Ravenwood – Again

A different night. A different world.

I’m in a dark suit again, standing in an upscale ballroom carved from polished marble and old money. Crystal chandeliers drip light like molten gold. The air hums with perfume, ambition, and the faint metallic tang of nerves — mortals pretending they don’t smell like fear, vampires pretending they don’t notice.

Banners hang along the walls, ornate and gold‑trimmed, announcing an engagement with all the subtlety of a royal decree.

I walk outside to the balcony, needing air — proverbially, obviously. Breathing is optional for me; it’s more of a… grounding technique. A zen ball of “inhale oxygen, exhale the urge to pick up half this party, yeet them off the balcony, and see who flies the farthest.” Frankly, the fantasy is more calming than the faux respiration.

The night is cool. Quiet. Indifferent. A welcome contrast to the ballroom’s suffocating warmth.

Footsteps approach — soft, measured, familiar.

Dorian joins me, offering a whiskey on the rocks like a peace treaty.

“Ah,” I mutter. “Finally. A real drink.”

He huffs a laugh. We clink glasses — crystal tapping crystal, a sound too delicate for the weight we both carry.

Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… heavy. The kind of silence shared by two men raised in gilded cages.

I sigh. “Should I congratulate or offer condolences?”

Dorian smiles — genuinely, impossibly — and leans against the railing beside me, the city lights catching in his dark eyes. “Congratulate. Definitely.”

“Oh? How’d you pull that off? Last time you hated every one of the girls.”

“Last time was almost twelve weeks ago,” he says, swirling the whiskey like he’s contemplating drowning in it. “I know for you Fangs time moves like molasses, but for those of us on mortal timers with the future of an entire lineage as well as a margraviate on our shoulder, a quarter year is practically an era.”

I snort.

It’s true. Vampires can go years without seeing one another, and when we finally cross paths again, it feels like only a moment has passed. A blink in the dark. Nothing at all. But mortals… mortals change so fast it’s disorienting. You look away for what feels like a heartbeat and suddenly they’re older, heavier, thinner, hardened, softened — different in ways you can’t track.

And they’ll rub your nose in your absence, too, as if you chose to forget them. As if time means the same thing to us as it does to them.

They never understand that it doesn’t. It can’t.

For them, time is a current dragging them forward. For us, it’s a still lake — quiet, undisturbed, barely shifting unless something hits the surface hard enough to send waves across it. And by the time we notice the ripples, they’ve already moved on. In some cases they are gone.

“Anyway,” he continues, “coincidence helped. Father dragged us to one of his allies’ estates for their daughter’s eighteenth birthday. She’d been away at boarding school abroad until then.”

He chuckles — soft, disbelieving, almost embarrassed. “Lo and behold, I took one look and was gone. Feeling was mutual.”

I raise a brow. “That fast?”

“Oh yes, my dear Damon, when you know, you know. Especially when your parents are already herding you toward the altar with any unmarried girl they consider even marginally suitable. She’s a bit young, so we attempted to keep things proper. That lasted… perhaps five minutes. Then we kissed. Then we were sneaking around. And two weeks ago she peed on a stick and returned with news.”

I sputter into my whiskey — the vampire equivalent of choking, since actual choking requires lungs that do more than sit there looking decorative. Back before my body turned into the immortal hunk of greatness it is today, all those organs did something. All vampires were mortal once. Those born to it — like me, my father, my grandfather — grew up mortal until puberty, when the transition hit. Those who were turned obviously lived a full mortal life first. Either way, once upon a mostly forgotten time, we all had working internal organs, and we actually needed them just like the rest of you. Then the change came, and now all that keep you alive just… sits there.

Dorian grins, the aristocratic kind — refined, exhausted, and faintly smug. “So I told my father. He dragged me to ask for her hand. The old Orlov wasn’t thrilled — she’s young — but once we added the small new fact, he practically drove me to the jeweler himself. The Orlovs aren’t exactly hurting for money, but having his youngest daughter marry the future Margrave of Ravenwood? That put a very big smile on his face.”

He lifts his glass toward the banners inside, the gold catching in the ballroom light like a coronation. “And… here we are. And yes, Damon — from where I’m standing, this is the best outcome imaginable. I get to marry a girl I am very fond of — dare I call it love — a very attractive one at that, and the tough decision of when to start planning for an heir has already been made for us. It had to happen, but now, once the little bugger is born and starts annoying us, we can blame it on circumstance.”

I chuckle, and we clink glasses again — crystal ringing like a tiny, elegant death knell.

He glances sideways. “How’s your quest for female companionship going?”

I stare out at the vast scenery lying dark before us, untouched by the estate’s lights — the forest stretching out like a shadowed ocean.

“It’s not. Let’s leave it at that.”

I feel his eyes on me — sharp, perceptive, too knowing. In my peripheral vision, he nods with a solemnity that feels older than his years.

Usually, this is where someone offers the same tired line about how being a Coven Enforcer isn’t an excuse — how my father and grandfather are both Enforcers and still chose to have families. Usually, this is where I shut down. Storm off. Or stare moodily into the distance until they take the hint and remove their nose from my business.

Not necessary with Dorian.

No unsolicited advice. No pity. No “I have this friend who…” nonsense.

He simply empties his glass, pushes off the railing, pats my back once — a gesture that’s both sympathy and farewell — and disappears inside.

The knot in my stomach tightens, crawls up into my chest, makes my skin feel too tight. I can’t stand still. I can’t breathe in that ballroom full of gold and congratulations and futures that belong to other people.

So I walk.

Down the stone steps. Through the sprawling gardens. Past hedges trimmed into perfect shapes. Past lanterns glowing warm against the night. Past the last manicured edge of the estate.

Until I reach the wild.

The air is colder here. Sharper. Real. It cuts through the noise in my head like a blade.

I keep walking until the trees open into a clearing — a small lake, still as glass, the moon hanging above it like a pale coin.

I stop at the water’s edge.

The moonlight hits the surface, silver and perfect. The trees reflect. The sky reflects. The world reflects.

I don’t.

Just a floating whiskey glass in the dark. It would be funny if it didn’t feel like a punch — a reminder of every way I am different from the people who get to live real lives. People who get to choose. People who get to love. People who get to hold on to something that doesn’t slip through their fingers the moment they reach for it.

Something in me snaps.

A sound tears out of my throat — raw, feral, ripped from somewhere deep and ancient. It echoes across the clearing, bounces off the water, disappears into the trees.

I hurl the glass as hard as I can. It arcs through the air, catches the moonlight, and shatters against a rock with a sharp, crystalline crack.

The silence afterward is deafening.

Shards rain into the lake, sending ripples across the surface — widening, widening, until the whole world seems to tremble with them. And I can’t help drawing the parallel. One small thing, one moment, one mistake… and everything else shifts. That’s how my life works. That’s how it’s always worked.

Ripples.

I stand there, chest heaving out of habit more than need, fists clenched, staring at the circles spreading across the lake — each one reaching farther than the last, each one reminding me that nothing I touch ever stays still.

I don’t cry. I don’t know if I can.

But something inside me folds in on itself — a collapse without sound, without tears, without witnesses.

Just me. The night. And the empty space where she used to be.

And as the ripples stilled, I understood the cruelest part of it all — I never really had her, not beyond a few stolen breaths and borrowed moments… yet somehow she remained, lodged beneath my ribs like a ghost that refused to leave.

The Diner on Third Street

I don’t mean to go back.

I tell myself all sorts of excuses. That I’m in the city anyway. That I need noise. That I need anonymity. That I’m not thinking about her.

Lies. All of them.

I came back for her.

She isn’t the nameless fling all the others were.
She hit different.
Somehow.
In a way I can’t explain without sounding unhinged.

The first night, she’s not there. Fine. People take days off. Even I know that.

The second night, she’s still not there. Stranger, considering she told me how much her family needs every penny. But fine. Mortals are fragile. They need rest.

The third night, something in my chest tightens.

I sit in the same booth. Order the same beer I don’t drink. Pretend I’m not watching the counter.

A different waitress brings my drink.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, I stop her as she passes.

“Where’s Leonie?”

She blinks. “Who?”

“The waitress who usually works evenings.”

“Oh.” She shifts her weight. “I know who you mean now. That little blonde with more issues than vogue. Yeah, she quit. No surprise there.”

The words hit like a blade sliding between ribs.

“She… quit,” I repeat, sounding – and probably looking – like the vampire version of Rain Man.

“Yeah. Last month I think. Didn’t give a reason. Nobody really cares anyway. Just came in, dropped off her uniform and name tag, and left.”

My throat goes dry. “Do you know where she went?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Phone number?”

She shakes her head. “We don’t give out employee info, hun.”

Of course they don’t.

I nod once. Probably to myself. Probably to the part of me that already knows I’m too late. Dammit. Months had passed without me noticing it. Argh. I got buried in coven business — a spike in Enforcer dispatches, other occult groups trying to test boundaries, everyone on edge — and before I realized it, entire months had slipped through my fingers.

This is what I mean. Time just moves differently when you’re immortal.

Mortals always overreact. Maybe what we did made her feel ashamed. Maybe she’s hiding to avoid running into me again. Or maybe, after all that time, she assumed I wasn’t interested when I was just… very busy. Or maybe it was casual for her and she’s already moved on. Maybe that is all that happened here. Found a better job. I mean, can hardly imagine one much worse than night shift as a waitress in this shithole. Maybe none of this had anything to do with me. Maybe she didn’t even remember me. What makes me so special that I assume some girl I spent one night with is structuring her entire life and choices around what I do or don’t do?

This — this — is why I don’t do involvements of any kind. Too complicated, I just do not understand any of it and I don’t have time for that. Not that I came here for that. I don’t even know why I came here.

Clearly not for the great drinks. As usual, my beer sat there, untouched.

So, what was my plan? Why had I come here? See if after her shift she wanted another round in the backseat? Like there are no other women for that, without awkward history? Did I want to talk some more, knowing I couldn’t tell her anything real about my life anyway? So, what’s the point here?

I leave the booth untouched. The beer untouched. The city too loud. The night too bright.

Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap.

My kind isn’t as affected by temperature as you all are, but we notice it. We just can’t freeze to death. Most of us are daywalkers, but the sun is… complicated. Too much of it is never good, even for the strongest of us. And yes, some vampires like a tan — but those are always fake. Hooray for spray tans.

I should go home. I should forget her. I should pretend this doesn’t matter.

Instead, I stand on the sidewalk, dazed, confused, staring at the neon sign flickering above the diner door like it’s mocking me.

I start walking.

Not towards home.

To the club.

The same club where I met her. Where she kissed me like she meant it. Where she pulled me into the backseat of her car and made me forget I was anything but a man.

I go inside.

The music is pounding. People bump into me. Some talk in corners. Some make out. Most dance or drink.

I pretend I’m shopping for entertainment for the night, but I know it’s a lie. I’m here looking for her. Don’t know why. She wasn’t that pretty. Or that captivating. Or that interesting. The sex wasn’t even so memorable, definitely not the best I’ve ever had.

So why am I here?

Well, she’s not there.

I come back the next night. Still no idea why.

She’s not there.

I come back the night after that. Yup. I know. No need to say it.

Still nothing.

Desperation mounts — slow, humiliating, impossible to swallow.

I try to find her logically.

Online phone directory. Easy enough.

Then I realize:

I don’t know her last name. And the name Leonie is not rare in a city the size of San Myshuno as it turns out.

Ffffffff—uck.

I try social media. All girls her age are on it. Search every Leonie. Anything that could be her.

No profile picture looks like her.

Damn.

I stare at my phone like a malfunctioning robot until the screen goes black. Then I stare at my reflection in the black screen.

Yeah — fun fact — we can’t use mirrors, but we can see ourselves in phones. Something about silver. Ask Cesare.

I look like a man losing his mind.

Forgotten Hollow

Forgotten Hollow is silent when I return — the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting for something. The valley lies dark beneath the mountains, the air colder than the city, sharper, almost metallic. Home. The only home I’ve ever known. Probably creepy by mortal standards, another reason dating a mortal would be complicated.

a) I live with my parents. b) Here. This place alone would send any mortal girl I were serious enough about to take home to meet my parents running for the hills.

The house glows softly from within. Warm light spills from the kitchen — Mom’s doing. She always leaves a light on when any of us are out late. A habit from her mortal years she never unlearned, even after becoming one of us. She was still mortal when my sisters were conceived. She’d been turned by the time I was made.

I step inside.

Dad is on the couch.

Not asleep — vampires don’t sleep the mortal way — but in that light, meditative stillness he slips into when he’s waiting for me. His eyes open the moment I cross the threshold.

“You’re home,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

He studies me for a beat too long. I look away before he can ask anything.

Mom appears in the doorway, hair loose, robe tied around her waist. She takes one look at me and her expression softens into worry.

“Sweetheart… are you alright? You look like you have seen a ghost.”

“Fine,” I lie.

She doesn’t believe me. Maternal instinct. But she also knows better than to push when I’m like this.

Dad rises from the couch, stretching his shoulders. “Long night?”

“Something like that.”

He nods, accepting the half-answer. Mom steps closer, brushing her fingers along my arm — a grounding touch, warm even for a vampire.

“Come sit with us,” she says gently.

“I… can’t. Not right now. I need to… rest.”

Her eyes flicker with concern, but she lets me go.

I head upstairs.

I don’t sleep. Vampires don’t. Not the mortal way. We don’t drift off. We don’t dream. We just… keep going until something inside us snaps and forces us into a slumber that looks a lot like death. Hours. Sometimes days. No breathing. No heartbeat. No easy waking.

I’m nowhere near that point.

I’m just restless. An inner tiredness. Agitation. Too awake in all the wrong ways.

I pace my room. Sit. Stand. Walk again. My thoughts won’t shut up. My body refuses to help.

The sky outside shifts from black to bruised blue. Dawn creeps over the valley like a slow exhale. It never really gets light here, let alone sunny, but vampires see in the dark, so it doesn’t matter.

That’s when the knock comes — three sharp raps, precise, unmistakable.

A summons.

Of course.

Because the universe enjoys kicking me when I’m already down. Last thing I need right now.

Dad is already downstairs in full Enforcer gear by the time I reach the door, fully alert, instincts snapping into place. Mom stands beside him, worry etched across her face.

One of Cesare’s messengers stands on the porch, pale and stiff-backed.

“Lord Cesare requests the presence of all three Enforcers. Immediately.”

Dad nods. “We’ll be there.”

Mom touches my cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath my eye. “Be careful, both of you. My men.”

Dad smiles and kisses her. “Cesare hasn’t briefed us in a while. I’m sure it’s not a dispatch. Probably one of his endless lectures — you know how much he likes to talk.”

“And if not,” I add, “we’ll be careful, Mom.”

But inside, everything feels wrong. Off. Tilted.

Like I left something behind in San Myshuno — or worse, like something stayed lodged inside me and followed me home.

We walk up the hill toward Castello di Vannucci — Dad and I side by side, Mom watching from the doorway until the fog swallows us. The castle looms above the valley, all stone and shadow and ancient authority. The closer we get, the heavier the air feels.

Inside, Cesare’s study is lit by candlelight. Cesare sits at his ancient desk like a school principal or rather the CEO who might promote or fire you, Riordan at his own desk to the right — tall, composed, unreadable. Caelan stands near the far wall, arms crossed, expression carved from granite.

Cesare gestures to the two chairs before his desk, Dad and I take our places.

Cesare begins the briefing. Riordan adds details. Caelan asks a question. Dad responds.

I hear none of it.

My mind drifts — back to the diner, the empty booth, the flickering neon sign, the way the waitress said She quit like it meant nothing. Back to the club. Back to the nights I kept returning like an idiot. Back to the black phone screen reflecting a man losing his mind.

“…Damon.”

Cesare’s voice slices through my thoughts like a blade.

I blink. “Yes?”

His eyes narrow — ancient, perceptive, impossible to fool.

“You have not heard a single word I’ve said.”

Not a question.

I straighten. “Apologies. Long night.”

“Mm. A long night indeed,” Cesare leans back, studying me with the kind of scrutiny that makes mortals confess sins they haven’t committed. “Uncharacteristic.”

Caelan’s gaze flicks toward me — sharp, assessing, not unkind but not gentle either.

Dad shifts beside me, concern tightening his jaw.

Cesare steeples his fingers. “Fortunately, and to sum it up for young Damon here, the realm is calm. No threats. No crises. And since things are so blissfully uneventful, I see no reason to bore the youngest among us with further details he clearly isn’t absorbing.”

The corner of his mouth lifts — not quite a smile, but close.

Dismissed.

Take Me On

We step into the corridor. Caelan strides ahead, already lost in thought. Dad lingers.

I catch his sleeve.

“Dad… can you help me with something?”

He turns, eyebrows lifting. “Of course.”

“I realized I need to work on my tracking. I’m… lacking. No. I am useless at it.”

Dad’s expression softens. “Damon, you’re still learning. I am thrilled you are willing to learn more. I’ll show you a few things to get you started, but the best way is to observe next time we are out on a mission. That’s how I learned, observing actual tracking teaches more than any hypothetical instructions can, as tracking is always very depended on each situation. No two times are alike.”

“I know. But I want to get better at knowing how to even get started. I know nothing. I know how to do certain things, but I don’t know when to start and how.”

Before he can answer, Caelan’s voice cuts in from behind us.

“I’ll take him on.”

I freeze. Oh Gawd no, not him!

Dad turns. “Father—”

“He asked for help,” Caelan says, stepping closer, silver eyes unreadable. “I am the best tracker there is. He should learn from the best. I shall teach my grandson. You stay here Connell; you’d just distract him.”

He’s decided. When Caelan puts his mind to something, he’s like a bloodhound. Impossible to shake.

Which means I have no choice.

Perfect.

Exactly what I wanted — more time alone with the man who terrifies me, infuriates me, and sees through me like glass. And whom I clearly have pissed off several times now.

Training

We walk into the forest behind the castle. And walk. And walk. And walk. I lose track of how long or how far. Vampires don’t get tired like mortals do. It could have been miles. Hours. Days. Who knows.

Caelan moves like a shadow — silent, sure‑footed, predatory. I follow, trying not to look like a fledgling.

“Tracking,” he begins, “is not about sight. It is about attention. Awareness. Logic. Pattern.”

I nod, trying to focus.

He stops abruptly. “You are distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are lying. Focus, kid.”

Of course he knows.

Caelan kneels, brushing his fingers over a patch of disturbed earth. “You want to learn to track. Good. But you cannot track anything if your mind is elsewhere. Let me show you.”

He rises and starts walking again, pointing things out as we go — broken twigs, faint impressions in the soil, a scuff mark on a rock.

“See this?” he asks.

I stare at the ground. “No.”

He sighs. “Mortals. Smaller prints, so females. Three of them. Adults — mid‑twenties, maybe. Young enough to be reckless, old enough to know better. Passed through here maybe an hour ago.”

“How can you possibly—”

He ignores me and keeps moving.

He gestures at a bent fern. “See the prints are starting to fill with moisture? Hasn’t rained for days, so it’s natural condensation. Takes about an hour for this much. Now look here. One brushed this.”

I see forest. Just forest.

“There,” he reiterates, then nearly slams my face into a few fibers snagged on several branches.

“What do you see?”

“That if they keep snagging their clothing, they’ll be naked by the time they get wherever they’re going?”

“Do you want to learn or not? Then be serious. You see there are two blondes and a redhead.” he points at something on a branch for me to see where he is getting that info from.

I do not. But I nod anyway.

At a shallow footprint: “One is significantly heavier than the others.”

At a snagged thread on a thorn: “One wears cheap cotton in bright colors. Confirms my theory — probably out here for a thrill. Youth is wasted on the young.”

I squint. I see… plants. Dirt. More plants.

Caelan glances back at me with the expression of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.

Then suddenly — he freezes.

Hand up. Silent.

I stop instantly.

He tilts his head, listening. Then he gestures for me to follow, moving with exaggerated quiet through a thicket of brush.

I know all that well. This is Enforcer business. Now I am in my element.

He parts a curtain of leaves with two fingers and peers through.

Then he steps aside so I can see.

I look.

My eyes nearly fall out of my skull.

A group of mortal women — three young adults, maybe twentysomethings, laughing, completely unaware — are bathing in the lake. Brightly colored clothes piled on the shore. Hair loose. Two blondes and a redhead. The latter one curvier than the others. Water shimmering around them in the moonlight. Giggling. Splashing. Blissfully oblivious to the two vampires watching from the shadows.

I choke on absolutely nothing. How in the world had he done this?! I am impressed. Very impressed.

Yes, I’ve been on missions — but between him, my father, and the Hallow Sentinel army behind us, I was always too tense, too busy to stop and applaud how they even found the threat so fast. I am third down the line of the Enforcers, if I ever had a son, he would be the fourth. But that means my grandfather and father call the shots, I follow orders. I give orders to the Hollow Sentinels. Either way, I just assumed our scouts gave them the location I suppose. Usually more concerned with staying alive while unaliving the threat than to worry about details that have no bearing at the task at hand.

Caelan smirks. “Mortals. Predictable as sunrise. Look at those morons, splish‑splashing like drunken seals with no idea how close they are to death. If we wanted to, they’d be gone in seconds. I really don’t get how mortals convince themselves they’re the top of the food chain. One snap of my wrist and—” he sighs. “Ah – if I were my father for a day…”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

Because I know exactly what he means — and exactly why he’ll never say it out loud. Not here. Not to me. Not to anyone.

Caelan’s worldview is… extreme, even by vampire standards. If he were king for a day, the world population would look very different. Something like eighty percent vampire, zero percent other occult, and the remaining twenty percent mortals kept around as blood sources and free labor. Because Caelan has never — and will never — use blood alternatives. And he certainly doesn’t do menial tasks or manual labor.

It’s not treason to think it. It would be treason to say it.

So he doesn’t.

I’m still staring, frozen, brain short‑circuiting.

He elbows me lightly. “Close your mouth, boy. You look like you’ve never seen a woman before. None of those is even worth drooling over. I thought you’d at least figured out how to get yourself laid, but apparently there’s some serious backup down your pants. Maybe that’s what’s clouding your mind. Annoying, really. Find someone and get that taken care of.”

I snap my jaw shut.

Vampire or not, this is not something any man ever wants to hear from his grandfather. Ever. In any universe. Under any circumstances.

I would rather be staked.

He lets the leaves fall back into place and turns away, utterly unfazed.

“That,” he says, “is tracking. You follow the signs. You read the land. You anticipate behavior. Mortals especially — but it is just as true for werewolves, they move in patterns. They leave trails. They are creatures of habit. Tracking vampires is harder, especially those who do not want to be found. The witchfolk are the hardest, there are no patters, absolutely unpredictable, but thanks to Leeora, I have gained many insights, and nobody can hide from me.”

He glances at me. “Your father isn’t bad at it. Needs more confidence. You — blood of my blood — have potential. You just need proper instruction.”

I’m still recovering from how fast and accurate he shook the training exercise out of his sleeve.

Caelan claps me on the shoulder. “Come on, fairy. Lesson’s not over.”

And just like that, he moves deeper into the forest, expecting me to follow — while I’m still trying to remember how to function as a sentient being.

“So,” he says, not looking back, “give me all the details you have on the one you’re trying to find.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”

“You are lying.” It’s a statement, not a question and suspicion.

Of course he knows.

“I said I’m fine.”

He stops, turns, and pins me with a look sharp enough to cut stone.

“And I said that’s bullshit. You are far from fine — which is your problem. But your distraction makes you unreliable, which is where it becomes my problem.”

He steps closer, jabbing a finger at my chest.

“You are my grandson and my Enforcer. One third of our Enforcers, to be exact — until you finally figure out what that thing dangling between your legs is for and give us at least one more.”

My eyes widen. My mouth falls open. My entire brain flatlines.

Caelan continues, completely unfazed by the psychic damage he’s inflicting.

“Preferably one with a proper hair color, not that white mop you and your father insist on parading around with. I like blond hair on women — your grandmother wears it beautifully, it was one of the first things I noticed about her when we met, and your mother has a fine blond as well — but on men? No. A real man has dark hair. At least you inherited my eyes, not that violet nonsense. And I finally got your mother to make your father cut his horrifying mane to a more decent length — it was halfway down his back just to spite me. Would be down to his knees by now had I not taken my Widowmaker to it at one point.”

I blink at him, stunned, because unfortunately… I remember that.

We were just about to go into a battle with a pretty significant werewolf threat — some rogue pack thought they could land a surprise attack on the vampires. But we saw them long before they could even attempt anything. And right before the fight — literally seconds before steel met fur — Caelan walked up behind my father, who had his back turned, and chopped off almost a foot of hair.

Just— shhk — gone.

Dad was so furious he nearly took out the entire pack by himself, I had never seen him this angry before. He didn’t speak to his father for three weeks.

Three very long, very awkward weeks.

“Missions can pop up at any time. I need you focused, not walking around with enough… pressure in your pants to knock you off balance. So let’s flush this out of your system. Whom are you trying to find? Don’t make me ask again. I’m starting to get annoyed by this unnecessary cat and mouse game. Name? Details?”

I swear I physically recoil.

I’m going to need therapy. And bleach for my brain.

My breath catches.

“I’m not—”

“Damon.” His voice is low, firm, not unkind. “Do not insult me. I knew something was wrong the moment you snapped at me at Caterina’s event. Too out of character. You’re spicy, but not like that. I’ve been watching you. Something — or someone, my guess would be someone with tits — is occupying too much of your mind. That can get you killed. Or your father and I. So, it’s a non-starter. Who is she?”

I look away.

He steps closer. “Who is she? Damon, you already confirmed everything with every reaction you’ve had. Now I need details. Fill me in.”

I make some indefinable sounds — panic noises, basically — knowing lying won’t work but unable to form words.

Caelan sighs. “Relationships are never easy for us. And when something gets into your head, logic won’t remove it. Only truth. Best way to get a mortal girl out of your mind is to see what they’re really like. They’re all flawed, often in ways that make it near impossible to find them as enticing as you originally might have. That logic works nearly every time. And on the rare chance it confirms what you’re feeling… it wouldn’t be bad for you to finally start in that direction. That’s what I did. What your father did. You put a ring on it, turn it and start a family!”

He pauses.

“Some vampires are born with the affliction. I was. Some develop it. Riordan did — when he lost his first wife, a mortal, to time. Lost his mind. Went rogue. I almost had to put him down. Cesare saved him with one last ace — another woman. After years of mourning. That is why we turn the mortals we love. If they don’t want that, then you need to be more convincing. You will be burying enough loved ones, there needs to be one steady in your life and it shouldn’t be mommy and daddy. You are young by our count, but not THAT young anymore, buddy.”

He looks at me pointedly.

“Don’t risk it. Your grandmother always says, ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved.’ She’s right. For the most part. But I will add that it’s better to have loved and turned.”

I stare at him.

This man. This brutal, ruthless, terrifying man.

The same man who nearly killed my grandmother for not knowing she had fae blood in her, then divorced her against her will, forced her to assume her maiden name again — then dug up his ex, had his illegitimate daughter Leeora the witch resurrect her, married her, then killed her again when she came back wrong, full Pet Sematary nightmare… only to crawl back to my grandmother afterward.

And she forgave him. Took him back. Married him again.

I have always thought that was absolutely wild. Insane. Unhinged.

My grandma, Rhiannon, is beautiful – I know, sounds strange coming from me, but it’s facts. She is also not some shrinking violet. She could have any man. But she loves that man. Despite all. Truly, deeply, catastrophically loves him.

And honestly? If I ever find a woman who loves me like that — who can survive the chaos that is my bloodline and still choose me — I will put a ring on her.

Damn.

And now he’s quoting Tennyson like a lovesick fool.

Make that make sense.

Caelan’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I will either help you or make your life hell. Choose wisely.”

Aaaand he’s back.

Well. Forward is the only direction left.

“I don’t know anything about her,” I say quietly. “That’s the problem. Just a few tidbits, but they’re useless.”

Caelan studies me for a long moment, the forest silent around us.

Then, softly — shockingly gently:

“No piece of information is useless to us.”

He turns, beckoning me forward.

“Come on, boy. Give me every detail you have, no matter how meaningless you think it is. Let me decide what matters. Nothing is negligible in tracking. Watch and learn, this time, with a real incentive for you. We might make a real man out of you after all.”

He looks me over, then adds “Despite that mop of cotton wool on y0ur head.”

He turns and starts walking, glances over his shoulder.

“You coming? Oh — and in case it sounded like you have a choice, you don’t.”

Suburbia

We’re still in the forest when Caelan starts moving faster, following something only he can see. I’m trying to keep up, but my mind is a mess — scraps of memory, flashes of her face, the way she looked at me, the way I felt in that backseat—

I shut that down immediately. Not going there.

We walk. Then the air shifts — that stomach‑drop lurch of a port — and suddenly the trees are gone.

I blink hard.

We’re standing in a suburban neighborhood.

Lawns. Driveways. Mailboxes. Suburbia.

“What—?” I look around, confused. “Grandpa—”

We both freeze.

He turns his head just enough for our eyes to meet, and we share the exact same what the actual hell look. I never call him that. Ever. He might technically and biologically be my grandfather, but you know him well enough to understand that is not the man you address that way.

His eyebrow twitches. We both pretend it didn’t happen.

“Uh… anyway. This is… way off. She lives in San Myshuno. Definitely not—this. Where are we even?” I gesture vaguely at the rows of houses. “They have money problems. This doesn’t make sense.”

“This makes perfect sense,” Caelan says without even glancing at me. “This is Newcrest, a suburban area to San Myshuno, where people commute to and from when they want to raise a family but can’t afford metropolitan prices and also don’t want to slum it in some cheap area of town. This is exactly where people like you described her to me would live.”

“How do you know that?”

He stops just long enough to give me a look that makes me feel like I’ve asked the dumbest question in the world.

“How do you not!”

“How would I?” I throw my hands up. “I’ve always lived in Forgotten Hollow—”

“You spend enough time gallivanting around the mortals. And around that riff raff which is your niece and nephew.”

“My ‘riff‑raff’ niece and nephew live in Ravenwood and Moonwood Mill,” I snap back. “The first in some ancient house in some ancient area that probably predates the dinosaurs, and the second in a former milling town with an unemployment rate of over fifty percent, so people live in wood cabins they built themselves. And my gallivanting with mortals is usually purely functional for one night’s pleasure, and doesn’t involve house tours and showings.”

Caelan stops walking just long enough to give me a look that somehow manages to combine disappointment, disbelief, and the faintest hint of are you actually this stupid.

Then he turns away and keeps tracking, like my entire existence is a mild inconvenience he’s learned to tolerate.

I follow, still trying to pull together the pieces of her in my head. The backseat moments in her run-down car pop into my mind and I do my best to shove them aside. Not that, not now, and not with Super-Grandpa next to me.

Caelan lifts a hand.

I stop instantly and drop into Enforcer mode. Muscle memory. Automatic.

He moves between houses, peeking around corners, checking shadows, windows, fences. Every so often he asks for another detail — vague things, nothing specific — and I give him whatever I can remember, stumbling through half‑formed impressions and flashes of her.

Then he stops.

His hand comes up again.

I freeze.

He doesn’t look at me. Just murmurs, “What hair color? Long, short?”

“Uh… blonde. Blondish. Not like mine. Darker, but still blonde. Kinda shaggy. Shoulderlength I think, she wore it up most of the time. Bangs.” I rub my forehead. “I think her eyes are blue. Maybe green. But blue, I’m pretty sure.”

Caelan doesn’t react. He just moves.

We slip into someone’s backyard. I’m still talking, still trying to remember, when he suddenly raises his hand again.

I go silent.

Then he reaches out, grabs my jaw, and turns my head toward the house beside us.

Toward the window.

And the second I look in, my stomach drops straight through the earth. Caelan doesn’t ask, doesn’t have to. My reaction is enough for him to know he hit the tracker jackpot again.

She’s right there.
Leonie.
In the kitchen.

Hands braced on the counter, head bowed like she’s trying not to cry. Her parents are behind her, arguing in low, sharp voices. Her brother storms past, slamming a door. A stack of bills sits on the table. The overhead light flickers.

She looks tired. Worn. Breakable.

Real.

And I nearly lose my damn mind.