” A beat. A wicked grin. “Guess who’s downhill right now.”
Blaine Jr. stared at him. “Okay fine, dad. I’ll play along. So, incentivizing? That doesn’t sound like a word you even know, let alone use.”
“Sounds like Cesare,” Channing muttered.
Blaine Sr. scoffed. “Cesare doesn’t give two fucks you could rub together about what you mortal randos do. He only cares if you got fangs. Unlike me. I care if you got Cameron DNA — and since I made you with my own parts, and blondie here by proxy, I care a great fucking much.”
He stood, pacing dramatically.
“We are sitting in my childhood home here, so yeah, I fucking care mucho!”
Blaine Jr. rubbed his face. “This is insane.”
“Boys,” Blaine Sr. said, already striding toward the door, “what’s with the surprised faces. Have you met me? Everything I do is insane. But this? This is practical. Legacy. Continuity. The mortal Camerons with the artistic talent need a home base again.”
He waved a hand dismissively, as if the entire family tree were a disappointing group project.
“And we need more Camerons with artistic talent, since your brothers’ and sisters’ kids and their kids squandered theirs to do other bullshit — like be doctors and lawyers and— urgh — royals. Fuckin’ failures.”
Channing blinked. “Being a doctor is a failure?”
“YES,” Blaine Sr. barked. “If you can’t shred a guitar solo or command a stage, what’s the point?! Everyone can learn how to cut organs out of people, but it takes something special to command a stadium full of people to sing every word of every song you wrote and composed while dousing you in their hard‑earned cash.”
He jabbed a finger at both of them.
“So it’s up to YOU to breed the next round of Camerons who know how to hold a guitar and have stage presence. Tallyho, motherfuckers. Like, literally. Fuck some chicks till they’re mothers of the next big Cameron thing.”
He paused, squinting at them like he was evaluating livestock.
“And… find pretty ones. I don’t want ugly‑ass descendants. Don’t create anything I wouldn’t wanna fuck if I weren’t related.”
Silence.
Absolute, catastrophic silence.
Channing made a strangled noise — somewhere between a gasp, a choke, and a dying sea lion. Blaine Jr. froze mid‑blink, eyes wide, face draining of color like his soul had just left his body.
Channing finally managed, “Dude—WHAT THE—NO. No. No. No. Stop talking.”
Blaine Jr. slapped a hand over his own face. “Dad. Dad. Dad. You cannot say shit like that. Ever. In any universe.”
Channing pointed at Blaine Sr. with a trembling hand. “That was… that was a war crime. Against my brain.”
Blaine Jr. groaned into both palms. “I need bleach. For my ears. And my lineage.”
Channing shuddered violently. “I think my DNA just filed a restraining order.”
Unfazed, Blaine Sr. reached the doorway, paused, and turned back with a dramatic flourish — jacket swinging, rings flashing, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the glint of pure, unfiltered chaos in his eyes.
“Well, I just needed something for effect to make sure you both heard me. And tell me now all that isn’t burned into those sparrow brains of yours.” He shrugged. “Oh — and Letty wanted me to tell you we’re not total dicks. The loser gets a nice house somewhere else, a few bucks, and a warm handshake.”
A beat. A wicked grin.
“Good luck. You’ll need it. And while some of it was in good humor, I meant what I said about decent‑looking mothers for the next round of Camerons. We are not doing our own personal ‘breed out the ugly’ challenge here. If whatever you create with your built in Cameron-makers comes out hideous, I will remember that I am a big, bad, evil vampire and drown that muppet you made, your wifey, and you in the next lake.”
Then he was suddenly gone from view.
“After The Storm”
The front door slammed with supernatural force, rattling the picture frames and sending a faint tremor through the marble floor. The echo lingered in the cavernous foyer like the aftershock of a small earthquake.
Silence settled over the living room.
Blaine stared at the doorway, jaw slack, eyes unfocused — the expression of a man whose brain had blue‑screened. Channing looked equally stunned, mouth slightly open, eyebrows frozen halfway up his forehead.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Channing exhaled a single, breathless word.
“…What the actual hell.”
Blaine blinked slowly, like a computer rebooting. “I… I don’t know.”
Channing dragged both hands down his face. “He just—he just walked in here, insulted us, trauma‑dumped a family legacy quest, and then left like he was late for a soundcheck.”
“That’s… uh … yeah … kinda accurate,” Blaine said faintly.
Channing paced in a tight circle, wet hair still dripping from his earlier pool dunk, leaving little dark spots on the carpet. “He wants us to what? Race to get married? Pop out a kid? For a house?”
“It’s not just a house,” Blaine muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s this house.”
Channing stopped pacing. His expression softened — just a fraction. “Yeah. I know. I was there. Wish I hadn’t been.”
Blaine looked around the room — the high ceilings, the sunlight spilling across the floor, the faint scent of citrus drifting in from the patio. Memories flickered behind his eyes: birthday parties, late‑night jam sessions, Scarlett’s laughter echoing down the halls, his father teaching him guitar on the staircase, his mother dancing barefoot in the kitchen. Huge gatherings, often just relatives, filling every room of the mansion with noise and warmth. Blaine’s childhood had been amazing. Full of laughter and love.
But that was before the government changed.
Before the new administration decided that anything even remotely occult was a “national security concern.”
Before the laws shifted. Before the registries. Before the surveillance.
Suddenly, vampires weren’t just a secret — they were a liability. The government didn’t outlaw them. They did something worse.
They regulated them into oblivion.
Mandatory supernatural registries. Occult‑adjacent family audits. Restrictions on gatherings over ten people. Random home inspections. Travel bans for “associated persons.” Neighborhood monitoring zones around known supernatural households.
Before Cesare could get ahead of it, the government had already wiped out entire outposts of unaffiliated vampires — the ones who refused coven structure, who lived quietly on the fringes. The new laws left them exposed, and they were gone before anyone could intervene.
And the Camerons — even the mortal ones — were flagged as “high‑risk associates.”
It became clear very quickly that the only way to protect the family was for Blaine Sr. and Scarlett to “die.”
Cesare was done negotiating with a mortal government that tried to corner him at every turn. So he drew the consequences.
A staged death. A quiet disappearance. A clean break.
He made it believable. He knew exactly how vampires could die — and he crafted a scenario so airtight that no agency, no task force, no bureaucrat had anything left to argue with.
If the vampire parents were gone, the government would eventually lose interest. The pressure would ease. The surveillance would fade. The mortal Camerons could breathe again.
And it worked.
The government swallowed the story whole, congratulating themselves for “resolving” a threat they never understood. The Cameron descendants were finally left alone. And Cesare — no longer forced to tolerate mortals peering over his shoulder, trying to decipher his every move — allowed himself and the remaining vampire population to slip back into the shadows.
To become myths again. Stories. Creatures that didn’t exist in daylight, at least as far as mortals were concerned.
It made his life easier. And after many decades of compromise, he welcomed the quiet.
But the cost was enormous.
Without Blaine and Scarlett — the heart, the glue, the gravitational center of the entire legacy — the gatherings felt hollow. Forced. Wrong. Everyone showed up, but no one stayed long. No one laughed the same. No one filled the rooms the way they used to.
And Blaine and Scarlett couldn’t just pop up anymore. Not unless they were absolutely sure no one was watching. Not unless the street was empty, the neighbors asleep, the surveillance drones nowhere in sight. The risk was just too high. One slipup and the entire safety net would blow up in their faces.
The world had changed, and the Camerons had to change with it.
Blaine Sr. lost his career — the stage, the crowds, the music, the spotlight that had always been part of his identity. One day he was a legend; the next, he was a liability. A risk. A name that couldn’t appear on a marquee without triggering a federal audit.
And now he was “dead.”
Officially. Permanently. A ghost in every system that once celebrated him.
He couldn’t tour. He couldn’t record. He couldn’t even step into a studio without risking exposure.
The man who had spent decades commanding stadiums — tens of thousands of people chanting his name, singing every word he wrote, drowning him in their adoration — was suddenly reduced to playing for an audience of one.
Music became something private. Something small. Something he shared only with Scarlett in the quiet of their hidden home.
No more roaring crowds. No more lights. No more thunderous applause shaking the floor beneath his boots.
Just him. Just Scarlett. Just the echo of a life he wasn’t allowed to live anymore.
Scarlett tried to console him, distract him, keep him from spiraling. But he changed too. He withdrew. He quieted. He pulled back from the family he had spent generations staying close to — the same family he used to drag into every celebration, every milestone, every excuse to gather.
His absence was a wound. Scarlett’s absence was another.
The family tried to keep up what they used to have — the big dinners, the chaotic reunions, the music nights, the laughter echoing through the mansion. But after a few half‑hearted attempts, the gatherings simply… stopped.
And like leaves in the wind, the Cameron siblings and their descendants drifted apart — scattered across cities, careers, marriages, and lives that no longer intersected the way they once had.
The mansion that had once overflowed with Camerons now sat quiet, echoing with memories of a family that had been forced to fracture itself to survive.
“This place…” Blaine swallowed. “It’s the only home I’ve ever had.”
Channing’s chest tightened. He didn’t say anything — he didn’t need to. He knew what it was like to lose a home. To lose everything.
Blaine let out a shaky breath. “And now it’s a prize in some fucked‑up Cameron Hunger Games.”
Channing snorted. “Legacy & Cameron: Catching Feelings. The Baby Race.”
Blaine cracked a smile — small, but real. “Shut up.”
Channing flopped onto the couch beside him, limbs sprawled, head tipped back against the cushions. “Okay. Let’s think this through. He wants us to settle down. Get married. Have kids. For a mansion.”
Blaine nodded slowly. “Yep.”
Channing turned his head to look at him. “We are two emotionally damaged, trust‑averse, real intimacy‑avoidant idiots who just fuck to scratch an itch, no strings attached.”
“Correct.”
“We can barely commit to a brand of cereal.”
“Also correct.”
Channing threw his hands up. “So how the hell does he expect either of us to commit to a whole human being?!”
Blaine let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the whole point.”
Channing frowned. “What do you mean?”
Blaine leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Dad thinks we’re hopeless. He thinks neither of us will ever settle down. This is his way of forcing us to grow up. He even said we had time to get it all out of our system. So, he’s not expecting it tomorrow. Just told us that he IS expecting it, eventually. When you grow up with them, you understand that vampires always think long-term without even meaning to, because time really has little meaning for them, if any. She he could mean next week or ten years from now.”
Channing considered that. “So… either way though, he’s manipulating us.”
“Yep.”
“For our own good.”
“Yep.”
“Is that normal for him?”
“Oh yeah.”
Channing groaned. “I hate when he does that.”
“Same.”
They sat in silence again — but this time, it wasn’t stunned. It was heavy. Thoughtful. A little scared.
Finally, Channing nudged Blaine’s knee with his foot. “Hey.”
Blaine looked over.
“We’re not letting this ruin us, right?”
Blaine shook his head. “No. Never.”
Channing nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if you start acting weird and competitive, power-dating hot chicks, I’m moving out.”
“If you are moving out,” Blaine said dryly, “I wouldn’t have to worry about all this.”
Channing smirked. “Yeah you would. The rule wasn’t about moving out, but about having a wedding band and a kid first. I can do that from anywhere and then just come home to collect. Especially if there is no timer on it.”
He wiggled his eyebrows, smirking victoriously, while Blaine flipped him off.
Blaine raised a brow. “Well, if you have somewhere better to go, then go. I’m not keeping you.”
“If I had anywhere better to be, I wouldn’t be here enduring your constant abuse and that stupid mug.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “The one for the coffee, I mean. Well… actually the one you see when you look in a mirror too.”
They sat there, two young men with too much history and too many wounds, staring at the doorway where Blaine Sr. had vanished — the doorway that now represented a future neither of them felt ready for.
But at least they weren’t facing it alone.
Echoes Of Legacy 