Bloodbound – Ascension and Aftermath

The Great Hall thrummed with a low, anticipatory hush — the kind that settles over a crowd when history is about to be carved into stone. Torches guttered along the walls, their flames bending in the draft that swept through the vaulted chamber. Shadows clung to the pillars like old ghosts.

At the far end of the hall, the dais rose three steps above the floor — not grand, not ornate, but commanding. A stage of stone. A place of judgment.

We were all up there.

Cesare and Riordan sat at the carved desk in the center — the “desk of judgment,” as Dad and I called it when we were sure no one could hear. To their right stood Dad and me, Enforcers at attention, stiff and expressionless in our ceremonial outfit. To their left stood Caelan, in his new ceremonial uniform, very similar to ours, just with gold accents while ours were silver.

He looked different without head-to-toe leather and a new hairdo, more refined, tailored, ceremonial. Less nightmare creature, more… what had Cesare called it again?

High… something. Warden I think.

As if summoned by my fumbling memory, Cesare’s voice unfurled across the hall, rich and resonant, every syllable shaped like a decree from a bygone age.

“…and let it be proclaimed before all Houses, near and far, that Caelan Vannucci, my son, the Dark Prince, shall henceforth bear the mantle of High Warden of the Vannucci Bastion — sworn protector of the Elder Seat and the First Family…”

Yeah. That.

Cesare let the words settle, the hall staring up at him in awe.

“And with the High Warden’s reassignment, the command of our forces must pass, as agreed, to those whose service has long prepared them for such charge.”

A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the crowd.

“Thus, let it be affirmed before the coven that Connell O’Cavanaugh assumes the mantle of Commander of the Enforcers and High Marshal of the Hollow Sentinel Legion. His leadership has been tested, his loyalty proven, and his ascension long merited. Furthermore, Sentinel soldiers are freed from the millennia‑old bar against marriage and children. They may choose family if they so wish, provided such bonds do not impair their duties. But they will understand that we do not negotiate should their families fall prey to threats.”

Cesare paused briefly to let it sink in with the delegates of the army of the Hollow Sentinel present quietly in the background. A slight murmur ran through their ranks. For Millenia they had never been allowed to marry or procreate. This was huge news to them.

“Let it be known that the new generation of Coven Enforcers is a different layer of defense for the coven. Rather than attempt to hide what we once believed a blemish, we shall now proclaim it openly and without shame. Their blood — strengthened by fae inheritance — is resistant to venom, to hex, to poison, and to the subtle deaths other occult may devise. Such resilience is no stain upon our House, but a boon bestowed by fate itself. They are the bulwark against the shadows that would see us undone.”

Dad didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. This was ceremony, not revelation.
Cesare continued, voice deepening with ritual weight.

“And as the Commander rises, so too must the one who stands at his right hand. Let it be sealed that Damon O’Cavanaugh ascends to Second‑in‑Command of the Enforcers — the post once held by his father, and before him, by the High Warden himself. He shall bear the duties of swift judgment and vigilant defense, as befits the strength of his lineage and the merit of his deeds.”

Gasps rippled through the audiences, heads turned to whisper amongst themselves. No shock on the Enforcer’s ever-solemn faces, just the acceptance of a hierarchy shifting into its new shape.

Cesare lifted a hand, the gesture both blessing and decree.

“These appointments, though known to those concerned, are now bound in covenant and witnessed by all. May they fortify our Bastion, strengthen our House, and remind every soul present that duty is the spine upon which our eternity rests.”

He lowered his hand.

“So it is spoken. So it is sealed.”

Dad and I exchanged the faintest glance — the kind only family could read. The promotions were an honor, sure, but nothing about our day‑to‑day would change. We’d still be doing the same work, just with fewer Enforcers on the roster — two instead of three, at least until I figured out how to get my life together long enough to father a child.

Realistically? Mom and Dad would probably pop out another O’Cavanaugh before I did, and we’d have a new recruit in about sixteen years or so. And since Dad was Commander now, he could finally allow females into the ranks — something unthinkable under Caelan.
Biologically, they still could have children. Honestly, maybe they should. Hell, maybe they even would, just to piss off Caelan. So worth it. I can already picture my sisters’ faces if that ever came to pass.
I might actually start planting that bug in Mom’s ear — strike the match, just to watch it burn.

What we did care about was simple: Caelan was out of our hair. And he despised every gilded syllable of his new title.

Then again, with Caelan, who could tell? He’d never been much of a smiler. For all we knew, this was his version of bliss. He had everything the coven was supposed to want: a spouse, an heir, a position carved from honor and fear.

More than I could say.

My gaze drifted across the sea of faces — until it caught on hers.

Cerys.

She wasn’t watching Cesare. She was watching me, while all other eyes were on Cesare.

Well, all except Blaine’s — who was very obviously not listening. He was hunched over like a teenager in detention, tapping away on his smartphone, covertly stashed in his lap. Subtle as a brick. Scarlett noticed, of course.

She snatched it out of his hands with the reflexes of someone who’d been married to him long enough to anticipate every stupid thing he might do.

Blaine lunged for it. Scarlett leaned away. He leaned farther. They ended up wrestling in their seats like two children fighting over a toy in the back of a carriage.

Branwen — seated beside her daughter — cleared her throat. Not loudly. Just the kind of throat‑clearing that could stop a charging bull.

Blaine froze. For half a second.

Then he made one last desperate grab.

Scarlett, who had clearly been expecting this, slid the phone straight into her décolletage with the smoothness of a seasoned pickpocket. She gave him a slow, wicked smile — the kind that said come and get it — and then stuck her tongue out at him for good measure.

Blaine was not one to back down from a challenge. Even I knew that, and I’d spent as little time around him as possible. But apparently, today was the day I was reminded why.

Because Blaine — Blaine Cameron, grown man, father of eight, vampire of considerable age — actually reached down the front of his wife’s dress in the middle of the Great Hall.

Scarlett shrieked. There was a beat — a scandalized gasp from somewhere in the crowd — and then Blaine straightened with the phone held aloft like a trophy.

“Ha‑HA!” he declared, victorious. Branwen’s patience snapped like a dry twig.

She grabbed Blaine by the ear — literally, by the ear — yanked him upright with supernatural efficiency, and marched him out of the Great Hall like a misbehaving schoolboy being removed from class.

“Branwen, ow! I am all about love with feeling but I need that ear! I need it!” Blaine yelped as he stumbled after her.

The doors slammed behind them. Scarlett slipped out after them.
The hall fell silent for a beat.

Cesare paused mid‑sentence, eyelids lowering with the slow, regal resignation of a man who had lived long enough to witness empires fall, civilizations crumble, and yet somehow still found himself plagued by Blaine.

He exhaled — a long, ancient sigh that seemed to travel the length of his centuries.

“By the mercy of God… grant me fortitude. For my son‑in‑law possesses the mind of an infant.”

A ripple of suppressed laughter trembled through the hall.

Cesare lifted his chin, reclaiming his composure with the dignity of a monarch who refused to be undone by one flamboyant idiot.

“Let us all, if we value our sanity, simply glide past the fact,” he added dryly, “that decorum remains a foreign concept to certain members of my extended family.”

Riordan coughed into his fist. Caelan stared straight ahead, jaw tight, as if refusing to acknowledge any family association whatsoever. Cesare resumed his speech with the weary grace of a man who had accepted that immortality came with many burdens — and Blaine was one of them.

I snorted. Dad nudged me sharply — the universal Enforcer reminder to behave.

Eventually, Cesare dismissed us to “celebrate the dawn of a new era,” which meant music, wine, and the kind of mingling that was painful for men like me.

Lavinia — Riordan’s wife — sang with the kind of operatic force that made the chandeliers tremble. I made a beeline for the wine bar.

The first swallow burned like medicine. The second like absolution.

That was when she appeared beside me.

“Congratulation on the promotion. Very impressive changes. So,” Cerys said, “that was it?”

I blinked down at her. “Huh?”

“The fae blood thing, that was why you’ve been acting like a malfunctioning automaton? You couldn’t just tell me?”

I closed my eyes and drained the chalice. I tried to pour more, but only managed a splash until she grabbed my sleeve and pulled me away — chalice and all — into a shadowed corner.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, wearing what I hoped was a perfectly arrogant expression.

“What’s the point?” I said. “One hurdle in our path and you latch onto that slimy bastard’s arm.”

Her eyes narrowed. Good. I wanted her annoyed. Just like seeing her cozy up to that fool had annoyed me.
Payback is a …. ya know.

“A hurdle?” she echoed. “Damon, most sane people would call that a chasm.”

“We’re vampires,” I said. “Sane isn’t in the job description.”

I took another long drink. She let me — then snatched the chalice from my hand, set it aside, grabbed my collar, and shoved me against the wall.

Then she kissed me.

Hard.

The world snapped into focus.

I kissed her back with equal force, pinning her to the opposite wall, the tension between us finally breaking like a storm — until a throat cleared behind us.

I spun, ready to snarl.

“WHAT NOW—”

And froze.

Cesare.

Oops. Of course.

He regarded us with the weary patience of a man who had seen centuries of questionable decisions.

“Young Damon and my dearest Cerys,” he said, voice smooth as old wine, “while I applaud the… vigor of your reunion, perhaps the Great Hall is not the ideal venue. I trust you can locate a more suitable place.”

Cerys curtsied. “Of course, so sorry, Your Eternal Eminence.”

Cesare nodded, amused, and drifted away like a shadow.

I grabbed Cerys’s hand and pulled her out of the hall, down the corridor, and into the castle gardens — overgrown, wild, half‑forgotten. Perfect.

When we were finally alone, I turned to her.

“So. What is this now?”

“You tell me,” she said. “You’re the one who broke us up.”

“Right. And what would it take to undo that?”

She folded her arms. “Let’s start with the obvious. Who was the blonde?”

“What blonde … oh, right. Ravenwood.”

“Yes, the very pretty blonde in Ravenwood you smooched around on.”

“First of all, I didn’t, I hugged her and she kissed my cheek, as cousins do. And that is also your answer. She’s my cousin. A fae.”

“So, that is true as well. Not generations ago, but … recent?”

“My grandmother. Rhiannon. She didn’t know. Not until very recently. None of us did. And now everyone does.”

“Is that why she suddenly vanished? We have all been wondering what happened to her. First, she moves in with you, then the sudden divorce, before we know it Caelan pulls a new wife out of his hat and has her pregnant so fast it makes my head spin – and then nobody has seen Rhiannon in weeks. Knowing Caelan, this could mean a lot of things. None of them good.”

“She’s still alive if that’s what you’re asking. This actually did work out as well as can be expected for her. She is with her side of her long-lost family in … well … with the fae. Like that chick you keep bringing up, who is Rhiannon’s niece. Makes her my cousin once removed, as I have been told. Either way, not bangable in my book. Happy now?”

“And why could you not just tell me? I heard you — orders, fine — but I am not the enemy. I’m not a random Townie nor a gossip. I’m a medic. I keep half the coven’s secrets without blinking. And I thought after everything you knew you can trust me.”

“Before Cesare decided it’s a blessing,” I said, “it was a blemish. And Caelan made damn sure we felt that. So no — not something I’d lead with to the woman I…” The words jammed in my throat. Saying them felt like stepping off a cliff.

Her eyebrows lifted, sharp as a blade catching light.

“Continue.”

“You know what I was going to say,” I muttered. “But I’m not saying it when it feels like a one‑way street.”

“You think we’d be standing here hashing this out if that were true?”

“Cerys, with you, I never know what to think.”

“Back at you.” Her voice softened, just barely. “But thank you for answering something that’s kept the gears spinning in my brain for months.”

“And what’s that?”

“Why you lived after the three poisoned darts.” Her eyes searched mine, clinical and concerned all at once. “You should have been dead on the spot. It took hours to stabilize you. Damon — you should have died on that battlefield.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Stop it. I’m talking scientifically.” She stepped closer, intensity sharpening her features. “I read everything on the subject. One dart? Maybe. Two? Dead as a doornail. Three? Impossible to survive. So it was the fae blood. I would love to take a tissue and cell sample from you and run some tests.”

My face twisted.

“So that’s why we’re here? You need a lab rat? No thanks. Pass.”

I turned, but she caught my arm and yanked me back with surprising force.

“Damon — STOP.” She moved in front of me, blocking my escape, eyes blazing. “Fine. You need me to say it? I will. At least I have the spine for it.” A breath. “Damon, I love you. I do.”

It hit me like a blow.

“What about Valentino?”

She rolled her eyes skyward. “Yeah, that’s a toss up. I mean… have you seen him without a shirt?” Sarcasm was oozing off her words but I had no ear for it.

I turned to walk off again — petty, wounded, furious — and she shoved me back against a tree with both hands.

“Why are you so touchy, Enforcer?”

“Say you won’t be seeing him again.”

“Impossible. I’m a medic and a coven member — I can’t promise I’ll never see him.” She watched my expression tighten, then sighed. “But I won’t go out with him again. Satisfied? Now your turn.”

I shouldn’t have enjoyed that as much as I did. But I did.

I leaned in, close enough that the faint movement of my breath brushed past her ear. Before you all flag this — yes, breath. We didn’t breathe to live like you do, but we needed it to speak. Read up on how that works. Anyway, she shivered — not dramatically, just enough for me to notice.

“Cerys?”

“Yes?” Her voice was steady, but her nerves weren’t. I knew what she thought I was going to say. So I said—

“I am viciously in need of sustenance. Pardon me while I go feed.”

And I strode off, grinning like the arrogant idiot she accused me of being. Oh, I was being petty and a douche and I knew it — and I was rolling around in it with immense gusto, like a cat in fresh catnip. That’d teach her to hang off that damn Valentino just to get one in on me.

Later, the celebration had melted into a dance. Couples twirled across the floor, the music warm and old and threaded with memory. I stood at the edge, pretending I wasn’t waiting for her.

Then she appeared beside me.

“You’re back,” I said.

“I am.”

“You want to dance?”

“I’m fighting a strong urge to kick you in the balls.”

“Can you postpone it for one dance?”

She looked at my outstretched hand. Then at me. Then she smiled — slow, sweet, and absolutely lethal — and crooked a finger for me to lean in.

I did.

“Good night, Enforcer,” she whispered, pressing her half‑empty chalice into my hand before turning and walking away.

That little— I finished the rest of her wine in one swallow.

Ten minutes later, I was pounding on the door to her chamber in the medic ward. She unlocked it, and before she could speak, I pushed it open, stepped inside, and shut it behind me. The latch clicked like a verdict.

She stared at me, breath catching.

“Damon…”

“No.” My voice was low, steady. “You played with fire.”

Her eyes widened — not in fear, but in recognition. In challenge. In relief.

“And now,” I said, stepping toward her, “you will get burned by it.”

She didn’t back away. Not an inch.

Her fingers found the laces of her dress. Mine found the knot of my tie.

The air between us tightened — charged, inevitable, weeks of tension finally snapping into place.

The rest…

… is ours. Use your imagination. But make it good, cos it was. And much needed. For both of us.

Warcry

The most significant change of all came a few nights later, when Dad and I received another dispatch missive. As always, we stepped into the armor circle — the small cleared space where Enforcers prepared for what might be their last mission. Dad had Mom with him, her hands steady as she fastened each piece of his armor with the practiced precision of someone who had done this ritual for decades.

And as usual, I was alone, wrestling with my own gear.

Until another pair of hands appeared beside mine.

I looked up — and there she was.

Cerys.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi,” I managed.

“Your mom said it was okay if I came.” She gave a small smile, almost shy.

“Yeah. Totally okay.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“Good. Because full disclosure? I’ve cut people out of this armor before, but I have no idea how to put it on.” A soft laugh escaped her — light, nervous, but determined.

I picked up a pauldron and set it on my shoulder. “This one first. It anchors the rest. Strap goes here — pull until it locks.”

She leaned in, fingers working the buckle with careful precision. Her touch was deliberate, focused, and it sent a jolt through me all the same. She moved to the vambraces next, then the harness, then the belts, following my instructions with growing confidence.

And then we reached the final part of the ritual.

The part I’d never had.

The part I’d watched Dad and Mom do a thousand times — the part where the wife stepped into the circle, fastened the last piece, and pressed her forehead to her husband’s for exactly three seconds. A silent vow. A promise. A memory made in case the worst happened.

Cerys hesitated, eyes lifting to mine. “This is where…?”

“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “That’s the last step.”

She stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the faint shift of air as she moved. Her hands rose slowly, almost uncertain, and she placed her palm flat against the center of my chestplate — exactly where the ritual began.

Her fingers traced the edge of the armor, soft, but steady. Intentional. Like she was learning me through contact alone.

Then she lifted her chin and pressed her forehead to mine.

Three seconds.

Never more. Never less.

There was no warmth in the touch — but there was something else. Recognition. Claim. A silent vow that hit harder than any blade. And a plea to fate itself ‘bring him back to me’

When she drew back, her expression had changed — steadier, anchored, something fierce behind her eyes.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Now you be safe and come back to me, okay?”

I swallowed the surge in my chest. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoed.

I huffed a small laugh. “Okay.”

“Hey, Junior… you about ready then?” Dad called over, Mom watching us with a look I couldn’t decipher.

I glanced at him. “Yeah, almost.”

Then I grabbed Cerys and kissed her — hard, like a promise.

“When I get back, I better not hear about you running around with that Valentino, or he’ll meet the edge of my blade next.”

She smirked. “Then you better hurry back to me, Enforcer.”

And for the first time in my life, stepping into battle didn’t feel like stepping alone into the dark.

It felt like stepping forward with someone beside me — someone who chose to stand in the circle with me. Literally and proverbially.