Chapter 2 — **Chapter 2**

Theron

The woman is a thorn in my side. Stunning, I’ll admit, with those defiant emerald eyes and skin like porcelain. But beauty lost its hold on me centuries ago.

There’s something about her, though. And I can’t decide if it grates on me because it’s maddening… or because I can’t shake the pull.

Vera’s accusations echo in my skull. *“This is what vampires do – take what they want and destroy lives.”* Her gaze had burned with such conviction, such raw intensity. And that crackle when our skin brushed—what in hell was that? Not just the faint magic from the charm she’d clutched, I’m sure of it. Something deeper, wilder. Was it her bloodline’s untamed energy? I’ve tracked enough witches to know raw power when I feel it, but this… this lingers.

I stalk into my penthouse, shrugging off my jacket and flinging it over a leather armchair. The city sprawls below through floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering maze of lights that usually steadies my thoughts. Not tonight. The faint hum of the streets filters through the glass, a restless pulse mirroring my own.

I pour a glass of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the dim light. It does little for our kind, but the familiar burn down my throat is a small comfort as I knock it back. A habit, nothing more.

“Computer, display Evelyn Blackwood’s file.” The smart glass along one wall shifts, overlaying text and images. The Blackwood matriarch’s face emerges—smooth, ageless, as striking as her granddaughters even in her advanced years. Her details list her Conclave role, associates, recent movements. Their bloodline has shaped supernatural politics for centuries, a legacy that’s both a shield and a target.

I scowl at the photo, fragments from the crystal charm I’d sensed earlier flashing through my mind. Closing my eyes, I focus on the lingering traces of magic from the Blackwood estate. Images flicker—dark corridors, stone walls slick with damp, the sharp bite of saltwater. Underground passages by the harbor, maybe? Then it shifts—an abandoned factory, broken windows glinting, metal staircases spiraling up. Another flash—a jumble of steel that makes no sense.

*Damn it all.* Lucien’s moving her, scrambling the trail so I can’t pin a location.

I press my fingers to my temples, grasping at the fading threads. Five hundred years of hunting magical traces has sharpened my senses, but Lucien’s played this game as long as I have. He knows how to throw me off.

My phone buzzes. Lake Blackwood’s name lights up with a text.

*Any progress?*

I tap out a reply, jaw tight.

*He’s shifting her between locations. Flashes, but nothing solid to track.*

His response pings back quickly.

*Conclave gathering tonight. Georgia and I are headed there. Need both councils aligned. Can you pull strings on your end?*

I give a frustrated grunt. Stepping into Kael’s role as clan liaison gives me some sway, but it’s untested—recent tensions with the elders make every move a gamble. Still, I type back.

*Maybe. If Arabella deigns to listen for once.*

A thumbs-up flashes in reply, and the thread ends. I scrub a hand along my jaw, glaring at the screen. Lake was dead-set against us, but he’s thawing. If only his daughter would come around. Vera’s impulsiveness is a liability—I recall her storming off during a heated strategy session last week, refusing to wait for backup. That memory gnaws at me now.

I fire off a text to the kid who handles our tech.

*Pull up footage from vampire territories near water. Any anomalies, I want to see.*

It’s a long shot, but narrowing the field might yield something. I adjust the smart glass settings, dimming the glare of the city lights that sting my oversensitive eyes after centuries in shadow. Her presence lingers like a storm I can’t outrun—those green eyes flashing contempt, that scent of rose petals warmed by a sun I haven’t felt in ages. Infuriating.

The faint click of the door pulls me from the thought. Kael’s familiar footsteps cross the polished floor.

“You’ve been staring out that window like it holds all the answers,” he says, helping himself to my bourbon. “Or someone does.” He takes a sip, smacking his lips. “Ah. Been ages since I could truly taste a good drink.”

“Just thinking.” I turn from the view. “How’s the clan handover with the elders?”

“Smooth enough.” His jaw tightens briefly, a flicker of strain beneath the casual tone. “They’re practical—know having you in my role makes sense with the chaos brewing.” He sinks into a leather chair as I stare back at the city. “You seem… elsewhere.”

I shoot him a glare. “Don’t start.”

“Mmhmm.” A smirk tugs at his lips. “Never seen a witch get under your skin like this.”

“She despises our kind,” I snap. Her hatred shouldn’t matter, but it cuts deeper than I expected after so long alone.

“Can you blame her?” Kael swirls his glass. “After what happened to her sisters?”

My phone buzzes, cutting through his smug grin. The tech kid’s reply.

*Got something. Files incoming.*

Minutes drag as I pace, waiting for the ping of data. When it arrives, images flood the smart glass—security footage from the harbor and waterfront district. Kael and I scour the feeds, pausing at oddities. My fingers tighten on the glass as shadows flicker across one screen. Too broad—not him. Another—too slow. Then—a leaner frame freezes my breath.

“Here.” I point to the old fish processing plant. “Movement just after midnight.” Grainy figures slip through a side entrance.

Kael leans in. “Enhance it?”

“Already done.” I swipe through sharper stills. “See their gait? Vampires, no question. And that build…” I jab at the lean figure. “Could be Lucien.”

“Possible.” Kael’s eyes narrow. “But why so sloppy? Cameras aren’t exactly subtle.”

“That’s the problem.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “It’s too clean. Clear entry points, obvious patterns. He knows we’d check feeds first. This could be a diversion from wherever he’s really holding her.” I exhale sharply. “Feels like chasing ghosts. And if we push Arabella for a raid based on this, only to find nothing, she’ll think we’re wasting Conclave time. Her skepticism’s already a hurdle.”

“What about that charm Vera had?”

“Would’ve helped if she’d let me touch it longer.” I scowl, recalling her fierce refusal as I’d reached for it. “The magical signature was potent—could’ve given us more.”

Kael’s smirk returns. “She’s gotten to you.”

“She hasn’t gotten to anything,” I retort, too fast. “She’s reckless and impossible and—”

“And striking.” He chuckles. “Blackwood women have a way, old friend. I’d know.”

“This isn’t like that.” I pivot back to the glass panel. “Can’t tell who’s moving through here. Could be Evelyn… or no one.”

“Or a trap,” Kael adds, brow creasing.

“That’s my fear. If we drag Arabella into a wild chase and come up empty, we lose credibility.”

“That’s the last thing we need,” he mutters, rising. His tone shifts, heavier. “There’s more. Lucien’s artifacts.”

I set my glass down with a sharp clink. “Like the one he used on Althea?”

“Precisely. Ancient vessels, forged in the Old Wars to cage a witch’s soul.” Kael paces to the window, his reflection ghosting over the cityscape. “He drained her power at that meeting, siphoned it into that cursed thing.”

“And now he has Evelyn.” The weight sinks in. “She’s among the strongest alive. If he taps her magic too, he’ll have a weapon beyond reckoning.”

“Whatever he’s planning, it’s massive.” Kael turns to me.

I rub the back of my neck, mind racing. “We’ve known he’s eyed Arabella’s seat for years. But this feels bigger. First Althea, now Evelyn—both Blackwoods, both tied to prophecies and ancient sorcery through their line. And if he’s amassing this much power, it’s not just ambition. Could be a grudge from the Schism of 1732, when his lineage lost favor. Or something darker.”

“What’s the endgame?” I pull up files on artifacts linked to Lucien at my desk. “What does he want with this much stolen magic?”

Kael gives a dry laugh. “Stupid question. He’s always craved more. Like Darius in the 1700s, consumed by what he took.”

I grimace. Lucien Marlowe with unchecked power is a nightmare. If he seizes control, our world fractures.

A sudden unease grips me, a premonition I can’t shake. Then Kael’s phone rings. His face hardens as he answers. “Seraphine? Slow down—”

Even from across the room, her panic cuts through. He switches to speaker.

“She and Althea were arguing over a lead on one of Lucien’s properties,” Seraphine says, voice taut. “Vera muttered something about proving she doesn’t need vampire help before she shadow-jumped. Althea’s losing it—she wanted to follow, but we stopped her.”

I slam my glass down. “For fuck’s sake! That reckless, stubborn—” I cut off, dragging a hand over my face. My chest tightens at the thought of her facing Marlowe’s traps alone. We’d hammered the need for strategy, for unity. But no, Vera Blackwood charges in like some damned crusader.

“Which property?” I bark.

“She mentioned an estate in the north?”

My jaw clenches. “The old Delacourt place. Marlowe claimed it in the early 1900s. A fortress of dark sorcery and lethal curses. He’s used lairs like it before—riddled with death.”

“Goddammit,” Kael growls. “She’s walking into a deathtrap.”

“We have to act, Kael,” Seraphine pleads. “Mom and Dad are at the Conclave, unreachable. Gran would’ve handled this, but—” She stops, the silence heavy.

“I’ll deal with it,” I say, already striding for the door. I pause, thrown by the urgency surging through me. Why this need to shield a witch who loathes me? She’s made her disdain clear. Yet my blood runs colder than it has in centuries at the thought of her in Marlowe’s grasp. I snatch my jacket, the irony not lost on me—I’ve always worked alone, and here I am raging at her for the same sin.

“Theron,” Kael warns, stepping forward. “Don’t rush in without backup. We need a plan.”

“There’s no time,” I snap, torn between frustration and this inexplicable dread. “That witch is going to get herself killed.”

And for reasons I can’t fathom, that thought is utterly unbearable.