The moon hung low and crimson, a seeping sore in the sky, its reflection quivering on the surf that lapped the shore of Blood Beach. The bonfire burned in the center of the clearing, its flames too high, too ravenous, as if it held a secret. Red lanterns danced in the wind, hung between poles of driftwood and casting long shadows that pulsed a meter behind the beat. Music pounded from a battered speaker sunk in the sand, the kind of rhythm that snagged under your ribs and refused to rest. A chalkboard sign beckoned the brave—or foolhardy—to approach: Tonight only. One rule: Don’t forget why you came.
There were no invitations printed. No posters. No public announcements. Instead, the guests of honor fantasized about fire and salt and scarlet wax. Three nights before the full moon, each guest woke up to find the words "Blood Beach" scrawled on his mirror, or ringing in the back of his mind. A patch of wax stuck to his fingertip—marked with a vampire's sigil in a forgotten and lost language, one which tugged at bone and desire. Some came willingly. Some came in error. But they all came with the sense that this night had selected them.
Jade didn't arrive. She never did. But she was there—in the music that appeared out of nowhere, in the fire that wouldn't die, in the thrumming low in the air like the beat before lightning. Her name wasn't known to most. And yet, there were those with senses sharp enough to catch it anyway. Jade watched. Jade waited. And in the hum of talk and light of the fire, the rumor began: The Sunstone is here. Concealed. Protected. Or bait. And this celebration? Just the beginning.
Mitch hadn’t even changed out of his scrubs. The top was stuffed into his backpack, and his ID badge still clung to the belt loop of his jeans like a reluctant ghost of his day shift. Twelve hours in the ER and a half-hearted nap later, he was wired, exhausted, and absolutely buzzing with anticipation. He’d heard whispers about the Blood Moon Beach Bash from the right kind of mouths—the kind that didn’t speak above a whisper unless they had something worth saying. Real human blood, someone had promised him, low and reverent, like they were talking about religion.
The invite had come in a dream, just like the others. Blood-red wax, the sigil seared into the back of his eyelids, the taste of smoke in the air. He’d fought it at first, told himself it was just fatigue and fantasy. But when the name Blood Beach kept repeating in every reflective surface he passed, even the polished steel tray in Trauma Bay Two, he knew. He was being called.
Now, under the blood-colored moon, Mitch felt a kind of high no stolen IV morphine could touch. The bonfire’s heat licked at his face as he stepped into its glow, eyes gleaming with the thrill of being off the leash. Laughter rang out nearby—sharp, full of teeth. Someone passed him with a coconut cup, the liquid inside red and thick, and Mitch inhaled like it was oxygen. He didn’t know who was running this party, didn’t care. There was blood in the air, and for once, it wasn’t his job to clean it up.
“Now this,” he said to no one, flashing a grin, “is how you recover from a double shift.”
The invite had come in a dream, just like the others. Blood-red wax, the sigil seared into the back of his eyelids, the taste of smoke in the air. He’d fought it at first, told himself it was just fatigue and fantasy. But when the name Blood Beach kept repeating in every reflective surface he passed, even the polished steel tray in Trauma Bay Two, he knew. He was being called.
Now, under the blood-colored moon, Mitch felt a kind of high no stolen IV morphine could touch. The bonfire’s heat licked at his face as he stepped into its glow, eyes gleaming with the thrill of being off the leash. Laughter rang out nearby—sharp, full of teeth. Someone passed him with a coconut cup, the liquid inside red and thick, and Mitch inhaled like it was oxygen. He didn’t know who was running this party, didn’t care. There was blood in the air, and for once, it wasn’t his job to clean it up.
“Now this,” he said to no one, flashing a grin, “is how you recover from a double shift.”
The music didn’t stop when she arrived. But it stuttered for a moment. A ripple moved through the crowd. Not alarm, not recognition, just an unspoken shift, the way animals go still before a storm. On the far edge of the clearing, where the lanterns began to thin and the sea wind snapped colder, a figure stood motionless. Pale. Precise.
Lydia de Bonvouloir stood like a force to be reckoned with. Her hair, white as fresh ash, caught the firelight and threw it back like broken glass. Sea-colored eyes scanned the gathering like she was reading a chart full of symptoms. Diagnosing. Dissecting. Unamused. She took one step down the dune, and her heel sank into the damp sand. She stopped, stared down at the indentation like it had insulted her bloodline, and exhaled with the force of a woman reconsidering arson.
It wasn’t curiosity that brought her here. It wasn’t longing. It was the sigil that had dared burn itself into her dreams three nights ago: etched in wax on her mirror, dragging old language across her bones like it still had some claim on her. That dream had left her with a phantom ache in her wrist and a sour taste in her mouth. She had asked her husband Julien about it, if he saw it as well, hoping he may join her in this given quest. It irritated her, but intrigued her as well. Lydia didn’t follow invitations. She audited them.
And now here she was, beckoned by a force that thought it could handle her. The bonfire flared too high, too hungry, as she stepped into view. Black velvet clung to her like shadow incarnate, and her coat’s hem flirted with the flame-warmed wind. Her boots, now officially damp, clicked once against a driftwood log as she passed, and she wrinkled her nose like someone had served her wine in a plastic cup.
No one greeted her, but no one needed to. She didn’t introduce herself, didn’t scan for familiar faces, because she already knew, there were none. Just the pulsing red lanterns. Just the smoke. Just that damned sigil humming somewhere behind her teeth. She was curious who was running this party. She reached the edge of the firelight, raised one white brow, and finally muttered: “If this is bait, I do hope it’s worth the shoes.”
Then, as if the night owed her compensation, Lydia de Bonvouloir strode into the celebration like a blade in satin gloves. She was lethal, elegant, and very much here to see what in the world she had been called here for.
Lydia de Bonvouloir stood like a force to be reckoned with. Her hair, white as fresh ash, caught the firelight and threw it back like broken glass. Sea-colored eyes scanned the gathering like she was reading a chart full of symptoms. Diagnosing. Dissecting. Unamused. She took one step down the dune, and her heel sank into the damp sand. She stopped, stared down at the indentation like it had insulted her bloodline, and exhaled with the force of a woman reconsidering arson.
It wasn’t curiosity that brought her here. It wasn’t longing. It was the sigil that had dared burn itself into her dreams three nights ago: etched in wax on her mirror, dragging old language across her bones like it still had some claim on her. That dream had left her with a phantom ache in her wrist and a sour taste in her mouth. She had asked her husband Julien about it, if he saw it as well, hoping he may join her in this given quest. It irritated her, but intrigued her as well. Lydia didn’t follow invitations. She audited them.
And now here she was, beckoned by a force that thought it could handle her. The bonfire flared too high, too hungry, as she stepped into view. Black velvet clung to her like shadow incarnate, and her coat’s hem flirted with the flame-warmed wind. Her boots, now officially damp, clicked once against a driftwood log as she passed, and she wrinkled her nose like someone had served her wine in a plastic cup.
No one greeted her, but no one needed to. She didn’t introduce herself, didn’t scan for familiar faces, because she already knew, there were none. Just the pulsing red lanterns. Just the smoke. Just that damned sigil humming somewhere behind her teeth. She was curious who was running this party. She reached the edge of the firelight, raised one white brow, and finally muttered: “If this is bait, I do hope it’s worth the shoes.”
Then, as if the night owed her compensation, Lydia de Bonvouloir strode into the celebration like a blade in satin gloves. She was lethal, elegant, and very much here to see what in the world she had been called here for.
Theodore had sat through his share of strange stories over the years, most of them from patients still groggy from sedation, mumbling about dreams they barely remembered, eyes flickering with half-conscious wonder. But what he faced now was different. This wasn’t the sort of tale a person spins while drifting in and out of sleep. This air had an ancient, primal weight that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just folklore or urban legend. It felt deep, rooted in something much older, something buried under layers of myth and dust. It was as if the story came from the very marrow of humanity, pulling at instincts we’ve long suppressed or forgotten. Raw and uncompromising, like a primal cry etched into the bones of history.
He stood just outside the glow of the lanterns that cast flickering light onto the sand, the grains cool and gritty beneath his polished dress shoes—an odd sight at a beach party, certainly. But even off duty, some standards remained. His clothes were immaculate: smooth, pressed, spotless. His shirt sleeves were rolled up neatly, right to the elbows, revealing a careful precision that felt almost out of place amid the messy chaos of the gathering. The bonfire’s crackling flames hadn't yet earned his respect. He barely seemed to notice the flickering flames or the smoky haze. His face was half-lit by the crimson glow, shadowed and fractured, adding a flickering mask of intensity to his demeanor. In his gloved hand, a small, metallic case—locked shut, pristine, polished to a mirror shine—clutched tightly. The contrast between that gleaming, unbroken object and the wild, unkempt setting was stark.
“Blood Beach,” Theodore whispered softly, eyes fixed on the bonfire, its flames sparking like fiery wounds against the dark night. “Nothing says fun like an unsanctioned ritual under an apocalyptic moon.” The words slipped out in a quiet, almost mocking tone, layered with a tinge of seriousness. He sniffed, barely perceptible, then allowed himself a small smirk. “Or maybe I just have a thing for overcooked symbolism.” The irony hung in the air, thick as the smoke swirling at the edge of the firelight.
But Theodore? His focus was singular. It was all about the tooth, what was hidden within. Or rather, what was inside that tooth. The one, the only, the Sunstone. For centuries, the stone had been nothing more than a myth, a whispered story only spoken in hushed tones by those who believed. Its final resting place had remained undiscovered until recently. That was until a patient of Theodore's, a woman trembling with quiet fear, revealed a startling detail during her last session. She cracked her jaw involuntarily while sleeping and begged him with trembling voice not to tell the shadows what she’d seen—that her mind was haunted enough without them. Her words unlocked the secret. The Sunstone had been concealed in the priest’s tooth, hidden away from prying eyes and vengeful spirits.
Now, Theodore found himself here—Blood Beach—under a moon that looked like a wound in the night sky. The moon cast long, sinister shadows, and the fire’s flickering glow seemed to flicker in time with some unseen heartbeat of ancient flesh. Standing at the edge of the firelight, he paused briefly, taking in the eerie scene before him. The air was thick with secrets, the kind that made the skin crawl and the mind race.
He stood just outside the glow of the lanterns that cast flickering light onto the sand, the grains cool and gritty beneath his polished dress shoes—an odd sight at a beach party, certainly. But even off duty, some standards remained. His clothes were immaculate: smooth, pressed, spotless. His shirt sleeves were rolled up neatly, right to the elbows, revealing a careful precision that felt almost out of place amid the messy chaos of the gathering. The bonfire’s crackling flames hadn't yet earned his respect. He barely seemed to notice the flickering flames or the smoky haze. His face was half-lit by the crimson glow, shadowed and fractured, adding a flickering mask of intensity to his demeanor. In his gloved hand, a small, metallic case—locked shut, pristine, polished to a mirror shine—clutched tightly. The contrast between that gleaming, unbroken object and the wild, unkempt setting was stark.
“Blood Beach,” Theodore whispered softly, eyes fixed on the bonfire, its flames sparking like fiery wounds against the dark night. “Nothing says fun like an unsanctioned ritual under an apocalyptic moon.” The words slipped out in a quiet, almost mocking tone, layered with a tinge of seriousness. He sniffed, barely perceptible, then allowed himself a small smirk. “Or maybe I just have a thing for overcooked symbolism.” The irony hung in the air, thick as the smoke swirling at the edge of the firelight.
But Theodore? His focus was singular. It was all about the tooth, what was hidden within. Or rather, what was inside that tooth. The one, the only, the Sunstone. For centuries, the stone had been nothing more than a myth, a whispered story only spoken in hushed tones by those who believed. Its final resting place had remained undiscovered until recently. That was until a patient of Theodore's, a woman trembling with quiet fear, revealed a startling detail during her last session. She cracked her jaw involuntarily while sleeping and begged him with trembling voice not to tell the shadows what she’d seen—that her mind was haunted enough without them. Her words unlocked the secret. The Sunstone had been concealed in the priest’s tooth, hidden away from prying eyes and vengeful spirits.
Now, Theodore found himself here—Blood Beach—under a moon that looked like a wound in the night sky. The moon cast long, sinister shadows, and the fire’s flickering glow seemed to flicker in time with some unseen heartbeat of ancient flesh. Standing at the edge of the firelight, he paused briefly, taking in the eerie scene before him. The air was thick with secrets, the kind that made the skin crawl and the mind race.
It was very unlike his wife the have nightmares, or daymares, whatever vampires have, but he had never known her to obsess over cryptic messages before. She had asked him about some sigil that he knew nothing about. In his centuries of his servitude deciphering cryptic symbols hadn’t been his area of expertise. He was fixer and his mistress wasn’t the kind to interest herself with sigils, therefore he never needed to worry about them. Her calling card had usually been deconstructed bodies that he was responsible for cleaning up and disposing of.
So, when Lydia started going on and on about this sigil, she had seen in both her dreams and in wax on her mirror, Julien took notice. He had not seen such a symbol in his dreams or etched on her mirror. He wasn’t sure if she was having a mental breakdown or if there was something truly going on here. Whether this was fact or fiction, he wasn’t about to let her wander off to some undisclosed location alone.
When Lydia left their house, Julien was not far behind. He was skilled at following his wife not from distrust of infidelity but a distrust that she wasn’t on the verge of going on a killing spree. She had done this before, and he was worried for her. Before he left the house, he had filled a satchel with some of the finest blood he had in the house. Some of the blood was mixed with very expensive scotch, which was Lydia weakness – vampirism saved her from being an alcoholic – and some of the blood was just plane, top of the line, humanely harvested blood.
He came upon the boundary of red lanterns with a bonfire that looked as if Hell itself had found a crack in the Earth and decided to break the celestial crust to dance in the ocean breeze. He stopped and looked around for anything that might prevent him from entering beyond the boundary of the lanterns. He wasn’t sure if this was an invitation-only event and some invisible force might be waiting to prevent his entrance. He lifted one of his hands cautiously and swiped at the air between two stung lanterns. No sting. No solid wall of magic met. No reason he couldn’t venture in.
He moved into the light of the bonfire and stepped up next to Lydia. In a confused tone he asked his wife, “Lydia, what is going on here?” There was nothing that scared Julien except something trying to manipulate his wife and him be helpless to stop it.
So, when Lydia started going on and on about this sigil, she had seen in both her dreams and in wax on her mirror, Julien took notice. He had not seen such a symbol in his dreams or etched on her mirror. He wasn’t sure if she was having a mental breakdown or if there was something truly going on here. Whether this was fact or fiction, he wasn’t about to let her wander off to some undisclosed location alone.
When Lydia left their house, Julien was not far behind. He was skilled at following his wife not from distrust of infidelity but a distrust that she wasn’t on the verge of going on a killing spree. She had done this before, and he was worried for her. Before he left the house, he had filled a satchel with some of the finest blood he had in the house. Some of the blood was mixed with very expensive scotch, which was Lydia weakness – vampirism saved her from being an alcoholic – and some of the blood was just plane, top of the line, humanely harvested blood.
He came upon the boundary of red lanterns with a bonfire that looked as if Hell itself had found a crack in the Earth and decided to break the celestial crust to dance in the ocean breeze. He stopped and looked around for anything that might prevent him from entering beyond the boundary of the lanterns. He wasn’t sure if this was an invitation-only event and some invisible force might be waiting to prevent his entrance. He lifted one of his hands cautiously and swiped at the air between two stung lanterns. No sting. No solid wall of magic met. No reason he couldn’t venture in.
He moved into the light of the bonfire and stepped up next to Lydia. In a confused tone he asked his wife, “Lydia, what is going on here?” There was nothing that scared Julien except something trying to manipulate his wife and him be helpless to stop it.
The fire cracked louder as the music dipped, just enough to hush the crowd’s voices. A ripple passed through the guests like a chill running down the spine of something already dead. No one had seen him arrive—but suddenly, he was there.
The Red Host stepped into the glow of the bonfire, his presence like silk on skin and something sharp underneath. Crimson embroidery licked the edges of his coat, catching the firelight in ways that should’ve been impossible. His eyes swept across the gathering—playful, dangerous, deliberate—and he smiled as if he already knew everyone’s secrets.
“Welcome, beautiful beasts,” he purred, voice low and dark as aged wine. “Tonight, you drink without limit. The bar is open—alcohol, blood, and every blend between. Don’t ask what’s in it. The ingredients are shy.” A faint chuckle followed. “And if indulgence isn’t enough… a few humans will be joining us shortly. Hand-picked. Sweet-blooded. Generous. Most of them even know what they’re walking into.”
He moved like smoke, circling the bonfire, never rushing, letting every word settle on tongues like a spell. “There’s a midnight swim for the bold, mocktails with names you’ll forget before sunrise, a scavenger hunt strung across boardwalk and sand… and music that listens back.” He tilted his head toward the DJ—silent, mirror-shaded, unreadable. “But beware the moon.”
He paused, then smiled wider, like someone sharing the punchline before the scream. “At ten o’clock, the Blood Moon will crest. And when it does, your powers may surge. Or fail. It’s unpredictable. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous. Like all the best things.”
The Red Host raised his hands—and fire erupted. A spiral of flame twisted into the air, wild and elegant, then crashed into the bonfire with a roar that seemed to pull the darkness in tighter. Light spilled across the sand, gold and blood-red. For a moment, it felt like the whole world held its breath.
And then he vanished.
No sound. No trace. Just the echo of his laughter, warm and wicked, carried on the wind.
The Red Host stepped into the glow of the bonfire, his presence like silk on skin and something sharp underneath. Crimson embroidery licked the edges of his coat, catching the firelight in ways that should’ve been impossible. His eyes swept across the gathering—playful, dangerous, deliberate—and he smiled as if he already knew everyone’s secrets.
“Welcome, beautiful beasts,” he purred, voice low and dark as aged wine. “Tonight, you drink without limit. The bar is open—alcohol, blood, and every blend between. Don’t ask what’s in it. The ingredients are shy.” A faint chuckle followed. “And if indulgence isn’t enough… a few humans will be joining us shortly. Hand-picked. Sweet-blooded. Generous. Most of them even know what they’re walking into.”
He moved like smoke, circling the bonfire, never rushing, letting every word settle on tongues like a spell. “There’s a midnight swim for the bold, mocktails with names you’ll forget before sunrise, a scavenger hunt strung across boardwalk and sand… and music that listens back.” He tilted his head toward the DJ—silent, mirror-shaded, unreadable. “But beware the moon.”
He paused, then smiled wider, like someone sharing the punchline before the scream. “At ten o’clock, the Blood Moon will crest. And when it does, your powers may surge. Or fail. It’s unpredictable. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous. Like all the best things.”
The Red Host raised his hands—and fire erupted. A spiral of flame twisted into the air, wild and elegant, then crashed into the bonfire with a roar that seemed to pull the darkness in tighter. Light spilled across the sand, gold and blood-red. For a moment, it felt like the whole world held its breath.
And then he vanished.
No sound. No trace. Just the echo of his laughter, warm and wicked, carried on the wind.
Mitch had just started sipping his second drink when everything changed.
He’d been enjoying the buzz—real blood, not synthetic, and spiked with something that made his teeth tingle—and watching the strange procession of guests drift into the firelight. A woman in velvet with a stare that could skin a man. A tall guy with a medical-grade calm and shoes too clean for this much sand. People were showing up like this was destiny and drama had a baby. He was eating it up.
Then came Him.
The fire obeyed him. The music bent around his voice. And Mitch? Mitch leaned forward like a kid hearing ghost stories by flashlight. The Red Host's words were honey and teeth: unlimited alcohol, blood on tap, humans arriving later. Mitch’s grin flashed wide as the bartender refilled his drink without being asked. “Now that’s hospitality,” he muttered, licking a trace of blood from his lip.
But then the Host’s tone shifted, darker. The warning about the Blood Moon made his spine twitch, even as the thrill buzzed brighter in his chest. Power surging or glitching? That sounded like exactly the kind of chaos Mitch didn’t get to enjoy back at the hospital. Here, he didn’t have to save anyone. Here, he could just be.
When the fire shot skyward, Mitch actually whooped, lifting his drink like it was a toast to the devil himself. But when the Red Host vanished without a sound, Mitch turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “Dramatic bastard,” he murmured, impressed. Then he caught sight of the woman in velvet—Lydia—and the man who joined her. Something about them screamed important and terrifying.
He sipped again, blood-stained smile growing. “Yup. This is gonna be a good night.”
He’d been enjoying the buzz—real blood, not synthetic, and spiked with something that made his teeth tingle—and watching the strange procession of guests drift into the firelight. A woman in velvet with a stare that could skin a man. A tall guy with a medical-grade calm and shoes too clean for this much sand. People were showing up like this was destiny and drama had a baby. He was eating it up.
Then came Him.
The fire obeyed him. The music bent around his voice. And Mitch? Mitch leaned forward like a kid hearing ghost stories by flashlight. The Red Host's words were honey and teeth: unlimited alcohol, blood on tap, humans arriving later. Mitch’s grin flashed wide as the bartender refilled his drink without being asked. “Now that’s hospitality,” he muttered, licking a trace of blood from his lip.
But then the Host’s tone shifted, darker. The warning about the Blood Moon made his spine twitch, even as the thrill buzzed brighter in his chest. Power surging or glitching? That sounded like exactly the kind of chaos Mitch didn’t get to enjoy back at the hospital. Here, he didn’t have to save anyone. Here, he could just be.
When the fire shot skyward, Mitch actually whooped, lifting his drink like it was a toast to the devil himself. But when the Red Host vanished without a sound, Mitch turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “Dramatic bastard,” he murmured, impressed. Then he caught sight of the woman in velvet—Lydia—and the man who joined her. Something about them screamed important and terrifying.
He sipped again, blood-stained smile growing. “Yup. This is gonna be a good night.”
The fire had always listened to her. But even it flinched when he arrived.
Jade stood off to the side, her silhouette half-wrapped in the shadow of a torn canopy. She hadn’t announced herself—hadn’t needed to. She’d been here since before sunset, watching the first guests drift in with half-curious eyes and forgotten names. She could feel it in the sand, the shift of the air when the dreams took hold. When the sigil marked them. When the blood called. Her hands, gloved in soft leather, clutched a copper cup of something far too red and far too warm to be wine.
Then the music stuttered. The Host appeared.
She didn’t blink when the flames shot skyward, didn’t gasp like a few of the newer fangs did when the Red Host raised his hands and conjured something wild and ancient into the air. No, Jade smiled. Slow. Private. Like watching a storm roll in and knowing you’d seen it once before. She didn't know his name, but she knew his scent. Magic, wrapped in secrets. That same taste had burned behind her teeth ever since the wax-sigil had curled onto her mirror.
As his voice danced over the crowd—blood, humans, surging powers, glitching spells—she found herself more amused than alarmed. A midnight swim? Tempting. Especially if someone needed drowning.
She caught sight of a pale woman arriving—elegant, poised, and full of the kind of disdain that was either earned or dangerous. Jade didn’t approach, just lifted her cup slightly in a near-salute before stepping back into the motion of the party. The scavenger hunt would begin soon, and Jade had plans. She always did.
Jade stood off to the side, her silhouette half-wrapped in the shadow of a torn canopy. She hadn’t announced herself—hadn’t needed to. She’d been here since before sunset, watching the first guests drift in with half-curious eyes and forgotten names. She could feel it in the sand, the shift of the air when the dreams took hold. When the sigil marked them. When the blood called. Her hands, gloved in soft leather, clutched a copper cup of something far too red and far too warm to be wine.
Then the music stuttered. The Host appeared.
She didn’t blink when the flames shot skyward, didn’t gasp like a few of the newer fangs did when the Red Host raised his hands and conjured something wild and ancient into the air. No, Jade smiled. Slow. Private. Like watching a storm roll in and knowing you’d seen it once before. She didn't know his name, but she knew his scent. Magic, wrapped in secrets. That same taste had burned behind her teeth ever since the wax-sigil had curled onto her mirror.
As his voice danced over the crowd—blood, humans, surging powers, glitching spells—she found herself more amused than alarmed. A midnight swim? Tempting. Especially if someone needed drowning.
She caught sight of a pale woman arriving—elegant, poised, and full of the kind of disdain that was either earned or dangerous. Jade didn’t approach, just lifted her cup slightly in a near-salute before stepping back into the motion of the party. The scavenger hunt would begin soon, and Jade had plans. She always did.
Theodore stood unwavering, his expression unchanging. He never flinched, not even when the most unsettling or gruesome situations arose. Not when the sound of molars cracking beneath his drill sent shivers down his patients' spines. Not when blood began to pool at an alarming rate during a particularly delicate procedure. Not even when a shadowy presence lurking behind a patient's eyes whispered dark, unspeakable secrets that should have remained forever unspoken. Despite his unshakeable composure, even Theodore had to admit that the Red Host's entrance was nothing short of spectacular. The dramatic flair with which they made their presence known was undeniable. He subtly adjusted his stance, allowing the fading embers of the firelight to dance across his face, casting shadows that accentuated his features. As he did so, he ran a gloved thumb across the metal edge of his case, his mind preoccupied with the task at hand.
Something was off, however. Not in the atmosphere, which was already charged with an air of anticipation, but in the frequency. It was as if a drill he was using had suddenly hit unexpected resistance, creating a jarring sense of tension. The atmosphere was heavy with an almost palpable pressure, a feeling that the night was on the cusp of something significant. The scavenger hunt that had brought many to this forsaken beach didn't matter to Theodore. The bar, with its assortment of dubious concoctions, was of little consequence. What mattered was the Sunstone – a relic rumored to hold immense power. Theodore had a suspicion that the Red Host was aware of his true intentions, that they knew he was searching for the Sunstone.
"Oh, this one's gonna end in fire and paperwork," Theodore muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of dry amusement and foreboding. His eyes locked onto the man who had seemingly toasted the devil himself, a man whose very presence seemed to exude an aura of chaos. The man's messy hair and the mischief that danced in his veins were unmistakable.
Even from across the sand, Theodore had clocked Mitch, his disheveled appearance, the hunger in his eyes masked by a veneer of nonchalance. Mitch looked like the kind of man who could charm the undead, seduce a ghost, and then casually ask if they wanted to grab breakfast afterward. This made him a potentially valuable ally, or a dangerous adversary. Theodore navigated through the crowd with ease,. He stopped near the edge of the bar, close enough for Mitch to notice his presence.
"Two drinks in, and you're already making bets with the universe?" Theodore said, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "Bold. Or possibly suicidal. Though I'm not one to judge." He nodded toward the bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces. "I assume you're not here for the networking opportunities."
Theodore's eyes flicked toward the drink in Mitch's hand, his gaze lingering on the contents. "Teeth tingling, huh? That'll be the whisperroot. Nasty little plant. Not toxic... unless you count the part where it lowers inhibition and raises the volume on whatever monster you're keeping locked up inside." He paused, his expression unreadable. "Some people find that fun. Some find it fatal. But hey – 'good night,' right?"
With a casual movement, Theodore pulled a vial from his coat pocket. The glass container was faintly glowing, stoppered with wax that bore the same sigil that had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. "I'm Theodore," he introduced himself, his tone casual, as if they were meeting at a cocktail party rather than on a haunted beach shrouded in the remnants of blood rituals. "I fix teeth. And find things people bury. Sometimes they're the same thing."
Theodore's gaze flicked toward Lydia, then back at Mitch. "You strike me as a man who doesn't like being left out of the real party. Care to compare notes?"
Something was off, however. Not in the atmosphere, which was already charged with an air of anticipation, but in the frequency. It was as if a drill he was using had suddenly hit unexpected resistance, creating a jarring sense of tension. The atmosphere was heavy with an almost palpable pressure, a feeling that the night was on the cusp of something significant. The scavenger hunt that had brought many to this forsaken beach didn't matter to Theodore. The bar, with its assortment of dubious concoctions, was of little consequence. What mattered was the Sunstone – a relic rumored to hold immense power. Theodore had a suspicion that the Red Host was aware of his true intentions, that they knew he was searching for the Sunstone.
"Oh, this one's gonna end in fire and paperwork," Theodore muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of dry amusement and foreboding. His eyes locked onto the man who had seemingly toasted the devil himself, a man whose very presence seemed to exude an aura of chaos. The man's messy hair and the mischief that danced in his veins were unmistakable.
Even from across the sand, Theodore had clocked Mitch, his disheveled appearance, the hunger in his eyes masked by a veneer of nonchalance. Mitch looked like the kind of man who could charm the undead, seduce a ghost, and then casually ask if they wanted to grab breakfast afterward. This made him a potentially valuable ally, or a dangerous adversary. Theodore navigated through the crowd with ease,. He stopped near the edge of the bar, close enough for Mitch to notice his presence.
"Two drinks in, and you're already making bets with the universe?" Theodore said, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "Bold. Or possibly suicidal. Though I'm not one to judge." He nodded toward the bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces. "I assume you're not here for the networking opportunities."
Theodore's eyes flicked toward the drink in Mitch's hand, his gaze lingering on the contents. "Teeth tingling, huh? That'll be the whisperroot. Nasty little plant. Not toxic... unless you count the part where it lowers inhibition and raises the volume on whatever monster you're keeping locked up inside." He paused, his expression unreadable. "Some people find that fun. Some find it fatal. But hey – 'good night,' right?"
With a casual movement, Theodore pulled a vial from his coat pocket. The glass container was faintly glowing, stoppered with wax that bore the same sigil that had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. "I'm Theodore," he introduced himself, his tone casual, as if they were meeting at a cocktail party rather than on a haunted beach shrouded in the remnants of blood rituals. "I fix teeth. And find things people bury. Sometimes they're the same thing."
Theodore's gaze flicked toward Lydia, then back at Mitch. "You strike me as a man who doesn't like being left out of the real party. Care to compare notes?"
The fire painted her white-blonde hair in molten gold, but Lydia barely noticed it. Her sea-colored eyes were fixed on the symbol etched into the sand before her, just outside the reach of the flames. She hadn’t drawn it. She didn’t need to. It was simply there now, same as in the dream, same as on the mirror. She wondered briefly who put it there. And why.
She didn’t turn when Julien spoke. She had known he was there from the minute she stepped from their house. She knew she had been acting weird, which was a bit of a statement when it came to her. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, and always lovely, an English flow in her words, but sharp enough to cut through fog. “Something called me.” Not someone. Something. Her tone left no room for gentle interpretations. Turning her head towards him, although not totally seeing him, her sea eyes sparked. “I saw it again last night. The same dream. Same pressure, behind my ribs like it wants out. Like it’s not my dream at all. Like I’m dreaming something else’s memory.”
Finally, she looked fully at him. She always did, eventually. There were few things in this world she truly trusted, but Julien was one of them. Even if she never said it aloud. Then again, she never had too. Her gaze flicked to his satchel, and she offered the barest ghost of a smile. “Though I do appreciate your knack for arriving fully stocked, as always.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face then, not fear, not quite. But something ancient, fragile, and angry. Her fingers twitched at her side, as if tempted to reach for something that wasn’t there, or as if she was irritated that her dreams had been interrupted by something, some external force who dare thought it had the right. However, she turned her beautiful smile on her husband, trying to show she wasn’t….completely crazy. “I didn’t come to burn something down, Julien. I came to see who else heard it.”
She looked past him then, to the dark edges beyond the lanterns, eyes narrowing like a wolf scenting another in the trees, then back to the other party goers. “And obviously, someone did.” There were, from what she could see, at least three other vampires besides them that had arrived. She could feel their eyes, and looked towards each one, but before she could asses real details of John, Theodore, and Jade, or do anything else except acknowledge them with a nod of her head, someone else appeared.
The words he spoke, although there was no change on the outside, worried Lydia. A loss of fracture of her powers could be an incredibly deadly thing, not just to the humans who would attend, but potentially the others as well. She glanced up at Julien, and was secure in the knowledge that he was here, but still. The words worried her. “Well.” She said, not once flinching at the parlor trick of the fire, for she was too used to magic for it. She took the time then to let her eyes move to each of the vampires once more, taking in details of each as she unconsciously studied, and returning the acknowledgment back to those who gave it to her. She was not judging. Not yet. She was simply assessing. “I suppose it’s to be a real party after all.”
She didn’t turn when Julien spoke. She had known he was there from the minute she stepped from their house. She knew she had been acting weird, which was a bit of a statement when it came to her. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, and always lovely, an English flow in her words, but sharp enough to cut through fog. “Something called me.” Not someone. Something. Her tone left no room for gentle interpretations. Turning her head towards him, although not totally seeing him, her sea eyes sparked. “I saw it again last night. The same dream. Same pressure, behind my ribs like it wants out. Like it’s not my dream at all. Like I’m dreaming something else’s memory.”
Finally, she looked fully at him. She always did, eventually. There were few things in this world she truly trusted, but Julien was one of them. Even if she never said it aloud. Then again, she never had too. Her gaze flicked to his satchel, and she offered the barest ghost of a smile. “Though I do appreciate your knack for arriving fully stocked, as always.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face then, not fear, not quite. But something ancient, fragile, and angry. Her fingers twitched at her side, as if tempted to reach for something that wasn’t there, or as if she was irritated that her dreams had been interrupted by something, some external force who dare thought it had the right. However, she turned her beautiful smile on her husband, trying to show she wasn’t….completely crazy. “I didn’t come to burn something down, Julien. I came to see who else heard it.”
She looked past him then, to the dark edges beyond the lanterns, eyes narrowing like a wolf scenting another in the trees, then back to the other party goers. “And obviously, someone did.” There were, from what she could see, at least three other vampires besides them that had arrived. She could feel their eyes, and looked towards each one, but before she could asses real details of John, Theodore, and Jade, or do anything else except acknowledge them with a nod of her head, someone else appeared.
The words he spoke, although there was no change on the outside, worried Lydia. A loss of fracture of her powers could be an incredibly deadly thing, not just to the humans who would attend, but potentially the others as well. She glanced up at Julien, and was secure in the knowledge that he was here, but still. The words worried her. “Well.” She said, not once flinching at the parlor trick of the fire, for she was too used to magic for it. She took the time then to let her eyes move to each of the vampires once more, taking in details of each as she unconsciously studied, and returning the acknowledgment back to those who gave it to her. She was not judging. Not yet. She was simply assessing. “I suppose it’s to be a real party after all.”
Julien didn't like fanfare. He had served royalty most of his existence and what he had learned was that everything had a price. Open bar, all the blood you could drink, humans coming as living founts. He had thrown these kinds of parties once himself for his mistress. They usually ended in bloodshed or blackmail. He was on edge.
He sensed nothing special from the gentleman that showed up to greet them and offer the spoils. He wasn't the mastermind, only talent brought in to seem important, to take the attention of the real host or hostess of this gathering.
Julien's cold eyes scanned the faces of the gathered. The loud man who was on his second drink was already falling victim to whatever scheme was playing out. Should violence ensue by this Blood Moon, he would surely fall prey to it.
Another woman, mostly hidden as if she had plans of her own would be someone Julien watched. She had a calculating manner and seemed unimpressed by the happenings. Either she was the one behind this venture or she knew more than she wanted anyone to realize.
A professional gentleman, scented of sterilization - not unlike his wife when she came home after performing surgery - was a short distance away. Julien presumed he was an unknown guest until he pulled out the glowing vial with the red wax sigil Lydia had drawn on paper to show him. Julien's unease grew.
He knew his wife's temperament and knew she would address him when she was ready. He turned to her when moved, mirroring her steps. He listened to her words as he kept tabs on every being present. He leaned to Lydia, he was more than aware at how sensitive vampire's hearing could be and he had become quite practiced at passing information to only the intended target. "This smells like a trick. There is too much magic here. Enjoy the night but consume only what I brought. Keep your wits about you. Something is afoot and it's not after me."
Still close to Lydia's side, Julien reached into the satchel he brought and pulled out a solid black bottle with blood red script written on it in an elegant hand. He passed the bottle to Lydia. "Go mingle, my love," the normal volume of his voice returning. "Go see what this is all about." Lydia was the butterfly, Julien was the threat.
He sensed nothing special from the gentleman that showed up to greet them and offer the spoils. He wasn't the mastermind, only talent brought in to seem important, to take the attention of the real host or hostess of this gathering.
Julien's cold eyes scanned the faces of the gathered. The loud man who was on his second drink was already falling victim to whatever scheme was playing out. Should violence ensue by this Blood Moon, he would surely fall prey to it.
Another woman, mostly hidden as if she had plans of her own would be someone Julien watched. She had a calculating manner and seemed unimpressed by the happenings. Either she was the one behind this venture or she knew more than she wanted anyone to realize.
A professional gentleman, scented of sterilization - not unlike his wife when she came home after performing surgery - was a short distance away. Julien presumed he was an unknown guest until he pulled out the glowing vial with the red wax sigil Lydia had drawn on paper to show him. Julien's unease grew.
He knew his wife's temperament and knew she would address him when she was ready. He turned to her when moved, mirroring her steps. He listened to her words as he kept tabs on every being present. He leaned to Lydia, he was more than aware at how sensitive vampire's hearing could be and he had become quite practiced at passing information to only the intended target. "This smells like a trick. There is too much magic here. Enjoy the night but consume only what I brought. Keep your wits about you. Something is afoot and it's not after me."
Still close to Lydia's side, Julien reached into the satchel he brought and pulled out a solid black bottle with blood red script written on it in an elegant hand. He passed the bottle to Lydia. "Go mingle, my love," the normal volume of his voice returning. "Go see what this is all about." Lydia was the butterfly, Julien was the threat.
Theodore Nott wrote:
Theodore stood unwavering, his expression unchanging. He never flinched, not even when the most unsettling or gruesome situations arose. Not when the sound of molars cracking beneath his drill sent shivers down his patients' spines. Not when blood began to pool at an alarming rate during a particularly delicate procedure. Not even when a shadowy presence lurking behind a patient's eyes whispered dark, unspeakable secrets that should have remained forever unspoken. Despite his unshakeable composure, even Theodore had to admit that the Red Host's entrance was nothing short of spectacular. The dramatic flair with which they made their presence known was undeniable. He subtly adjusted his stance, allowing the fading embers of the firelight to dance across his face, casting shadows that accentuated his features. As he did so, he ran a gloved thumb across the metal edge of his case, his mind preoccupied with the task at hand.
Something was off, however. Not in the atmosphere, which was already charged with an air of anticipation, but in the frequency. It was as if a drill he was using had suddenly hit unexpected resistance, creating a jarring sense of tension. The atmosphere was heavy with an almost palpable pressure, a feeling that the night was on the cusp of something significant. The scavenger hunt that had brought many to this forsaken beach didn't matter to Theodore. The bar, with its assortment of dubious concoctions, was of little consequence. What mattered was the Sunstone – a relic rumored to hold immense power. Theodore had a suspicion that the Red Host was aware of his true intentions, that they knew he was searching for the Sunstone.
"Oh, this one's gonna end in fire and paperwork," Theodore muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of dry amusement and foreboding. His eyes locked onto the man who had seemingly toasted the devil himself, a man whose very presence seemed to exude an aura of chaos. The man's messy hair and the mischief that danced in his veins were unmistakable.
Even from across the sand, Theodore had clocked Mitch, his disheveled appearance, the hunger in his eyes masked by a veneer of nonchalance. Mitch looked like the kind of man who could charm the undead, seduce a ghost, and then casually ask if they wanted to grab breakfast afterward. This made him a potentially valuable ally, or a dangerous adversary. Theodore navigated through the crowd with ease,. He stopped near the edge of the bar, close enough for Mitch to notice his presence.
"Two drinks in, and you're already making bets with the universe?" Theodore said, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "Bold. Or possibly suicidal. Though I'm not one to judge." He nodded toward the bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces. "I assume you're not here for the networking opportunities."
Theodore's eyes flicked toward the drink in Mitch's hand, his gaze lingering on the contents. "Teeth tingling, huh? That'll be the whisperroot. Nasty little plant. Not toxic... unless you count the part where it lowers inhibition and raises the volume on whatever monster you're keeping locked up inside." He paused, his expression unreadable. "Some people find that fun. Some find it fatal. But hey – 'good night,' right?"
With a casual movement, Theodore pulled a vial from his coat pocket. The glass container was faintly glowing, stoppered with wax that bore the same sigil that had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. "I'm Theodore," he introduced himself, his tone casual, as if they were meeting at a cocktail party rather than on a haunted beach shrouded in the remnants of blood rituals. "I fix teeth. And find things people bury. Sometimes they're the same thing."
Theodore's gaze flicked toward Lydia, then back at Mitch. "You strike me as a man who doesn't like being left out of the real party. Care to compare notes?"
Something was off, however. Not in the atmosphere, which was already charged with an air of anticipation, but in the frequency. It was as if a drill he was using had suddenly hit unexpected resistance, creating a jarring sense of tension. The atmosphere was heavy with an almost palpable pressure, a feeling that the night was on the cusp of something significant. The scavenger hunt that had brought many to this forsaken beach didn't matter to Theodore. The bar, with its assortment of dubious concoctions, was of little consequence. What mattered was the Sunstone – a relic rumored to hold immense power. Theodore had a suspicion that the Red Host was aware of his true intentions, that they knew he was searching for the Sunstone.
"Oh, this one's gonna end in fire and paperwork," Theodore muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mix of dry amusement and foreboding. His eyes locked onto the man who had seemingly toasted the devil himself, a man whose very presence seemed to exude an aura of chaos. The man's messy hair and the mischief that danced in his veins were unmistakable.
Even from across the sand, Theodore had clocked Mitch, his disheveled appearance, the hunger in his eyes masked by a veneer of nonchalance. Mitch looked like the kind of man who could charm the undead, seduce a ghost, and then casually ask if they wanted to grab breakfast afterward. This made him a potentially valuable ally, or a dangerous adversary. Theodore navigated through the crowd with ease,. He stopped near the edge of the bar, close enough for Mitch to notice his presence.
"Two drinks in, and you're already making bets with the universe?" Theodore said, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "Bold. Or possibly suicidal. Though I'm not one to judge." He nodded toward the bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows on the surrounding faces. "I assume you're not here for the networking opportunities."
Theodore's eyes flicked toward the drink in Mitch's hand, his gaze lingering on the contents. "Teeth tingling, huh? That'll be the whisperroot. Nasty little plant. Not toxic... unless you count the part where it lowers inhibition and raises the volume on whatever monster you're keeping locked up inside." He paused, his expression unreadable. "Some people find that fun. Some find it fatal. But hey – 'good night,' right?"
With a casual movement, Theodore pulled a vial from his coat pocket. The glass container was faintly glowing, stoppered with wax that bore the same sigil that had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. "I'm Theodore," he introduced himself, his tone casual, as if they were meeting at a cocktail party rather than on a haunted beach shrouded in the remnants of blood rituals. "I fix teeth. And find things people bury. Sometimes they're the same thing."
Theodore's gaze flicked toward Lydia, then back at Mitch. "You strike me as a man who doesn't like being left out of the real party. Care to compare notes?"
Mitch's head tilted to the side while Theodore spoke, the corner of his mouth curling up as though he was being let in on a private joke—one he'd heard a hundred times and still loved. He drank slowly, never breaking eye contact with Theodore, then exhaled like the taste had rejuvenated him.
"Oh, it tingles, all right," he purred, low and entertained. "Right behind the eyes and right under the skin. Whisperroot's a charmer—strips away the last little layer of restraint. Makes anything feel possible."
He looked Theodore up and down. Not rude. Just. interested. Evaluating. Maybe imagining how he'd bleed.
And then, easily, Mitch held out his hand, still cold from the glass. "Mitch. Nurse, technically. Fix bodies, stitch holes, make hearts continue beating when they're trying really hard not to. But tonight…" His eyes dropped to his drink as if to communion. "Tonight I'm off the clock. And I can swear I can smell the human blood in the air—warm, thick, honest."
He laughed low, the sound like velvet fraying at the edges.
“I don’t get many nights like this. So yeah… I’m not here to network. I’m here to feast.”
And then, with a wink like a scalpel—sharp and fast—he lifted his glass again.
“To good nights. And even better wounds.”
Just as the embers from the Red Host’s firework finale drifted back to earth, the music surged again—low and pulsing, the kind that felt like it was syncing to your heartbeat. Then came a shift. Not in the air, but in the sand.
A piece of driftwood, half-buried near the edge of the firelight, began to glow faintly. Not bright. Just enough to draw the eye. It had been carved—deep and precise—with looping symbols that seemed to shimmer beneath the surface. Some guests dismissed it. Others noticed. One brave soul stepped closer, brushing sand away to reveal a small phrase etched in a delicate, cruel hand:
“What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?
Find its mirror. The next clue is spun.”
Tied to the driftwood was a red ribbon, weather-worn but clearly fresh. If anyone touched it, they’d feel a cold jolt—not painful, but sharp enough to let them know: this was real. The game had begun.
A whisper, soft and indistinct, threaded through the music.
“Only those who want to find it… will.”
A piece of driftwood, half-buried near the edge of the firelight, began to glow faintly. Not bright. Just enough to draw the eye. It had been carved—deep and precise—with looping symbols that seemed to shimmer beneath the surface. Some guests dismissed it. Others noticed. One brave soul stepped closer, brushing sand away to reveal a small phrase etched in a delicate, cruel hand:
“What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?
Find its mirror. The next clue is spun.”
Tied to the driftwood was a red ribbon, weather-worn but clearly fresh. If anyone touched it, they’d feel a cold jolt—not painful, but sharp enough to let them know: this was real. The game had begun.
A whisper, soft and indistinct, threaded through the music.
“Only those who want to find it… will.”
Beneath the beach canopy of Jade Black was a cushioned sling back chair, a wood filled fire pit of iron, shrouded in decorative mahogany and various creature comforts that had been set up for the mistress of the Black Clan even before the red sun had dipped below the horizon. As the ambassador of the Black Clan she could not be seen in accompanied by anything but the most lavish of accoutrements in any endeavor she partook.
Of course, as the ambassador of the Black Clan she couldn't be seen to be doing the common menial labor of setting up the canopy and preparing accommodations to attend the night's festivities herself. Jade had a reputation to maintain.
That was where the blonde girl had come into this. One of the Black Clan's herd of mortal hopefuls, Tryst had laboured hard in order to drag everything from the black SUV across the sands to the place that Jade had chosen for herself and assembled the canopy and sling chair and the fire pit. She then filled firepot with wood and unpacked the supplies.
Now, as her reward, Tryst lay awkwardly across a plastic cooler laid in the sand beneath the canopy with her head bent backwards on one side and her legs were other, her high heeled mule shoes, half buried on the sand. The blonde girl, one of countless young women who wished for immortality, stared blankly off into some distant bushes at the beach's edge. The fair skinned girl, her skin like porcelain, wore a black string bikini and matching sarong that made her skin look all the paler. Her long nails, both finger and toes, were manicured a glossy black and her long blonde tresses, crimped and ironed into wavy ringlets were hanging down, striking the sand and fanning out about her.
The sigil of Clan Black, a tattoo behind her ear marked her as the personal property of the Clan and not to be poached upon but that didn't matter any longer. Tryst was clearly dead, two glistening red holes proudly and prominently displayed upon her neck were an obvious indication as to her demise.
Of course, as the ambassador of the Black Clan she couldn't be seen to be doing the common menial labor of setting up the canopy and preparing accommodations to attend the night's festivities herself. Jade had a reputation to maintain.
That was where the blonde girl had come into this. One of the Black Clan's herd of mortal hopefuls, Tryst had laboured hard in order to drag everything from the black SUV across the sands to the place that Jade had chosen for herself and assembled the canopy and sling chair and the fire pit. She then filled firepot with wood and unpacked the supplies.
Now, as her reward, Tryst lay awkwardly across a plastic cooler laid in the sand beneath the canopy with her head bent backwards on one side and her legs were other, her high heeled mule shoes, half buried on the sand. The blonde girl, one of countless young women who wished for immortality, stared blankly off into some distant bushes at the beach's edge. The fair skinned girl, her skin like porcelain, wore a black string bikini and matching sarong that made her skin look all the paler. Her long nails, both finger and toes, were manicured a glossy black and her long blonde tresses, crimped and ironed into wavy ringlets were hanging down, striking the sand and fanning out about her.
The sigil of Clan Black, a tattoo behind her ear marked her as the personal property of the Clan and not to be poached upon but that didn't matter any longer. Tryst was clearly dead, two glistening red holes proudly and prominently displayed upon her neck were an obvious indication as to her demise.
The sand was cool beneath her feet, moonlight kissing every grain with ghost-white glow. The ocean stretched out like ink, and the fire at the center of the gathering crackled with unnatural hues: green, then blue, then a sudden crimson lick of flame that made several heads turn.
Lydia had just begun to play her part, offering soft smiles and slower sips from the bottle Julien had given her, scanning to see who she wanted to talk to first when the air shifted. Not metaphorically. Not theatrically. Something changed. Something shifted.
The driftwood pulsed faintly, its symbols catching the corner of Lydia’s eye like a flicker behind a mirror. She turned her head slightly, the way one might glance at lightning before thunder. Not a threat. Not yet. She didn’t move toward it. Others did, some with playful curiosity, others with a predator’s patience masked by wine and silk. The little riddle etched in blood-inked script hummed beneath the beat of the music. It was clever. And cruel. Lydia’s specialty.
“What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?” She knew the answer, of course. Everyone here did. But it wasn’t the answer that mattered. It was the mirror. The red ribbon stirred as if caught in a breeze, though there was no wind, and when one guest brushed their fingers against it, their gasp was too quiet for mortals—but not for Lydia. Cold. Real. Ancient.
She didn’t need to turn to know Julien had seen it, too. The patterns in the sand, the orchestration behind what looked like frivolity. This wasn’t a party. It was a summoning. The thrum of the sea stilled. The fire hissed. And out of the shadows, like an offering wrapped in silence, came a girl. A human. She was young, barefoot, and clearly inthralled with the idea, though she tried not to tremble. Someone had dressed her in pale silk, the hem already soaked and clinging to her legs. Her throat was bare. A sacrifice. Or a snack.
The crowd didn’t react in horror. They watched with interest, some with amusement, and one or two with open hunger. Lydia’s smile didn’t falter, but it froze. Beautiful and wrong. Human blood was a weakness, and she could already smell it stirring under the surface. Her gaze slid toward the source of the energy curling around the girl like a leash. Three vampires stood at the edge of the firelight, as though they’d just stepped from a painting meant to unsettle.
A female with thick, coal-black hair that glistened like oil. She wore something sheer and smiling, but her eyes were empty. Hunger and cruelty wrapped in perfume. The men flanking her were opposites, but just as interested in what seemed to be happening.
Lydia felt, more than saw, Julien draw closer behind her. “They brought a sacrifice. Possible snack,” She said aloud this time, tone bone-dry. “Do we applaud or vomit?”
Sea-green eyes, more blue than green at the moment, looked at Julien’s face. As always, for one second, her heart melted, but then she only stepped forward again—three paces toward the fire, the bottle still loose in her hand. The girl turned her head, eyes locking with Lydia’s as if she might be her salvation. Lydia only raised a brow, understanding then. She wasn’t a sacrificial lamb. She wanted to be turned. Lydia scoffed quietly, but said nothing more as she wandered the beach.
Not yet. The next move wasn’t hers to make. Not until she knew who was playing god tonight.
Lydia had just begun to play her part, offering soft smiles and slower sips from the bottle Julien had given her, scanning to see who she wanted to talk to first when the air shifted. Not metaphorically. Not theatrically. Something changed. Something shifted.
The driftwood pulsed faintly, its symbols catching the corner of Lydia’s eye like a flicker behind a mirror. She turned her head slightly, the way one might glance at lightning before thunder. Not a threat. Not yet. She didn’t move toward it. Others did, some with playful curiosity, others with a predator’s patience masked by wine and silk. The little riddle etched in blood-inked script hummed beneath the beat of the music. It was clever. And cruel. Lydia’s specialty.
“What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?” She knew the answer, of course. Everyone here did. But it wasn’t the answer that mattered. It was the mirror. The red ribbon stirred as if caught in a breeze, though there was no wind, and when one guest brushed their fingers against it, their gasp was too quiet for mortals—but not for Lydia. Cold. Real. Ancient.
She didn’t need to turn to know Julien had seen it, too. The patterns in the sand, the orchestration behind what looked like frivolity. This wasn’t a party. It was a summoning. The thrum of the sea stilled. The fire hissed. And out of the shadows, like an offering wrapped in silence, came a girl. A human. She was young, barefoot, and clearly inthralled with the idea, though she tried not to tremble. Someone had dressed her in pale silk, the hem already soaked and clinging to her legs. Her throat was bare. A sacrifice. Or a snack.
The crowd didn’t react in horror. They watched with interest, some with amusement, and one or two with open hunger. Lydia’s smile didn’t falter, but it froze. Beautiful and wrong. Human blood was a weakness, and she could already smell it stirring under the surface. Her gaze slid toward the source of the energy curling around the girl like a leash. Three vampires stood at the edge of the firelight, as though they’d just stepped from a painting meant to unsettle.
A female with thick, coal-black hair that glistened like oil. She wore something sheer and smiling, but her eyes were empty. Hunger and cruelty wrapped in perfume. The men flanking her were opposites, but just as interested in what seemed to be happening.
Lydia felt, more than saw, Julien draw closer behind her. “They brought a sacrifice. Possible snack,” She said aloud this time, tone bone-dry. “Do we applaud or vomit?”
Sea-green eyes, more blue than green at the moment, looked at Julien’s face. As always, for one second, her heart melted, but then she only stepped forward again—three paces toward the fire, the bottle still loose in her hand. The girl turned her head, eyes locking with Lydia’s as if she might be her salvation. Lydia only raised a brow, understanding then. She wasn’t a sacrificial lamb. She wanted to be turned. Lydia scoffed quietly, but said nothing more as she wandered the beach.
Not yet. The next move wasn’t hers to make. Not until she knew who was playing god tonight.
Julien had been privy to far too many young, delusional girls who thought they wanted this existence. She would just end up being another victim one day. His eyes caught her approach and her display of herself. He knew Lydia wouldn’t be drawn to the female, she knew better than to feed on a human without having certain protocols in place – Lydia loved to destroy as much as she loved to heal.
Julien moved closer to Lydia’s side and brushed his lips along her jaw. He whispered, “I’ll be right back.” With his satchel still slung over his shoulder he made his way away from the bone fire. The driftwood and the offer for the scavenger hunt not interesting him in the least. He headed directly for the canopy tent, small fire, and the blonde that had laid herself out like she wanted to be feasted upon.
He approached her casually; his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks as he surveyed her body. She might seem dead, but to one as old and experienced as Julien, there was still some life in her. He set his bag down next to the fire and knelt next to the posed body. His eyes drifted over her fair skin. She could be glorious. He allowed his imagination to drift for a moment as he pictured dismantling her, gutting her, and making her into an artistic statement. He had to blink several times to make that depraved scene of macabre lust fade and allow reality to set back in.
He examined her with no real interest other than the puncture marks that stood out red and lethal upon her alabaster throat. He hadn’t seen anyone approach her, let alone bit her. Julien lifted his hand to his mouth and punctured his thumb. He shifted over her body and pressed his bloodied thumb over the two perforations in her neck. His blood would heal the bite marks and make her skin as pristine as it had ever been. Now what he needed to ascertain was her life.
He pressed his thumb, still oozing some of the crimson elixir that was a power vampire’s blood, to her lips. If there was life in her, she would react at the first drop on her tongue.
Julien moved closer to Lydia’s side and brushed his lips along her jaw. He whispered, “I’ll be right back.” With his satchel still slung over his shoulder he made his way away from the bone fire. The driftwood and the offer for the scavenger hunt not interesting him in the least. He headed directly for the canopy tent, small fire, and the blonde that had laid herself out like she wanted to be feasted upon.
He approached her casually; his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks as he surveyed her body. She might seem dead, but to one as old and experienced as Julien, there was still some life in her. He set his bag down next to the fire and knelt next to the posed body. His eyes drifted over her fair skin. She could be glorious. He allowed his imagination to drift for a moment as he pictured dismantling her, gutting her, and making her into an artistic statement. He had to blink several times to make that depraved scene of macabre lust fade and allow reality to set back in.
He examined her with no real interest other than the puncture marks that stood out red and lethal upon her alabaster throat. He hadn’t seen anyone approach her, let alone bit her. Julien lifted his hand to his mouth and punctured his thumb. He shifted over her body and pressed his bloodied thumb over the two perforations in her neck. His blood would heal the bite marks and make her skin as pristine as it had ever been. Now what he needed to ascertain was her life.
He pressed his thumb, still oozing some of the crimson elixir that was a power vampire’s blood, to her lips. If there was life in her, she would react at the first drop on her tongue.
The scent hit her first—familiar, intimate, wrong.
Not just blood. Her blood. Or rather, the blood of the girl she’d marked months ago, hand-selected, trained, and tethered to her life in quiet, invisible ways.
Jade stepped forward from the shadows like smoke coalescing into form, her heels silent in the sand but her presence undeniable. She moved past the glowing driftwood and the scavenger crowd without a glance, her eyes fixed on him like a blade narrowing to a point.
“Hey,” she said, smooth as silk pulled taut across something sharper. “Did you enjoy your drink?”
Her tone wasn’t angry. Not yet. But something behind her words felt cold. Measured. Dangerous.
She didn’t wait for him to answer. Her eyes dipped to his glass, then drifted toward the canopy where the girl had last been resting—then to the subtle gleam of fresh-pressed skin across her throat.
“I would’ve shared,” she said softly. “If you’d asked.”
The words hung in the air like perfume before a fire. Jade leaned in just enough for her voice to dip into his space.
“She bears the sigil of Clan Black. A mark behind her ear—just beneath the hairline. If you’d bothered to check, you might’ve noticed.” She tilted her head, just enough to reveal the same sigil inked delicately behind her own ear—blackened, intricate, unmistakable. “That makes her mine. And me?”
She smiled—but it didn’t touch her eyes.
“Clan property.”
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
“I suggest you back away,” she said at last, straightening with eerie calm. “While you still have my patience. And your tongue.”
She didn’t need to growl. Didn’t raise her voice. She simply turned, every step back toward the fire deliberate, regal, and coiled with restraint. But her next drink would be something fresher. Something earned.
Not just blood. Her blood. Or rather, the blood of the girl she’d marked months ago, hand-selected, trained, and tethered to her life in quiet, invisible ways.
Jade stepped forward from the shadows like smoke coalescing into form, her heels silent in the sand but her presence undeniable. She moved past the glowing driftwood and the scavenger crowd without a glance, her eyes fixed on him like a blade narrowing to a point.
“Hey,” she said, smooth as silk pulled taut across something sharper. “Did you enjoy your drink?”
Her tone wasn’t angry. Not yet. But something behind her words felt cold. Measured. Dangerous.
She didn’t wait for him to answer. Her eyes dipped to his glass, then drifted toward the canopy where the girl had last been resting—then to the subtle gleam of fresh-pressed skin across her throat.
“I would’ve shared,” she said softly. “If you’d asked.”
The words hung in the air like perfume before a fire. Jade leaned in just enough for her voice to dip into his space.
“She bears the sigil of Clan Black. A mark behind her ear—just beneath the hairline. If you’d bothered to check, you might’ve noticed.” She tilted her head, just enough to reveal the same sigil inked delicately behind her own ear—blackened, intricate, unmistakable. “That makes her mine. And me?”
She smiled—but it didn’t touch her eyes.
“Clan property.”
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
“I suggest you back away,” she said at last, straightening with eerie calm. “While you still have my patience. And your tongue.”
She didn’t need to growl. Didn’t raise her voice. She simply turned, every step back toward the fire deliberate, regal, and coiled with restraint. But her next drink would be something fresher. Something earned.
Julien had zero fear from the female that approached and accused him of drinking from her property. She was obviously unintelligent enough to see he was doing nothing more than trying to help the girl who lay in a distressed posture after having been drained by someone, other than himself.
When she spoke to him, he looked up more out of curiosity of who had the audacity to speak to him in such a way but disregarded her words and warning completely. Her rudeness was instilled all the more when she turned her back to him and walked away without allowing him to address the situation in the slightest. “I have no interest in your pet,” his words were cold, daring her to come back at him so he had a reason to snap her neck.
He had been around vampires far more terrifying and threatening than this waif of a vampire and he was not known to cower to anyone but his own maker. “Her blood smells foul anyway. I was merely trying to keep her from bleeding out and departing from her mortal coil.” Julien stood brushing any stray sand from his pants and then his hands.
With the razor-sharp tongue he was known for he added, “It appears you give as much care to your property as you do at arranging pointless gatherings.” Julien had not been an intended target for the gathering. Yet anyone should know that if they disturb his home or the woman he loves, his reckoning will swiftly follow.
When she spoke to him, he looked up more out of curiosity of who had the audacity to speak to him in such a way but disregarded her words and warning completely. Her rudeness was instilled all the more when she turned her back to him and walked away without allowing him to address the situation in the slightest. “I have no interest in your pet,” his words were cold, daring her to come back at him so he had a reason to snap her neck.
He had been around vampires far more terrifying and threatening than this waif of a vampire and he was not known to cower to anyone but his own maker. “Her blood smells foul anyway. I was merely trying to keep her from bleeding out and departing from her mortal coil.” Julien stood brushing any stray sand from his pants and then his hands.
With the razor-sharp tongue he was known for he added, “It appears you give as much care to your property as you do at arranging pointless gatherings.” Julien had not been an intended target for the gathering. Yet anyone should know that if they disturb his home or the woman he loves, his reckoning will swiftly follow.
Theodore didn’t smile this time. He studied Mitch with cold fingers, deliberate wording, a glint in the eye that suggested too much joy in the wrong kind of blood.
Nurse. Fixes people by day. Watches them unravel by night. Useful. Possibly reckless. Definitely watching the fire for the wrong reasons. The glass lifted again in a mock-toast.
“To good nights. And even better wounds.”
Theodore’s eyes flicked to the drink, then to the pulse at Mitch’s neck. No judgment. Just calculation.
And then the riddle whispered.
What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He just stepped away, already drawing lines in his head:
Moonlight drinker = obsidian, or water, or something alive. Mirror = reflection, deflection, possibly location-based. Next clue is spun = movement? Rotation? Turn something?
Theodore noticed the canopy the way a man might notice an over-decorated tomb—briefly, without interest, and only because it disrupted the natural shape of the beach. Mahogany, iron, a firepit that burned too clean to be real. All of it whispered importance in the way expensive perfume tries to cover decay. He didn’t care. It was the body that gave him pause. Not out of shock. Certainly not out of pity. Just… the necessity of observation.
The mark behind her ear confirmed it as someone's property. Of course. No surprise there. But something about the effortlessness of it all, the way the whole scene tried so hard to look important, bored him more than it disturbed him.
When Jade finally turned, when her threat settled into the air like the smoke curling from the iron firepit, Theodore simply exhaled through his nose. Not a scoff. Not quite. Just enough breath to let the world know he was unimpressed. And that guy, Julien, who scoffed at Jade seemed to be unimpressed as he was.
What the hell was he expecting here anyway?
Nurse. Fixes people by day. Watches them unravel by night. Useful. Possibly reckless. Definitely watching the fire for the wrong reasons. The glass lifted again in a mock-toast.
“To good nights. And even better wounds.”
Theodore’s eyes flicked to the drink, then to the pulse at Mitch’s neck. No judgment. Just calculation.
And then the riddle whispered.
What drinks the moonlight but dies in the sun?
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He just stepped away, already drawing lines in his head:
Moonlight drinker = obsidian, or water, or something alive. Mirror = reflection, deflection, possibly location-based. Next clue is spun = movement? Rotation? Turn something?
Theodore noticed the canopy the way a man might notice an over-decorated tomb—briefly, without interest, and only because it disrupted the natural shape of the beach. Mahogany, iron, a firepit that burned too clean to be real. All of it whispered importance in the way expensive perfume tries to cover decay. He didn’t care. It was the body that gave him pause. Not out of shock. Certainly not out of pity. Just… the necessity of observation.
The mark behind her ear confirmed it as someone's property. Of course. No surprise there. But something about the effortlessness of it all, the way the whole scene tried so hard to look important, bored him more than it disturbed him.
When Jade finally turned, when her threat settled into the air like the smoke curling from the iron firepit, Theodore simply exhaled through his nose. Not a scoff. Not quite. Just enough breath to let the world know he was unimpressed. And that guy, Julien, who scoffed at Jade seemed to be unimpressed as he was.
What the hell was he expecting here anyway?
The fire crackled behind her like bones shifting in dry heat, but Lydia didn’t turn. She barely blinked. Her gaze followed every line of Julien’s body, every measured breath,at first curious of what he was doing, and when she was satisfied, she had turned away to scan the guests to decide who to talk to. But her head quickly turned back, a snap on the wind, as she heard the black haired vampires words. She watched the calm come over Julien then, the calm detonation that Jade had just, so foolishly, set in motion.
She had seen Julien like this before. Just before he crushed a man’s skull into a cathedral wall for touching her sleeve in Venice. Just before he slit a throat with the stem of a wine glass in Marrakesh. When he was at his most beautiful to the creature in her.
Jade, for all her theatrics and declarations, had no idea what she’d just invited. And Lydia… Lydia really loved to watch Julien work. Her fingers curled neatly against the glass in her hand, but her posture was still, the kind of stillness that only the ancient ever truly mastered. Ice in blood. Stone in breath. Waiting.
Julien’s voice cut through the air like the final note of a requiem, and aripple of pleasure curled through Lydia’s chest. Not at the insult. But at the challenge. The dare in his tone, inviting retaliation. He never raised his voice. He never had to. He was storm and scripture, and perfect in both. He stood, brushed off sand as if it had personally offended him, and spoke with compassion laced in contempt. Her blood tingled as it always did. Classic Julien. And when he delivered his final message, that was when Lydia’s smile unfurled, slow and cold and full of teeth. Jade had wanted an audience. She had one now. And the silence that followed Julien’s words was not empty. It was expectant.
Lydia finally moved, glass dangling from her fingers like a scalpel. She stepped closer to Julien, just enough that her presence brushed his like silk laid over a drawn blade. Her eyes, a near glittering sea-green, followed Jade’s retreating form. “You marked a girl,” Lydia purred in that English tone, loud enough for Jade to hear without turning, and sharp enough to cut glass. “You threw a party. You stirred up dust and blood and fire.” She tilted her head. There was no heat in her voice. Only precision. “And then you walked into my husband’s space and dared to speak. Accusatory to start, and of signs, sigils, and marks, no less and yet, you understand nothing.” Seemingly absently, but with fully intended purpose, Lydia’s fingers brushed against the mark on Julien’s neck.
The Queen’s mark on Julien’s neck didn’t glow. It never needed to. But Lydia could feel it pulsing beneath Julien’s skin, older than them, and more powerful than anything Jade could dream of. So she wanted to let the girl try again. Let her try make this fun.
She had seen Julien like this before. Just before he crushed a man’s skull into a cathedral wall for touching her sleeve in Venice. Just before he slit a throat with the stem of a wine glass in Marrakesh. When he was at his most beautiful to the creature in her.
Jade, for all her theatrics and declarations, had no idea what she’d just invited. And Lydia… Lydia really loved to watch Julien work. Her fingers curled neatly against the glass in her hand, but her posture was still, the kind of stillness that only the ancient ever truly mastered. Ice in blood. Stone in breath. Waiting.
Julien’s voice cut through the air like the final note of a requiem, and aripple of pleasure curled through Lydia’s chest. Not at the insult. But at the challenge. The dare in his tone, inviting retaliation. He never raised his voice. He never had to. He was storm and scripture, and perfect in both. He stood, brushed off sand as if it had personally offended him, and spoke with compassion laced in contempt. Her blood tingled as it always did. Classic Julien. And when he delivered his final message, that was when Lydia’s smile unfurled, slow and cold and full of teeth. Jade had wanted an audience. She had one now. And the silence that followed Julien’s words was not empty. It was expectant.
Lydia finally moved, glass dangling from her fingers like a scalpel. She stepped closer to Julien, just enough that her presence brushed his like silk laid over a drawn blade. Her eyes, a near glittering sea-green, followed Jade’s retreating form. “You marked a girl,” Lydia purred in that English tone, loud enough for Jade to hear without turning, and sharp enough to cut glass. “You threw a party. You stirred up dust and blood and fire.” She tilted her head. There was no heat in her voice. Only precision. “And then you walked into my husband’s space and dared to speak. Accusatory to start, and of signs, sigils, and marks, no less and yet, you understand nothing.” Seemingly absently, but with fully intended purpose, Lydia’s fingers brushed against the mark on Julien’s neck.
The Queen’s mark on Julien’s neck didn’t glow. It never needed to. But Lydia could feel it pulsing beneath Julien’s skin, older than them, and more powerful than anything Jade could dream of. So she wanted to let the girl try again. Let her try make this fun.
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