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Chapter Text

Never meet your heroes. Alex learns this lesson the hard way on a rainy Wednesday morning in New York City, right outside the building that houses the biggest casting call of the season.

He’s spent the past week obsessed with one goal: audition for a minor role in Henry Fox’s new movie.

The same Henry who burst onto the scene at sixteen, belting out “Do You Hear the People Sing?” in the 2012 film adaptation of Les Misérables, that raise goosebumps on Alex’s arms.

He was only thirteen back then, but he still remembers pressing his nose against the TV screen and thinking, People my age can do this?

Henry was a revelation—young, and gifted with a voice that poured like honey through the speakers. On top of that, he’s the son of the award winning Arthur Fox.

It didn’t help that the media latched onto him immediately, dubbing him “the new triple threat” for his talents.

Alex devoured every bit of info he could find: articles, behind-the-scenes clips, even the footage of Henry’s interviews on late-night talk shows. He’d never had an idol before, but something about Henry resonated—a lightning bolt of possibility that said, You can do it too.

That year, Alex tried to sell his parents on letting him join the local youth theater. His parents, who run a modest auto repair shop in a working-class neighborhood of Washington, D.C., were less than thrilled.

“Focus on your studies,” His mom insisted. “Acting is not a stable career,” His dad added.

And so began the Great Bargaining War of his teenage years. He promised to maintain at least a B+ average if they let him audition for a community production of Grease .

In a small miracle, he managed to keep his grades decent enough that they (grudgingly) let him have the summer to indulge in “that theater nonsense.”

He hasn’t stopped since.

At twenty-one, Alex Claremont-Diaz is a government major at Georgetown. He’s got a dangerously high tolerance for skipping class whenever an audition rumor so much as whispers in his direction, which—according to his mom—is “reckless,” and—according to his dad—is “a damn waste of time.”

His parents are convinced he’s going to tank his GPA and end up dropping out to perform Shakespeare in the park. But Alex has perfected the art of negotiation: every weekend, without fail, he clocks in at the family auto repair shop, spends at least six hours elbow-deep in engine grease, and picks up extra shifts over holiday breaks. As long as his grades don’t nosedive into total chaos, they mostly turn a blind eye when he ditches classes to chase the improbable dream.

Which is exactly what he’s doing this morning. It’s a Wednesday—he’s supposed to be in a lecture, but he’s on an Amtrak to New York instead. He sent his professor a painfully vague email about “flu-like symptoms” and tried to sound appropriately pitiful.

Then, bright and early, he hopped a train with only his script sides, a half-eaten bagel, and a head full of adrenaline.

Why the sudden pilgrimage? Because Nora , his best friend and relentless enabler, texted him about an open call for Henry Fox’s new movie. Which is basically the biggest cosmic sign he’s gotten in ages.

“Wouldn’t it be insane if you got in?” Nora teased when she sent the link. “You’d basically be breathing the same air as your first crush.”

Alex pretended to be super chill about it, firing back a LOL, I’m not that starstruck . But the truth is, he might have done a little squeaky dance in the privacy of his bedroom. Because Henry Fox is not just any star—he’s THE STAR, at least in Alex’s eyes.

Henry does everything—singing, acting, occasionally dancing, and starring in the sort of roles that make tabloids swoon.

Alex has memorized half his IMDb page without even meaning to. So the mere possibility of auditioning for Henry’s new movie is enough to make him risk academic suspension (or, at the very least, some pointed parental disappointment).

He arrives outside the casting venue—an old building off Times Square that looks like it might have been a dance studio before Broadway real estate prices skyrocketed. At 9 a.m., the line of auditionees is already coiled around the block.

Aspiring actors cradle battered headshots, hum a scale or two, and check their lip gloss in compact mirrors. Alex spots a mini flashmob of Henry Fox superfans with homemade signs, not even here to audition—just hoping for a glimpse of the man himself.

He glances at his phone: 9:14 a.m. No turning back now. He pulls his script sides from his backpack, the pages already smudged with neon highlighter. He tries to mentally revisit the lines. “James, I’ve stood by you through everything—why won’t you let me in?”

Right. He’s got this. Definitely.

An hour crawls by in an endless game of hurry-up-and-wait. He gets to know the girl in front of him—Vanessa from Newark, who’s auditioned for three off-off-Broadway musicals and claims she once saw Henry at a coffee shop. Just as Alex starts to wonder if this line ever actually moves, a commotion erupts.

A sleek, dark-gray Audi R8 zooms past, tinted windows glinting in the early sunlight. A collective squeal ripples along the street. Alex cranes his neck and catches a split-second silhouette in the driver’s seat—golden hair parted neatly, the suggestion of impossibly sharp cheekbones. His heart gives a lurch. Henry. Freaking. Fox.

He tries not to let the adrenaline hijack his entire nervous system, but it’s a losing battle. He feels breathless, like he’s just sprinted a mile. If Henry’s really inside, that means Henry might actually watch him audition. He tries to swallow, tries not to re-read his sides a thousand times, tries not to picture Henry’s face three feet away.

Eventually, a very harried production assistant bustles down the line, calling out, “Next group of five, please!”

Alex lunges forward so quickly he nearly knees Vanessa in the back. He manages a sheepish apology and checks in with the assistant. She scribbles his name, double-checks his ID, and ushers him into the building alongside four other hopefuls.

One by one, the others get called into the audition room: a striking raven-haired girl who radiates Old Hollywood glam, a nervous teen boy practicing scales under his breath, and two more folks who look like they stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Alex tries to breathe through the tension, fiddling with his phone.

A text lights up his screen from Nora:

You’ve got this, you drama queen.

He can’t help a tiny grin. He’s about to fire back a thank you when an assistant pops her head out. “Alex Claremont-Diaz? You’re up.”

His stomach does a dive. Showtime.

He steps into a wide studio-like room. There’s long folding table where a middle-aged man with white hair and glasses—clearly the director—sits with a few staffers. They glance up, all business.

But Alex barely notices them because on the other side of the room, leaning against a piano, is Henry Fox. The Henry Fox, in the actual flesh, wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearms toned in a way that should be illegal. His blond hair falls in a neat wave that frames cheekbones you could cut glass with. The camera never does them justice, apparently.

He just stands there, numb. Play it cool, he scolds himself. He’s not thirteen, gawking at the TV in his living room—he’s a grown adult with an actual chance.

“Hi,” Alex manages, ignoring the adrenaline pounding in his ears. “I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

The director nods briskly. “Thanks for coming in, Alex. We’re looking for someone to read for the role of Tyler, the best friend. Have you got the sides?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex says, holding up the pages.

“Fantastic. Let’s see what you can do. Start from the top of page two, the confrontation scene. Henry, if you’d read opposite him?”

And just like that, Henry pushes off from the piano, flipping through a script in his hands. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say hello—just nods, eyes on the pages. If Alex expected some starstruck moment of recognition or a gracious introduction, he’s sorely disappointed.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s method.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the director prompts.

Alex inhales. He can do this. He’s rehearsed these lines so many times that they feel like muscle memory. He starts pouring everything into Tyler’s frustration— “Why won’t you just listen to me? Why do you always push people away?”

Henry is playing James, the lead role, and the character’s meant to be defensive. Henry’s version of it is almost too real, like there’s genuine anger behind his words. Their gazes meet for a fraction of a second, and Alex nearly loses his place in the script.

He paces the small space, letting Tyler’s emotions show through. Maybe he’s overacting, but he’d rather overdo it than be forgettable. By the final line—“I’ve always been here for you, even when you ran away from your own heart!”—his lungs feel starved for oxygen.

A couple of staffers jot down notes. But Henry just sort of looks at Alex, like he’s dissecting him with minimal interest. He half expects some applause or a word of encouragement, but Henry just glances at the director and shrugs. “That’s all right. A bit…dramatic.”

Of course it’s dramatic, it’s a confrontation scene. But he says nothing, just clenches the pages in sweaty fingers, trying not to look wounded.

The director coughs. “Yes, well, we’ll consider it. Thank you, Alex.”

He tries not to let disappointment show on his face. “Thank you for your time,” he says as politely as he can.

Alex spares one last glance at Henry, who’s already flipping through his own script again, effectively ignoring Alex’s existence. The sting burns in Alex’s gut. This is not how he pictured meeting his idol.

He makes it halfway down the hallway before the magnitude of the rejection slaps him. That was humiliating.

The person who inspired him to pursue acting, just brushed him off like a mild annoyance. He ducks into a corner near the exit, blinking back tears he refuses to shed in public. His phone buzzes again—probably Nora checking in—but he doesn’t have the heart to confess, “Oh hey, the guy I basically worshiped turned out to be an ice-cold jerk.”

Outside, the once-packed line has dwindled to a handful of latecomers. The fans snapping pictures near Henry’s Audi look bored, the sky overhead thick with clouds that threaten rain. Alex can’t decide if he wants to just vanish into the sidewalk or scream from the rooftop about how unfair it all feels.

He exhales shakily, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide the stray tear gathering in the corner of his eye. Never meet your heroes, indeed.

Because sometimes, the hero you pinned your dreams on turns out to be a snobby British star who crushes your audition like it means nothing. And that’s a special kind of heartbreak Alex really doesn’t need right now.

He trudges away from the building, ignoring the stares of a couple of fans who might recognize the dejection on his face. The entire trip from D.C. to New York, the anxious energy, the hours waiting in line…all for a handful of minutes in front of Henry, culminating in an aloof “bit…dramatic.”

Alex hovers between anger and sadness. Henry doesn’t know him. He’s just another wannabe actor. But some part of him, the stubborn and starry-eyed thirteen-year-old who’s still inside him, can’t believe Henry would be that callous.

He sighs, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder, the audition sides crumpled in his fist.

He can already tell from the scattered shoes by the front door that his family is present and accounted for.  He sets his keys on the side table, bracing for an onslaught of questions he’s not in the mood to answer.

Sure enough, June is camped out on the sofa in the living room, her laptop perched on a precarious tower of throw pillows. The second she hears Alex’s footsteps, she glances up, eyes bright with interest.

“Oh my God,” she says, half-rising. “You’re back! How was it? Did you see—”

The last thing he wants is to recount how the day went, but June’s eyes are shining like she’s on the verge of squealing in excitement for him. He raises a finger to his lips, gesturing for her to keep quiet as footsteps sound from the kitchen.

She clamps her mouth shut, and a moment later, their dad, Oscar, appears in the hallway. He’s dressed in his usual well-worn work pants, a smudge of engine grease on one forearm—clearly, he’s been messing around with something mechanical even after hours.

“Hey, Mijo,” Oscar says, eyeing Alex and June with mild suspicion. “You two plotting something I should know about?”

Alex attempts a disarming grin. “Nope. I was just telling June about my class.” He doesn’t have the energy to be more creative.

“All right. Food’ll be ready in thirty—your mom’s in the zone, so don’t distract her unless you wanna get scolded with a spatula.” He points the towel at Alex. “Also, I ran out of onions, so no complaining if it tastes weird.”

He disappears back toward the kitchen, where pots are clanging and muffled chatter (his mom talking to herself, probably) filters through. Alex exhales a sigh of relief and flops onto the couch beside June.

She’s practically vibrating with curiosity. “So?” she whispers excitedly. “Was Henry there? Did you, like, talk to him?”

“I wish I hadn’t. He was—” He searches for the right word, something that encapsulates rude, cold, and annoyingly perfect-looking all at once. “He was kind of a jerk.”

June’s brow furrows. “Seriously? That’s your idol, right? The guy from Les Mis who made you want to start acting in the first place?”

“Yep.” Alex closes his eyes, forcing back the memory of Henry’s bored stare. “He barely acknowledged me, then made me feel like an idiot for auditioning. I definitely bombed it, by the way.”

June grimaces sympathetically. “I’m sorry. That sucks. But, hey, at least you got to see him in person, right? Dreams… realized?”

He snorts. “Sure. Dreams realized. And promptly crushed.”

She sets her laptop aside and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “I know how much this meant to you.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles. “Anyway, it’s over. No point dwelling.”

June tries to catch his eye, offering an encouraging smile. “Still. You got in front of a big-time director. You read lines with Henry Freaking Fox. That’s huge.”

“Yea,” he says dejectedly and spots her laptop. She has half a dozen tabs open, all local news articles. One shows a photo of a crime scene taped off by police.

“Still working on your story?” Alex asks, gesturing to the articles.

June bites her lip. “Another omega’s body turned up by the waterfront. It’s the third victim in two weeks.”

A shiver runs down Alex’s spine. “Yikes. Any leads?”

“None,” she says grimly. “The cops are baffled. I’m supposed to file a piece by tomorrow morning, but there’s practically nothing to go on. It’s like the killer just vanishes.”

Oscar reemerges, dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “Dinner’s gonna need twenty more minutes. But I’m telling you both now—no staying out late this week. I don’t like this city when weird stuff’s happening.”

June lifts a reassuring hand. “Yes, yes, dad, I promise not to wander dark alleys with a ‘kidnap me’ sign.”

Oscar grunts, turning his gaze to Alex. “That goes double for you, m’ijo. If you’re out late, you call me, I’ll pick you up, no arguments.”

“Got it, Pop,” Alex says.

Oscar nods, satisfied, and heads back to the kitchen. From inside, they hear their mom scold him for leaving the oven door open.

Five Days Later

Five days pass with zero word from the casting director. Zero emails. Zero calls. Each morning, Alex wakes up hoping for at least a polite rejection note, but he’s greeted only by an empty inbox and mild heartbreak. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t care—he’s survived rejections before—but this feels like a personal blow. Meeting Henry was a dream gone sour.

Obviously, he thinks. He must have butchered the audition.

He doesn’t even blame Henry for his unimpressed attitude; Alex knows he stumbled on a line or two, and by the end, he was borderline ranting.

At least he has the family auto repair shop to distract him. It’s Sunday morning, and the garage door is already cranked open to let in the mild spring air. Alex helps his dad change out a transmission in a beat-up Ford, then chats with a customer about weird clicking sounds under the hood. The radio blasts an old rock station, and the smell of motor oil clings to everything.

He’s now at one of the service bays, tinkering with a stubborn carburetor on an old Chevy truck. As he wrestles a rusted bolt loose, a customer wanders over to ask about brake pads, and Alex directs them to the waiting area, promising he’ll let them know when the truck’s done.

His dad yells from across the shop, “Alex, c’mere! We’ve got a fancy one.”

He straightens from under the hood of a Subaru, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. “What?” he calls back.

Oscar smirks. “Audi R8. Guy said it blew something on the highway.”

He wipes his hands on a rag and heads toward the shop entrance, where the rumble of a tow truck’s engine filters in. Sure enough, a gleaming silver Audi R8 is being rolled in on a flatbed, its hood popped open like it’s seen better days.

He almost shrugs it off—expensive cars break down too—but then he sees who’s stepping out of the driver’s side. His brain short-circuits. No way.

Henry Fox stands by the Audi, looking every inch a fallen angel with that messy blond hair and an all-black outfit that’s definitely not from any discount rack.

His heart beats a little too loudly. He can’t even speak. He just gapes, rag hanging limply from his hand, as Henry strides over.

“Is that him?” Oscar mutters, squinting. “He said his name’s Henry. British accent.”

“Uh,” Alex manages, eyes glued to Henry’s every movement. “Y-yeah. That’s him.”

Henry glances around the shop, expression torn between impatience and discomfort—like he’d rather be anywhere else. His gaze settles on Alex, and he visibly tenses, recognition lighting his features.

Oh God. Alex quickly schools his face into a neutral mask, picking up his father’s clipboard for something to do with his hands. He can’t decide if this is karmic retribution or an act of fate.

Oscar motions Henry over. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

Henry approaches with careful steps, as if trying not to step on something greasy. He nods to Oscar, then to Alex. “Hello,” he says, “we spoke on the phone?”

“Yep, that was me,” Oscar replies easily.

“The engine overheated on the highway, and I had to pull over. The tow truck driver recommended you,” Henry says.

Oscar grins, pride glowing in his eyes. “Our business is the best in the area. We’ll get it sorted.” He gestures to Alex. “My son here’s good with these fancy imports. Probably can get a better sense of the damage.”

Alex forces a nod, ignoring the emotions in his gut. He flips open the hood. Sure enough, the engine compartment is a mess—burned plastic, the acrid smell of coolant. “Yeah, this is…not great,” he mutters, half to himself.

Henry stands just a foot away, arms folded. Alex can practically feel the intensity of his stare. He tries not to recall how that same gaze pinned him to the audition room floor. Or how those lips basically dismissed him without a second thought.

He clears his throat. “So, we’ll need to order some hoses. Possibly more, if anything else got fried. You’ll be out of a car for a day or two.”

“I see. That’s unfortunate, but…” Henry trails off, glancing around at the grease-stained floor. “I don’t have much choice.”

Oscar claps him on the back in a friendly way. “We can give you a loaner—nothing fancy, but it’ll get you around.”

Henry looks terrified by the idea of driving anything less than top-of-the-line. “Thank you,” he says, forced politeness evident.

Just then, a beeping phone cuts through the awkward silence. Oscar steps away to answer, leaving Alex and Henry face-to-face in the echoing bay. The radio in the corner switches to a classic rock ballad, making everything feel weirdly heightened.

Alex grips the edge of the hood, trying to appear calm. “So…fancy seeing you here.”

Henry’s jaw works. “Indeed. I didn’t realize you…worked here.”

“Family business,” Alex says curtly. He can’t help feeling a surge of defensiveness. “Didn’t realize you drive yourself around.”

“I do, sometimes.”

They stare at each other, and he almost expects Henry to say something about the audition, but he just glances at the car engine, then back at Alex. He can’t decide if Henry’s scanning him like a threat or just looking.

“So,” Alex says, swallowing. “Are you in D.C. for business?”

Henry shifts on his feet. “Working on some pre-production for the film.”

He nearly forgets that Henry is also the producer of his new film. “Sounds glamorous. Also, you might wanna check your radiator more often.”

Henry shrugs. “Yes, well, I’m not exactly a mechanic.”

A beat passes, and Alex wants to snap No kidding but bites his tongue. Oscar returns, phone in hand. “Right, so we’ll get it up on the lift and see the full extent. You can fill out the paperwork at the desk.” He glances between them, apparently sensing the frosty air. “Alex will keep you updated on progress, Henry.”

“Great,” Henry murmurs, letting out a slow breath. “I’ll do that, then.”

Alex tries not to watch too closely as Henry follows Oscar to the front-office area. He sets to work with a vengeance, popping open the coolant system, making a list of broken parts. The entire time, he’s aware that Henry’s just ten feet away, signing forms and presumably setting up a contact number.

Eventually, Henry finishes with the paperwork. Alex glances up in time to see him cast one final, unreadable look in his direction. Then Henry steps outside, phone pressed to his ear, presumably calling a driver or figuring out how to get back to wherever he’s staying.

Alex exhales, shoulders sagging. Five days ago, he was certain he’d never see Henry Fox again. Now Henry’s sports car is stuck in his family’s auto repair shop.

Chapter Text

He is currently traveling across town for a small commercial shoot he booked two weeks ago. The train rattles along, full of bleary-eyed commuters. He arrives at a modest production studio wedged between a baking supply warehouse and a parking lot. A single sign on the door reads Vien Productions.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz?” calls a woman wearing a headset.

“That’s me,” he answers, raising a hand.

She leads him down to a set. There’s a beige couch, a fake potted plant, and a lamp that flickers whenever someone nudges the extension cord. A handful of crew members roams around, adjusting lights and cameras.

She gestures at a corner where a makeup artist is waiting. “Makeup’s minimal—just to reduce shine. Then we’ll mic you up, run lines a couple of times, and get you out of here.”

He crosses to the folding chair, sits down, and lets the makeup artist dab at his cheeks with powder. A production assistant, barely older than him, clips a small lav mic to his collar.

“All set,” someone calls from behind the camera. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Hi, I’m Alex, here to tell you about the incredible benefits of Capital City Dental Insurance—” He almost cringes at his own fake enthusiasm, but he barrels onward, reciting the script about low premiums, family plans, and stress-free checkups.

They run through it maybe six times. Each take, the director—an older woman with a messy bun—calls out notes like, “Smile with your eyes!” or “Don’t wave your arms so much!” By the time they finish, Alex’s cheeks are aching from forced positivity.

“Okay, that’s a wrap on this segment,” the director says, monotone. “If we need reshoots, we’ll let you know.”

“Thank you!” He unclips the mic, grabs his backpack, and steps into the tiny reception area. That’s when his phone buzzes with email notification.

Subject: Audition for “After Fall”

Good day,

Thank you for auditioning for “After Fall.” We appreciate your time and effort. Unfortunately, we will not be moving forward with your application for the role of Tyler. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.

He’d known it was coming. Henry’s disinterested shrug had basically sealed his fate. But seeing it in writing still  hurts.

It’s official: dream dashed.

The next morning, he’s in the lecture hall for a required course for his major. Outside, a light drizzle slicks the sidewalks, matching his mood.

The professor launches into a lecture on comparative judicial systems and Alex does his best to take notes, but the professor’s voice fades in and out from his mind.

By 3 p.m., he is done with classes. Alex trudges off campus, ignoring the chatter of other students excited about afternoon plans or coffee meetups. The drizzle has upgraded to a steady rain, so he flips up the hood of his sweatshirt, trying not to slip on wet pavement.

He boards the bus that’ll drop him near the auto shop, but halfway there, decides he can’t handle the smell of engine grease today. Better to just go home. He’s not needed for any urgent repairs, and he’s not in the mood to see impatient customers.

So he changes routes, taking another bus that squeaks and rattles all the way to his neighborhood. The walk from the stop is short—just enough time to get drenched by the persistent drizzle. By the time he shoves open the front door, water is dripping down his nose.

He kicks off soggy sneakers, sighs at the emptiness of the house. His mom and dad must still be at the shop, and June’s presumably chasing another story. He sets his keys on the table and contemplates microwaving leftover pasta or just collapsing on the couch.

Then his phone rings—an unknown number flashing across the screen.

Normally, Alex would ignore it, but something about the timing (and the tiny spark of leftover hope inside him) makes him swipe to answer.

“Uh, hello?”

“Hi, may I speak to Alex Claremont-Diaz?”

“This is him,” he says, sinking onto the couch.

The woman continues, “My name is Kate Richards, I’m the casting assistant for ‘After Fall.’”

His heart nearly stops. He just got an email rejection, so why are they calling now?

“I—I got your email,” he blurts, totally confused. “You said you’re not moving forward with me for Tyler.”

A brief pause. “Correct. The team decided to go another direction with that role. I’m calling you regarding the lead role of Cassian. The original actor had to drop out due to scheduling conflicts, and we remembered your audition. Director Marques wants to see you read for Cassian.”

What?! That is the character that will be Henry’s love interest in the movie. This is insane.

“It’s short notice, I’m afraid, but we’re holding callbacks tomorrow morning in New York. Could you make it by 9 a.m.?”

Alex jumps to his feet, almost slipping on the hardwood in his damp socks. “Yes! Yes, absolutely, oh my God, of course.”

He knows he sounds like a squeaky lunatic, but he doesn’t care. He’d been hoping for a minor role—but this? This is huge.

“Great,” Kate says. “I’ll email you the updated script sides. Please prepare pages 24–26, and 48–51. Let the front desk know you’re here for the Cassian callback. Henry should be present for the read-through.”

Henry Fox will be present. He’s already picturing that icy stare. Don’t blow it this time, he tells himself.

“Thank you,” he says, voice breathy. “I’ll be there.”

Kate rattles off a few more details about location and contact info. The second the call ends, he does what any overly ecstatic person would do: lets out an unholy shriek and jumps straight into the arm of the couch, nearly taking himself out in the process.

“Holy—holy shit !” he yells in the empty house. He’s never felt adrenaline like this.

He scrambles to text Nora:

YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS.

You’re dropping out?

NO.

You’re the father of Henry Fox’s secret love child?

STOP. THEY WANT ME FOR THE LEAD.

After Fall?

YES. THAT ONE. I’M FREAKING OUT.

Okay, first of all, breathe.

Second, I TOLD YOU. You’re Alex Claremont-Diaz.

You could charm your way into the Vatican if you wanted to.

This is luck. Dumb, stupid, insane luck.

Whatever you need to tell yourself.

Now go scream into a pillow.

Too late, already screamed.

Might’ve sprained something.

Don’t die before you become famous, okay?

Then he dials June but gets her voicemail. Fine, he’ll spam her with messages later. His brain is a chaotic loop of joy, terror, and disbelief. He’d already written off the entire production as a lost cause, shoved it into the mental junk drawer labeled “what could’ve been.”

And now they’re handing him a second chance that is bigger and riskier than anything he’s ever dared to dream of.

He’s half-laughing at himself. The day started so bleak, but it’s ended in the single biggest break of his life. He has to crush this callback. Has to. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll probably never forgive himself.

Tomorrow he’s hopping on another train to New York, re-memorizing lines for a character he never thought he’d get to play, and stepping into the same room as Henry once more.

And this time, he’s going to show Henry exactly what Alex Claremont-Diaz can do.

The next day…

He spent hours pacing his room, muttering Cassian’s lines under his breath, stopping only to scribble notes in the margins—little reminders about posture, tone, backstory.

With dawn breaking, he brushes his teeth, gets dressed in comfortable clothes (a black shirt, navy sweater and washed jeans), and snags a ride-share to the station.

He’s huddled into a corner seat with dawn light spilling through fingerprint-smudged windows. His stomach clenches each time he thinks about the script pages in his backpack.

He closes his eyes and tries not to picture Henry’s face the way it looked when he shrugged at him that first audition. That was then . This is a new scene, a new chance, and if he fumbles it, he has nobody to blame but himself.

Three hours later, the train glides into Penn Station, the brakes screeching softly as it comes to a stop. He steps into the chaos of morning commuters—heels clicking, coffee sloshing, announcements crackling overhead. Cutting through the crowd, he heads for the exit and hails a taxi.

Outside, the city noise is relentless, horns blasting and tires screeching. It’s only 8:00 a.m., and New York is already wide awake. He checks the text from Kate for the address. It’s an office tower in Midtown, nicer than the old brick building from his first audition.

He keeps a death grip on his phone, watching the minutes tick by. At exactly 8:47, he’s handing over cash to the driver and bolting out of the cab as he runs into the building’s lobby. He makes a beeline for the elevator, stabbing the button for the twelfth floor with more force than necessary.

When the doors slide open, he steps into a quiet hallway. A small, understated sign reading After Fall – Callback points him to the left. He follows it until he reaches a modest waiting room with gray carpeting, scattered chairs, and the smell of coffee in the air.

There are maybe ten people here, some flipping through scripts, others scrolling mindlessly on their phones. It’s a far cry from the chaotic swarm he faced last week. He makes his way to a petite assistant sitting behind a plain white table, her eyes darting between him and a clipboard.

“Name?” she asks with boredom.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz,” he answers quickly.

She scans her list, makes a mark with a mechanical pencil. “Right on schedule. Thank you for coming,” she says, handing him a form.

He’s instructed to fill it out—mostly confirming contact info and availability. He scribbles an anxious signature at the bottom and hands it back.

The assistant points to the row of chairs. “We’re running about ten minutes behind. You can wait until we call you.”

“Thanks.” He finds a seat at the end, dropping his backpack at his feet. He glances around: a couple of the auditionees look older than him, two look about his age, flipping pages with the same tension on their faces.

He inhales, exhales. Ten minutes. That’s not enough time to revise every line, but enough to cycle his jitters into something approaching confidence.   The role: Cassian —the love interest to Henry’s James , a cold-hearted businessman controlling an illegal empire. Cassian’s father sold him into this life to repay a debt, and Cassian navigates everything from moral conflicts to falling in love with the man at the top.

If he nails this, it could be the role that finally kicks open the door to bigger projects.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz?” the assistant calls.

“Here,” he says, and follows her down a hallway. 

She stops at a door, knocking twice before cracking it open. With a brief glance inside, she gestures for him to enter. The room is large, a conference space with a long table near the far wall. Seated behind it are a few people, including the director from last week, who looks up as he steps in, and a blue-haired woman typing briskly on a laptop

And there, at the far right, is Henry Fox, twisting a parker pen in his fingers as he reads a script. At the sound of footsteps, he glances up, his gaze lingering for a second before offering Alex a curt nod. Then, just as quickly, he drops his eyes back to the script.

“Alex,” Director Marquess says, setting aside a pen. “Glad you could make it on such short notice.”

“Yes, thank you for having me,” Alex says, trying not to fidget.

“Hello again,” Henry says quietly, no emotion lacing the words.

The director looks at him pointedly. “We’d like to go through Scenes 24, if that’s all right. Henry will read opposite you.” He casts Henry a nod. “We’ll see how the chemistry plays out.”

Alex moves to the center of the open space, script in hand. Henry stands a few feet away, posture erect, script folded in half. Alex knows Henry doesn’t even need it.

“All right,” Director Marquess says, flipping to the right page. “Scene 24. Cassian confronts James. He’s had enough.”

Alex breathes in, stepping into Cassian’s mental state: furious, cornered, but defiant. Henry lifts his eyes, a slow, cool stare locks into him.

He juts out his chin and begins, “All those families you’ve destroyed, the ones you’ve shoved into your clubs, your dirty dealings—what do you get out of it? Do you just like watching people beg?”

Henry doesn’t move a muscle, but his presence feels like a shadow spreading across the room. His voice has just the faintest trace of venom. “People think they can walk away from what they owe. I simply remind them there’s a cost to every choice.”

Alex exhales hard through his nose, channeling Cassian’s fury, his disgust. “You’re a—” He holds back, letting the anger simmer until it boils over. “Monster.”

It was quick but he catches how Henry’s knuckles flex against the script. “My father might’ve sold me, but he doesn’t control my soul. And neither do you!”

His chest heaves as the words leave his mouth, and he’s sure for a second that Henry might drop the script altogether and come for him.

“As long as the debt stands, your life belongs to me.” Henry’s voice is chilling and Alex can’t stop the shiver in his spine.

“Not for long,” he ends and a weighty silence settles over the room.

“That was…” Director Marquess trades a quick look with the woman next to him, who nods vigorously. “That was excellent.”

His cheeks burn, the flush spreading all the way to his ears. He lowers his script, adrenaline still zinging in his veins. Henry stands there, his expression blank, but there’s the almost imperceptible nod of approval. And somehow that feels like a win.

“Thank you,” Alex says, voice a touch shaky.

“We might run a final scene if we have time later, but for now, that’s all we need. Thank you, Alex. We’ll be in touch about next steps soon,” the director tells him. Alex dips his chin and tears his gaze away, exiting the room.

The rain drizzles off the awnings, streaking the sidewalk. He hovers under the overhang, fishing for his phone.  A quick check shows a barrage of texts from Nora and June, all variations of “HOW DID IT GO???”

No clue if I got it, but I feel better this time.

A satisfied smile tugs at his lips once he hits send. He showed Henry something new today—that’s for sure. Whether it’s enough to land the part is another question entirely. But unlike a week ago, he doesn’t feel overshadowed by Henry’s star power. He feels like an equal, at least for the length of those scenes.

There’s a half-day train back to D.C., and he’s got a mountain of reading to do for next week’s classes. But his mind isn’t stuck on deadlines. It’s still spinning with the possibility of playing the role of a lifetime.

Please let them pick me , he silently prays.

It’s four in the afternoon and the rush of customers was heavier than usual—something about changing seasons always brings in a fleet of rattling sedans and sputtering pickup trucks.

He’s in the middle of fine-tuning a particularly old Honda Civic, trying (and mostly failing) to scrape off rusted bolts. There’s a small radio propped on the workbench near him, tuned to a local news station.

“—the victim has been identified as Lucious Bradfort, 25, an Omega. Authorities have yet to uncover any direct leads on the suspect, but the investigation is ongoing. Officials are urging residents to remain vigilant and exercise caution—”

Alex grimaces at the mention. It’s the same headlines June has been talking about. They live in a messed-up world . He can’t imagine how families of these victims must be feeling. He switches off the radio, shifting back his focus on the Honda.

“Alex! can you get over here for a sec?”

He brushes his hands off on his jeans and jogs towards his dad who is inspecting something under the hood of Henry’s Audi. They’d finally replaced the busted hose and run a full test this morning. Now, the engine purrs like it just rolled off the factory.

Oscar swerves around, rolling his shoulders. “We’ve got this baby running smooth. Want me to show you the final diagnostic?”

Alex shakes his head. “I trust you.”

“Excuse me,” a voice says from behind.

He turns to see a tall man walking into the shop, dressed sharply in a blue suit that looks almost out of place against the oil-streaked floor.

Henry’s PA. Alex met him briefly in passing yesterday. Shaan, right?

The man offers a reserved smile, stepping around a car jack. “Hello. I’m looking for Alex Claremont-Diaz?”

“Hi,” Alex says, tossing his rag onto a tool cart. “You’re Henry’s assistant?”

“Yes. Shaan Srivastava.” He nods toward the R8. “I believe I’m here to pick up the car?”

Oscar joins them, wiping oil from his hands. “We’ve got your boss’ car ready and waiting.” He gestures to the Audi. “Good as new now. Replaced the hose, fixed some wiring, gave it a test run. She’s running like a dream.”

Shaan looks genuinely relieved, running a hand over the car’s hood. “Wonderful. I’m sure Mr. Fox will be pleased to have it back.”

Oscar waves a set of keys. “I can walk you through the repair details if you’d like.”

“That would be great,” Shaan says.

Alex listens to his dad’s rambling with a proud grin. He did half that wiring himself, after all. Just as Oscar finishes explaining how they replaced the parts, Alex’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

Kate Richards .

He steps away to hide behind a towering stack of tires and quickly does the sign of the cross before thumbing the answer button.

“Hello?” He tries not to sound like he’s about to pass out.

“Alex? Katie here,” comes the voice on the other end. “Do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, his foot tapping out a nervous rhythm on the concrete.

A brief pause, then Kate’s voice brightens. “I wanted to let you know the director and Mr. Fox have made their decision regarding Cassian.”

“Okay,” Alex drawls, chewing nervously on his thumbnail.

“They want you for the role,” Kate says, and his brain completely shuts down.

“Wait. You mean… I got it? Me? ” He points to himself, as if there’s any chance she’s talking about someone else.

“You got the part,” Kate confirms again. “We’ll be following up with official paperwork and scheduling, but they were quite impressed with your audition.”

“No… way,” he stammers, plastering a hand to his forehead.

“Yes,” Kate repeats, sounding amused. “You’ll be playing Cassian. Congratulations.”

Alex can’t hold back a half-strangled whoop. He slaps a hand over his own mouth, wide-eyed. “I—I—wow. Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Kate then talks about when he’ll receive the contract, table reads, a potential timeline for shooting. He can barely focus, nodding and murmuring acknowledgments.

He stands there for a good five seconds, trying to fathom the enormity of it. It’s like lightning just struck his entire life. He spins on his heel, running toward his dad.

“Dad—Dad!”

Oscar looks up, startled. “What’s going on?”

He flings his arms around him in a fierce hug. “I got the part! Dad, I got the lead role in Henry’s movie!”

Oscar’s eyes widen, then break into a huge grin. “No kidding?” He pats Alex on the back. “Goddamn, that’s… amazing, m’ijo!”

Alex laughs, half delirious, and kisses Oscar’s cheek. “I can’t believe it.”

Shaan, standing next to them with the keys, looks faintly alarmed at the sudden chaos. Alex whips around, and on sheer impulse, he lurches forward to hug Shaan too, but the man quickly holds up a hand, stepping back with a somewhat mortified smile.

“Er—congratulations,” Shaan says, looking like he’s not entirely sure if Alex is going to tackle him. “That’s wonderful news.”

Alex bounces on his toes, flustered but grinning uncontrollably. “Thank you!” he gushes, “I literally just found out—I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right. I’m certain Mr. Fox will be thrilled to hear he’s got a scene partner.”

At that, Alex’s stomach does another wild flip. His dad slings an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in for another proud half-hug. “Guess I’ll have to put up a poster of you on the shop wall.”

His face goes red with excitement. “Please, no. I’ll never live that down.”

Shaan coughs, opening the door of Henry’s car. “I should probably get going. Mr. Fox is expecting his car back by this evening. Once again—congratulations.”

“Drive safe,” Oscar says with a wave, and they both watch Shaan pull away.

Alex is still riding the high, heart pounding like it’s trying to score its own soundtrack. Starring in a film opposite Henry Fox ? Life will never be the same again.

Chapter Text

It’s only been a day since Alex got the call saying he’d landed the lead role and his life already feels like it’s shifted gears. He’s apparently the hottest new casting announcement in Hollywood gossip columns.

“Henry Fox’s New Leading Man Announced!” proclaims a headline from BuzzFeed. There’s a photo of Henry at some red carpet event and right beneath it, an old headshot of Alex from his last community theater gig. It’s not his favorite photo, but, hey, he’ll take it.

“Rising actor Alex Claremont-Diaz has been cast in the lead role of Cassian Sanchez in the highly anticipated film After Fall. Henry Fox  will star as James Valentine. The film’s director, Marquess Lee praised Claremont-Diaz’s audition. Production begins in a few weeks, with fans eager to see the pair in the big screen.”

They must’ve interviewed someone from the production. Or maybe the director casually dropped that tidbit. June snickers over his shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re in the big leagues now.” She waggles her eyebrows, then nearly chokes on her coffee.

Alex gently elbows her. “Don’t be weird about it. It’s just a job.” But he can’t help feeling a small fizz of excitement behind the words.

His mom emerges with a carton of OJ, grin crinkling her eyes. “Read it out loud, sugar. Let me hear how they described my son.”

Alex blushes but complies, voice stumbling a bit over the phrase “rising actor.” It still doesn’t feel real. He’s just Alex.

Over the next 24 hours, his phone lights up with texts from people he hasn’t heard from in years—old high school buddies, random acquaintances from a single acting workshop in sophomore year:

Dude, you’re in a freaking MOVIE with Henry Fox??

OMG, I saw the article, is this for real?

Remember me from Ms. Fletcher’s drama class? Congrats, Alex! so proud of you!

Even Nora leaves a dozen voice memos, which he plays at 2 a.m. “I can’t believe you’re actually living the dream, you absolute maniac! Next time we talk, I want all the behind-the-scenes tea. Also, do you realize you’re about to be in paparazzi crosshairs? Good luck with that.”

He texts her back a string of expletives and hearts. It’s not just friends texting, though. Suddenly, he’s got calls and emails from half a dozen talent agencies, each praising his “incredible audition” and offering to represent him.

He’s never felt so in-demand, honestly. He’s been repped by a small agent for commercials, but that was more of an informal arrangement. Now that he’s on a major studio project, everyone wants a piece.

He’s sprawled on the living room rug the next evening, staring at his phone’s call log when his mom wanders by with a laundry basket.

“Any luck choosing someone?” his mom asks, setting the basket down.

“I have no clue.” He clicks through an email on his screen. “I just want someone I can trust, who gets me.”

Ellen scratches her chin. “I remember hearing about that Zahra Bankston lady—didn’t she represent a friend of yours from college?”

Alex pauses, sits up. “Oh, yeah. She’s got a rep for being tough, right? Hardcore but honest. She’s with Sparkle, I think?”

Ellen nods. “That’s the one. Maybe give her a call?”

He sends an email, not expecting much of a response. To his surprise, she replies within the hour, scheduling a call for the next morning.

She’s read the After Fall announcement, congratulates him briefly, then dives into the question: “What do you want from your career?”

Alex finds himself liking her directness. There’s no flattery—just questions and honest feedback. After half an hour, she says, “All right, I can see you’re serious. We would be interested in representing you. I’ll send over a contract. Have your lawyer review it. If we’re all in agreement, we’ll move forward.”

He nearly stammers out a thanks. “Thank you, Ms. Bankston. I really appreciate it.”

“Call me Zahra,” she says and ends the call.

He already knows Zahra’s the one. The contract arrives via email the same day, all about commission rates, exclusivity, and territories. Alex forwards it to the family lawyer, who combs through. Two days later, everything’s signed and official: Zahra Bankston is his agent.

The production studio sends him an official After Fall contract—dozens of pages about filming schedules, compensation, potential reshoots, promotional obligations. Zahra helps him handles it, crossing out or revising clauses she doesn’t like, demanding a better deal for certain details. Alex is half-terrified, half-impressed.

His daily routine morphs into an avalanche of phone calls and emails: An assistant from the director’s office scheduling table reads, paparazzi rumors buzzing online. (Some website claims Henry’s “new co-star” is “an old friend,” which makes Alex snort-laugh for a good minute. As if Henry would call him a friend. Not likely.)

Through it all, his dad never fails to tease him that he’s not too famous to change oil filters on weekends .

After two weeks of back-and-forth, the first official table read arrives. Zahra meets him at outside his house early in the morning, wearing a red blazer and holding a leather folio. She looks him over with appraising glance, and he can’t help squirming a little.

This will be the first time he’ll be in a room with the entire cast, reading through the script together. The car glides into a gated studio lot. It’s sunny but breezy, palm trees swaying overhead. They park near an office building with tinted windows.

“Just be yourself,” Zahra says as they enter the building.

His stomach flip-flops when he sees a cluster of people at the far end, all scanning name badges or conferring with assistants. The production coordinator greets him and Zahra, handing a small ID lanyard with Cassian printed underneath his name.

“Conference Room B, down the hall on the left,” he says with a nice smile. “We’ll start shortly.”

Alex tries not to gawk, but it’s hard not to when there’s Tom Hanks that is seated opposite the director. He’ll be playing as Henry’s adoptive father in the movie. There are few other faces from the cast announcements he skimmed last night.

Zahra splits off to chat with the staffs. Alex steels his nerves and approaches the table. He can feel a few curious glances. Stay cool.

Everyone files into seats around the big rectangular tables, name plates neatly laid out: HENRY FOX (JAMES VALENTINE) to the right, ALEX CLAREMONT-DIAZ (CASSIAN SANCHEZ) next to him. 

A production assistant passes out thick script copies with color-coded notes. Director Marquess stands at the head, tapping a marker on the table. “All right, let’s do quick introductions, then jump into the read. We’ll probably break halfway through for notes. Sounds good?”

A round-robin of introductions ensues: supporting cast members playing James’ menacing associates, Cassian’s ill-fated father, a couple of side characters who run the clubs. He tried to absorb names and roles.

When it’s Henry’s turn, he simply says, “Henry Fox, playing James Valentine. Nice to work with you all.” Then the eyes shift to Alex.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz, playing Cassian,” he says quickly. “Really excited to be here.”

A ripple of interest passes around the table, and the director claps. “Let’s begin with Scene One.”

The opening montage describes Cassian’s bleak life before he falls into Valentine’s orbit and then cast members chime in for their roles. It’s weirdly surreal, hearing them all come to life.

Director Marquess occasionally interjects, “Try that with more hesitation,” or “James might be more subtle here.”

Alex scribbles notes on his script, glancing up to see Henry doing the same. He hits every line with as much conviction as he can muster, ignoring the sense that half the room is glancing between them.

After an intense hour, the director calls for a short break. People stand, stretch, chat in small clusters. Henry excuses himself to talk with his assistant.

Alex drops his script on his chair, and slips out into the hallway. He passed a couple of closed doors labeled Editing Suite and Costumes , searching for the restroom sign.

He’s just about to push open a door when he hears a voice inside. “…the PR schedule is tight,” Shaan is saying, “three promotional shoots next week, plus a radio interview in London—”

“I can’t be in two places at once. They’ll have to rearrange something.”

Alex takes half a step backward, not wanting to eavesdrop. But the toe of his sneaker squeaks on the floor. A second later, Shaan walks out, regarding Alex with cool expression.

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz. Didn’t see you there.”

Alex feels like he’s been caught going through someone’s diary. “Sorry, just looking for the restroom,” he says weakly.

“All yours,” Shaan says, stepping aside. “I was heading back in anyway.” He lifts his phone, presumably checking an urgent text, and Henry is about to walk away as well.

Just be yourself, as if that’s not a terrifying concept.

“Hey—Henry?”

Henry stops like he’s debating whether to keep walking, then finally turns back.

“Thanks for—” Alex starts, then immediately regrets not having a better plan for this sentence. He fiddles with his fingers. “I mean, for being okay with this. Working together. I know it’s… not what you expected, or maybe even wanted, but I appreciate that you’re not acting like I crashed the party.”

“I’m not sure it’s my party to gate keep,” Henry says. “And, in any case, you clearly earned your seat at the table.”

He expected a condescension, polite dismissal, maybe even some shade. “Huh,” he says, because his brain is still buffering.

Henry arches an eyebrow, waiting.

“Thanks,” he says, as calm as he can, even though his pulse is doing its best impression of a drum solo.

“We should get back,” Henry says.

“I’ll just be quick,” Alex says, pushing his way inside the restroom then strides to the sink, twisting the tap and letting the cold water run over his hands. His fingers are shaking a little, which is ridiculous. He cups some water, splashes it on his face then stares at himself in the mirror, water dripping down his cheeks.

He can’t hold it back anymore and lets out a strangled shriek and does a quick, ridiculous little dance—shoulders shaking, fists pumping, feet tapping an erratic beat against the floor.

Grabbing his phone off his back pocket, he hits FaceTime. Nora answers with a lollipop stick poking out of the corner of her mouth. “If this isn’t an emergency, I’m hanging up in—”

“Henry complimented me!” he shouts, wild-eyed. “Like, actually! It was genuine .”

Nora squints at him. “Define ‘complimented.’”

“He said I earned my seat at the table.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that he acknowledged an objective reality and you’re acting like he wrote you a love song.”

He groans, and she cackles. “Try not to explode before your next scene partner bonding moment.” Nora hangs up before he can yell at her.

He wipes his face dry with a paper towel, takes a breath, and walks back like he didn’t just have a full-on meltdown over Henry Fox saying one nice thing to him.

When his day wraps, it’s well past sunset. Zahra insists on debriefing him all the way home. She’s settled opposite him, pinning him with that relentless stare as she fires off instructions:

“Friday morning, 7:30 sharp. The studio wants some concept shots for you and Henry. Then they’ll grab a few behind-the-scenes sound bites for social media. No big deal,” she adds, tone flat, “but don’t treat it like a joke. The marketing team is banking on your dynamic.”

Alex massages a tension knot in his shoulder.  “Already?”

“Yes, They’ll want you in hair and makeup by seven-thirty.”

“Sure, okay, no problem,” he says since he doesn’t have much of a choice.

She eyes him over the top of her glasses. “Get some rest,” she says as the car stop at the front of his house. “You were solid today, but tomorrow you’ve got your classes, right?”

He nods, offering a weary grin. “Yeah, I’ve got a seminar. I’ll manage.”

“Good,” she says. “I’ll email your schedule for Friday’s shoot. Don’t miss it.”

With that, he gets out of the car, exhaling as the driver pulls away. He steps through the front door, immediately bombarded by the smell of onions and bell peppers. His mom is in the kitchen, unloading groceries onto the countertop. There are paper bags half toppling over—canned beans rolling near the sink.

She spots him and smiles. “There’s my superstar.”

He dumps his backpack on a chair. “Zahra just gave me an entire list of photoshoot demands for Friday.”

“Photoshoot already? They’re not wasting time, are they?”

“Apparently not.” He glances at the cut veggies on the counter. “Smells good. You making fajitas?”

“Your dad requested them. We might need more tortillas, though. Also, don’t forget , we’re visiting your abuelo tomorrow.” She waggles a finger at him.

“Got it.” He mentally shuffles his entire to-do list—somehow, he’ll squeeze in time to see his grandfather and review lines for the next rehearsal. “I’ll be there.”

His mom chuckles, turning back to a pot on the stove. “Go on upstairs and change. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

He gives her a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and takes the stairs two at a time, reaching June’s room.

He slams the door open, bracing for her to scold him about knocking. “Bug! You have to hear about—”

June’s seated at her minimalist white desk, a set of Sony headphones covering her ears, completely oblivious. She’s furiously typing on her laptop, the screen’s glow reflecting off her glasses. She doesn’t even twitch at his grand entrance.

Alex sighs dramatically and flops onto her neatly made bed, arms splayed. “Junebug,” he tries again, louder. Nothing. Rolling his eyes, he sits up and pads across the carpet, then gently pokes her shoulder. “Hey, hello, I exist?”

June startles, ripping off her headphones. “Damn it, Alex!” she looks at him with shocked eyes. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve been talking for, like, five minutes. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Noise cancellation,” she says pointedly, pulling them fully off. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah, sure—just had the first official table read with Henry, which was a whole event , but never mind me.” He collapses back on the bed, letting out a melodramatic groan. “I swear, it’s like my real life is turning into some reality show. And oh, by the way, Zahra’s got me doing a photoshoot with Henry on Friday—”

He’s rambling so fast but June’s gaze drifting back to her laptop. She’s tapping a few keys absentmindedly.

“June. Hello? Are you even listening?”

She snaps her focus back to him. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

He exhales loudly, pushing himself up. “You’re ignoring my epic day? Rude.” Then glances at her screen.

She tries to angle it away, but Alex catches sight of the tabs: some news articles about the unsolved Omega murders , forensics reports, plus a cluster of pages referencing “vampiric feeding.”

His mouth curls  in confusion. “Why are there—are those vampire websites?”

June tries to click away, but Alex plants a palm on the trackpad. “No, no, no. What is all this? Are you writing a novel?”

June flushes with embarrassment and says, “I told you—the Post assigned me that ongoing murder case. Turns out people online are calling it ‘the Vampire Killings.’”

Alex stares, half dumbfounded. “They’re linking it to vampires? Are you serious?”

June pushes her laptop forward so he can see the screen. “Two victims. Both found in their homes. One in Dupont Circle, the other in Logan Circle. No break-ins.” She clicks to the next image, and Alex really wishes she didn’t. “Both decapitated. And then there’s this.”

She zooms in, and he immediately regrets looking. Right below the jawline, two puncture wounds, right where the jugular should be. “Forensics say there was less than a teaspoon of blood at either scene. It’s like someone cracked them open like Capri Suns and cleaned up after themselves.”

She clicks again another link. “And here’s the really fun part: both houses had security cameras. Footage ran fine all night—until the estimated time of death. Then, for exactly five minutes, both feeds cut to static. Just five minutes. Some conspiracy nuts are certain it’s a literal vampire. Others suspect a black-market organ harvesting ring but none of that explains the CCTV.”

“I mean, it’s weird,” Alex concedes. “But… c’mon. Vampires? Really?”

“In journalism, you follow the story wherever it leads. If people believe there’s a vampire murderer, that fear alone is newsworthy. My editor wants me to explore the angle—debunk it or prove it, either way.”

“Prove it?” Alex lets out a short laugh. “Don’t you think that’s a leap? Next you’ll say you’re hunting werewolves.”

“Don’t mock me,” she says, glaring. She taps a line in one of her notes referencing a coroner’s report that mentions “unidentifiable fluid traces” near the wound. “No normal weapon—like a knife or bullet—leaves this pattern.”

“So, your big theory is some maniac is impersonating a vampire? Or actually believes they are one?”

“That’s for me to find out,” June says, shifting in her chair. “And it’s not the first time. I’ve dug up an old case from the 80s. People wrote it off as a homicide spree, but the file was never conclusively solved.”

“But you still think maybe it is real vampires? Because that’s…” A half-laugh forming in his throat.

She smacks him on the upper arm, eyes narrowed. “Don’t laugh! Didn’t our great-granduncle claims our ancestors hunted vampires in the 18th century?”

“He also claimed he once dueled a wizard,” Alex says. “Dad always said the man was either half-senile or just bullshitting to impress the papers.”

June crosses her arms, lowering her gaze. “People in this family used to be more open-minded, you know. What if not all of it was made up?”

“The world is weird, but not that weird. Vampires are a staple of horror movies, not—” He gestures at her laptop. “—real life.”

”Then check this out,” she says, and he watches her clicks play on a security cam video. The footage is time-stamped for 2:47 a.m. The door is half ajar, so the vantage is partial—a corner shot of the sink area.

There’s a man wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt. He’s leaning over the sink, seemingly brushing his teeth. Every so often, he spits or rinses. Then the footage jump-cuts to 2:48 a.m. The man shuts the bathroom light off. The feed fizzles—looks like a glitch.

Then, at 2:52 a.m., the camera’s feed returns and there’s blood . The sink is spattered with droplets. No sign of the man.

Alex forces his eyes to stay on the screen. The door is fully open, revealing a shape on the floor at the edge of the frame. He can’t get a full angle, but it looks like the man’s torso is there, without a head.

The timestamp flicks forward again—2:52:36, 2:52:37—someone or something moves past, too quick for the low-framerate camera. The figure is only a blurred silhouette, fleetingly tall and angular, disappearing offscreen in a flash. Then the feed fizzles again.

June clicks pause, freezing the image on that shadow. “The man was an Omega named Mark Del Rio, lived alone. Neighbors reported hearing a short scream. By the time the cops got there, he was… decapitated. Head found inside the tub. No signs of forced entry. The building’s side door camera didn’t catch any visitors.”

She’s got that fierce gleam in her eye that says she’s latched onto a story. “You can’t just wave off everything as ‘myth’ because you haven’t seen it. We live in a world where people have secret identities, where we’ve had to sign NDAs just for normal business. We just discovered a bunch of murders with bizarre evidence. Are you so sure it’s all impossible? others believe in ghosts, in God—Why is vampires where we draw the line?”

His mind is whirling with the horror of that video. “June, you saw that—“ he can’t even finish it because he don’t know how to address it. “That’s terrifying, but also… I don’t know. There has to be a rational explanation. A—some psycho with a specialized tool or weird fetish, I guess.”

She closes the laptop, the color draining from her face. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled. But the Post gave me the go-ahead to chase it. I can’t ignore it. If I find proof it’s something else, I’ll report that. But I’m not ignoring the vampire rumor just because it sounds nuts. People are scared.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Don’t go around playing detective Conan.” He stands, ruffling her hair just to annoy her. “I can’t believe I used to think you were the normal sibling.”

She smacks his hand away. “We’ll see who’s laughing if I crack this case wide open.”

“Sure,” he says over his shoulder, already heading for his room and collapses onto his bed.

Vampires.

The word is still absurd. But after seeing that video—he can’t help feeling a cold dread. Because if the world of film taught him anything, it’s that sometimes the wildest stories hold a grain of truth.

Chapter Text

Lake LBJ is a bright swath of blue in the Texas Hill Country, tucked about an hour and a half northwest of Austin. The land around it is a patchwork of cedar trees and rocky outcrops, the roads meandering past ranch fences and modest weekend homes. By midmorning, Oscar’s jeep pulls onto a narrow gravel driveway, flanked by tall pines.

“Never gets old,” June murmurs, forehead against the window.

He can’t help but agree. The house itself is perched near the water’s edge—two stories, painted a mix of pale gray and russet siding, with a wide porch wrapping around the front. There’s a small boathouse on the side, plus a series of stepping-stone paths leading to a firepit and chairs near the shoreline.

They park beneath an oak tree, and Alex spots his grandfather, Oliver Diaz , strolling out to greet them. Oliver is seventy-five, though his appearance suggests a man who’s done at least a dozen different odd jobs in life—weathered face, dark eyes, and a mustache that’s gone silver.

He reminds Alex a little of a retired marine in a comfy flannel. A lifetime of sun-baked lines etch his cheeks, and the strength in his posture says he’s not slowing down anytime soon.

Oscar hops out from the driver’s seat, stretching. Ellen waves from the passenger side. June practically leaps from the back seat, rubbing her stiff neck.

Oliver clasps Alex by the shoulders first, pulling him into a rough hug. His grandfather smells faintly of coffee grounds and wood smoke, like a man who’s been up since dawn tinkering in the backyard.

“I saw that piece about you in the news,” Oliver says, releasing Alex. “What’s it called again, that film you’re doin’?”

“ After Fall. ” He tries not to blush. “Yeah, it’s uh… a big one.”

Oliver’s face crinkles into a proud smile and slaps him in the bicep. “Never doubted you’d land something huge. Always saw that spark in you.” He turns to June, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “And you, mija , been reading your articles in the Post. Sharp writing.”

June smiles up at him. “Still trying to get the big scoop, Grandpa.”

Oliver leads them around the side yard, pointing out small changes. “Got a new grill I picked up at a yard sale. Let’s get your stuff inside.”

Oscar and Ellen are already lugging a cooler out of the trunk, bantering about who packed too much. Oliver waves them toward the house. “Put all that in the kitchen—there’s space in the second fridge. I cleaned it out this morning.”

They troop inside, a rush of shoes on the wooden porch. The house smells faintly of the fish Oliver must have fried last night. Big windows line the rear wall, opening onto a sunlit deck and the lake beyond.

Once the groceries are settled and the duffel bags stowed, Oscar starts rummaging in the kitchen, mumbling about wanting to grill something for lunch. Ellen volunteers to chop veggies. Oliver beckons Alex and June to follow him out onto the backyard, which slopes down to a rocky shore.

They walk around a circular patio near the water. Oliver sinks into a chair, motioning for Alex and June to sit. There’s a gentle breeze, and a few distant birds calling.

“So,” his grandfather says, looking between them, “how’s life treating you two?”

June sits forward, braids sliding over her shoulder. “Work’s been intense,” she starts. “I’m focusing in this column for the Washington Post .”

Oliver sips his tea. “Oh? You writing about politics?”

She hesitates for a moment, then sighs. “The Omega murder spree? That’s the story. We keep getting more details—like the cops are holding something back. Everyone are spinning wild theories. Vampires, of all things.”

Oliver’s forehead contorts. “Vampires?”

Alex chimes in,  “She’s half-convinced it’s some supernatural horror. I’m trying to remind her we live in a world of normal criminals.” June is about to smack him but he managed to dodge it.

“I did read a snippet about that in the news. It’s horrifying,” Oliver says. “You be careful chasing that kind of story, mija.”

June nods. “I will. It’s just… there are so many conflicting rumors, and the official statements are vague. I keep thinking I’ll find something definitive. The Post wants me to pitch a big investigative piece.”

Oliver glances out at the lake for a moment. “Back in the day, folks used to pass around all sorts of tales.”

June snaps her fingers. “Didn’t we have some great-uncle who swore our family used to hunt vampires, like, centuries ago?”

Oliver chuckles, scratching his beard. “ Tio Armando , that was him. He struggled a lot with alcohol, back when I was a kid. Claimed he found old diaries about an ancestor of ours who fought these ‘undying creatures’.”

June perked up. “So it is real. He actually told you about it?”

Oliver shrugs. “He’d talk our ears off at gatherings, insisting some diaries proved it. I never saw them personally, and my dad thought it was mostly the drink talking.”

“Right. Another wild Diaz rumor,” Alex says, smiling cynically. “like how Uncle Ray once claimed to see aliens.”

“Those diaries might still be somewhere,” June says, edging closer. “Did Tio Armando say how they ended up in our family?”

“He was vague. Something about a Spanish soldier who came to Mexico centuries ago. Probably nonsense. But, boy, did he go on about it. My father tried to get him to see a doctor, or quit drinking, but that was the 1960s—nobody really addressed that sort of mental health openly.”

Oliver sets his empty can of sweet tea down, pushing up from the bench with a small groan—his knees apparently giving him trouble these days. “If it helps your story, I can try to remember more details about Tio Armando’s ramblings. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

June nods eagerly. “Any lead could help. Thanks, Grandpa.”

Alex stands too, noticing Oscar waving from the porch. “I’ll be right there, Dad!” he calls, then glances back at Oliver and June. “You two keep your secret undead histories, I’ll handle the grill.”

June sticks out her tongue, and Oliver laughs, turning back toward the house.

Alex flops onto the top bunk, the old springs squeak in protest. When he was twelve—he used to think they were the coolest sleeping arrangement on earth. Right now, the cramped mattress feels a little less magical, especially with June being noisy beneath him, lights still on, her laptop screen glaring in the dark.

“It’s midnight,” he grumbles. “Are you still typing?”

From below, June mutters, “I’m sending an email, okay? Let me work.”

He rolls onto his stomach, draping an arm off the side so he can peer down at her. “To who, the Pope?”

“Close,” she says, eyes still on the screen. “The Prefect of the Vatican Archives.”

He snorts. “Wait, really? You are actually emailing the Vatican?”

June shoots him a look like he’s the intruder in her personal lair. “Yes. I need access for research, obviously. Where else can I find original Templar records that didn’t get torched or hidden centuries ago?”

He props his chin on his hand. “And you think they’ll just let some random Washington Post columnist stroll in and rifle through medieval scrolls on how to make vampires?”

June purses her lips, ignoring his sarcasm. “They have a research card system. If they consider your credentials legit, you get scheduled access to specific documents. I’m trying to prove I have reason to see anything referencing the Templars’… experiments.”

He exhales. “All right. But if the prefect reads your pitch and goes ‘Huh, so this woman wants to prove vampires are real,’ how do you expect that to go?”

“I’m not saying ‘vampire’ in the email, you doof,” she exclaims, flipping him a middle finger. “I’m focusing on the Templars. That’s how I’ll get an invitation.”

“Look at you, cunning baby journalist,” Alex teases, half-laughing. “How far are you taking this? We spent half the day in Grandpa’s attic rummaging for Tío Armando’s diaries and found zip.”

“I know. But it doesn’t mean the lead is dead,” she says. “If the Templar lore is real, the earliest records could be at the Vatican. That’s one of the last places that might hold mention of… anything like this.”

“You’re going all-in, huh?”

“Yup.”

He lies back onto his pillow. “Well, good luck convincing a bunch of old priests to open their dusty secret vault for you. I give you one week before you get a polite ‘nope, sorry’ email.”

June sniffs, pulling her blanket up. “We’ll see. We’ll see.” She hits send with a flourish. “And if they do say no at first, I’ll keep pushing. That’s my job.”

“Right. Good luck, then.” He yanks his own blanket over his head. “Now, let me sleep.”

After two days of vacation in the Lake House, Alex returns to classes at Georgetown, and endures scowling stares from Zahra whenever he’s even a minute late to a zoom meeting. He tries to ignore how June won’t stop texting him about the “non-response from the Vatican so far”—she’s impatiently waiting.

Finally, Friday dawns. He catches the earliest Metro to the studio, triple-checking the text from Zahra:

Arrive 7:30. You and Henry. No excuses.

Once he stumbles off at the correct station, a black coffee in hand, he feels approximately half alive. The production is using one of those large, industrial-style photography spaces in downtown D.C. with soaring ceilings and massive white cyc walls that can be lit up in any color.

An assistant at the front desk hands him a lanyard. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz? Head to Wardrobe, third door on the left,” she says, smiling politely. “They’ll start with hair and makeup.”

He swallows a mouthful of coffee, trying to center himself. This is a real film photoshoot—his first big promo.

Racks of clothes greets him upon arriving in the wardrobe set with stylists holding up garments to measure them against the concept art pinned to a corkboard. The mood boards show Cassian in dark outfits, James’ in more sinister attire.

“We’re leaning into the gritty vibe,” a stylist in a floral jumpsuit explains.

He is handed a black, form-fitting shirt with subtle tears near the hem. The matching trousers fit snugly. An assistant with a measuring tape circles him, muttering about inseams.

A second stylist fusses with his hair next, taming it into a slightly tousled look that can pass for “unruly but sexy.” She spritzes half a can of setting spray to keep the shape. The overhead lights reflect off the large mirror in front of him, making the black of his outfit look even sharper.

The outfit is decidedly rebellious, as if Cassian is about to bolt from some seedy underworld. After he’s done, he’s escorted to the main photography stage. Henry’s already there with a makeup artist dabs something along his jawline.

Henry offers a professional smile. “Morning,” he says softly.

“Hi,” Alex says with a small wave.

The lead photographer in black jeans and sneakers calls them over. She introduces herself as Marianne. “We’ll start with some individual shots,” she explains, scanning a clipboard. “Then we’ll move into the pair shoots.”

She direct Henry first, positioning him against a white backdrop with a single overhead spotlight. Marianne circles him, directing subtle changes in stance: “Chin up a fraction, eyes strong but distant—like you’re beyond caring about mortal concerns.” Henry nails it and the camera shutter clicks in rapid bursts.

Alex watches from the sidelines, sipping water. Even in a controlled environment, Henry exudes a certain presence. The costuming highlights his stern lines, giving him the aura of a ruthless figure, exactly what the script demands of Henry.

Then it’s his turn. He steps onto the floor. A stylist tugs at his shirt, adjusting the rips. Marianne instructs him to look defiant, “like a caged animal,” she says. 

He inhales and tries to channel that sense desperation. Tough, angry, a little unhinged. He narrows his eyes at the lens, fists half-clenched. Marianne snaps a flurry of shots, occasionally telling him to shift his weight. Another strobe fires from a different angle, and he feels the camera capturing every tension in his muscles.

“All right, good,” Marianne calls. “Now let’s bring you two together.”

They face each other in front of a moody, shadowed backdrop. The lighting is set to mimic a harsh overhead glow, leaving the edges of the cyc in darkness. Marianne wants them close —mere inches apart.

“Henry, hand on Alex’s shoulder,” she says, her voice echoing in the studio. “Show dominance, but keep it subtle. Alex, you’re angry, rebellious—like you want to slap that hand away but you can’t.”

Alex breathes slowly. Henry lifts his hand, placing it gently on Alex’s shoulder. The warmth of Henry’s palm seeps through the torn black shirt, and Alex’s heart hammers. They lock eyes.

Stay in character, Alex reminds himself.

Marianne snaps a dozen shots. “Great! Now, Alex, tilt your chin up, glare at him like you resent everything he stands for. Henry, stare him down— you’re in control. ”

They’re told to change positions. Now Henry stands behind Alex, one hand braced against Alex’s bicep, the other near Alex’s waist. Alex angles his head halfway toward Henry. Marianne encourages them to shift closer. The heat from Henry’s chest radiates against Alex’s back.

Henry’s fingertips slip across his side, Alex’s heartbeat quickens, eyes half-lidded. The lights flare. The background melts away in pulses of the shutter.

Marianne claps, seemingly satisfied. “We got plenty. Let’s take ten, then we’ll do some final stills for social media banners.”

Alex exhales in relief, stepping off the set. He reaches for a water bottle from a passing assistant and downs half of it in one go.

Then his phone buzzes and sees a message from June in their group chat.

Two Princesses and a 🐸

Bug:

Attached: flight_ticket_rome.png

irl cheaos demon :

EXCUSE me, what are you doing flying to Rome?? Don’t you have like a job?

Bug :

The Vatican Archives emailed me.

I have a two-week research pass. I leave tonight.

Wait, you’re kidding?? So soon??

irl cheaos demon :

!!!!!

Bug :

Yes. Sorry for last minute noticd. Wish me luck.

His mouth gapes. He starts typing a response— good luck, you maniac, text me if you run into the Pope.

It’s closing in on half past 1:00 pm by the time the rest of the crew finishes dismantling lights and backdrops, leaving the studio with half-muted chatter. Alex wanders over to the lounge area—just a row of foldable chairs and a small table holding bottles of water. His shirt is rumpled from the day’s poses, hair stiff with styling product. He wants a hot shower and eight hours of sleep.

Alex scans the room and spots Henry near the far wall, flipping through a stack of costume notes. Henry’s wearing that polite, distant expression he’s honed to a science. He’s always had that protective shell, but today it seems thicker. So Alec decides to slip right under it— enough of this awkward vibe. He grabs two water bottles, crosses the floor, and clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says softly, extending a bottle to Henry. “Water?”

Henry glances up, mild surprise sparking in his pale eyes. After a beat, he sets down the notes and accepts the bottle with a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”

They ease away from the bustle of staffers, finding a relatively quiet corner. Alex leans his shoulder against the wall, taking a swig of his own water, trying to project an easy, friendly vibe. Henry stands a couple of feet away.

“Long day,” Alex ventures, half-laughing. “I think the last time I posed that intensely was… never, actually.”

Henry nods, unscrewing the bottle cap. Alex presses on. “So, how’s life outside of all this? Did you manage to catch a break?”

“Somewhat. Enough time to take David out for a proper walk in Hyde Park. He always tries to chase the ducks.”

Alex grins at the mental image. “He would chase ducks, wouldn’t he? My grandfather’s dog is about half-blind now—spent last weekend at his lake house trying to keep that pup from falling off the dock.”

Henry’s eyes crinkle, and he actually smiles genuine this time. “Did you find time to actually enjoy the water?”

“My family’s always out there with half-broken fishing gear and questionable floats. But, ironically, my sister June spent the whole day digging through the attic for some non-existent diaries. She’s deep into this insane story for her Washington Post column.”

Henry tips his head. “What sort of story?”

A wry smile creeps onto Alex’s face. “Murder sprees. The Omega killings in DC.” He gestures with a sardonic shrug. “She’s basically tossing around the word ‘vampire.’ ”

“That does sound… sensational.”

“My Dad humored her for an hour, but eventually he was like, ‘M’ija, you’re chasing ghosts.’”

Henry glances at the dull overhead lights, lips pressed together. “And what do you think? Are you as skeptical as your father?”

Alex half-laughs. “I mean, I want to humor her, but… c’mon. Vampires in 2024? If they exist, they’re awfully good at hiding.” He takes another sip of water, letting the silence linger.

Henry’s gaze slides away, tapping the bottle’s cap. “I studied a great deal of history at university. You realize quickly how many moments hinge on misunderstandings.”

“If June heard you right now, she’d make you her new best friend. ”

Henry’s mouth quirks in what might be a half-smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stand there for a moment, the conversation drifting. Before Alex can formulate a follow-up question, Henry shifts on his feet. “Anyway, how was the rest of your time at the lake house? Did you get to see any friends in Texas or just family?”

Alex shrugs. “Mostly family. And my mom and dad’s argument on who’s the better cook.”

“My father used to do that—insist he knew better than Mum on barbecuing.”

Alex catches the wistfulness in Henry’s tone. “You miss him a lot, huh?”

“Every day.” Then forces a polite cough. “But that’s enough about me.”

Alex shuffles closer, letting the conversation’s warmth linger. One last chance to hold him in this friendly sphere.

“Look, I, uh… I know we’re not best buds or anything, but if you ever want to talk about family stuff, or—well, anything—my phone’s on. We spend a ton of time faking tension in front of cameras, but maybe we can actually be… you know. Friendly. For real.”

Henry’s brows lift, and something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe. “Okay.”

A grin tugs at the corner of Alex’s mouth. “Cool. Because you seemed kinda distant earlier, and I was worried I’d said something or done something.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Alex. I promise.” Henry glances at the ground, then lifts his eyes again. “I just have complicated days sometimes.”

Alex nods. “I get it. We all do.”

“Right.” Henry tries for a tiny, self-deprecating grin. “Maybe one day your sister will solve the riddle of immortality, and we’ll never have to do these photoshoots again.”

The tension in Alex’s chest completely dissolves. “Amen to that.”

The day after the photoshoot, Alex drags himself through campus at Georgetown, backpack heavy with too many binders. It’s a perfectly average Wednesday morning—birds flitting around the old buildings, other bleary-eyed students rushing to early lectures. He’s headed to his seminar on comparative political theory.

He slips into the lecture hall, finds a seat near the middle. The professor who rarely allows late arrivals, is already fiddling with her slides on statecraft in post-colonial states. Alex extracts his notes, tries to focus.

But his phone buzzes in his pocket. A glance at the screen— June.

OMG, you won’t believe what I found!!!

He subtly ducks under the desk, tapping a reply:

U in the actual Vatican Archives??

Thought they had Guards to keep out the crazies.

She doesn’t respond immediately, so Alex forces himself to take notes on the day’s topic—some intersection of governance and civil liberties that he might need for an upcoming midterm. Forty-five minutes later, as he packs, his phone pings again:

Had to lock phone away in a locker for a while, but I saw the actual letter King Henry VIII wrote to the Pope about divorcing Catherine of Aragon.

Mind-blowing.

Also found references to “Blood Trials.”

Alex nearly stumbles in the hallway, re-reading that message. So she’s actually found something.

They have Templar docs for real??

Yep. It’s partial references.

I need more time to piece it together.

Don’t get excommunicated, Bug.

The next day, Alex wrestles with a mound of textbooks before catching an afternoon flight out of D.C. He has a half hour to cram a reading then dozes off mid-flight. By the time the plane touches down at LAX, the sun is dipping low over palm trees.

He checks into a hotel near the training facility the studio’s rented, ignoring the prickle of paparazzi who might lurk outside. An email from Zahra greets him in his inbox: 7 AM call time for training. Don’t oversleep.

Because apparently, he can never not be up at dawn. Alex steps out of an Uber onto the sidewalk outside a squat building. It looks like an old warehouse, scuffed brick, with a sign that reads V Combat Arts . Inside, he finds a space lined with thick mats, a full boxing ring on one side, and racks of sticks and training gear on the other.

An assistant from the film’s production waves him over. “Morning, Alex. We’ll start with basic boxing technique—Coach Vargas is expecting you.” She points to a corner where a short, powerfully built woman is wrapping someone’s hands.

Alex ambles over, trying to calm the swirl in his stomach. He spots Henry a few yards away, finishing a conversation with an older man who’s demonstrating stick movements with fluid grace. Henry’s in a simple tank top and athletic pants, hair mussed from a warm-up. He looks up, meeting Alex’s eyes, and nods. A tiny smile flickers.

“’Morning,” Henry says quietly, stepping aside as the older man heads for a gear rack.

“Hey,” Alex replies, offering a grin. “Ready to get your butt kicked?”

Henry’s lips tug up. “We’ll see who’s kicking whom.”

They’re quickly introduced to their respective coaches. Coach Vargas waves Alex over. “You Cassian?” she says, hooking a thumb at him.

“Um, I’m Alex, but Cassian’s my—”

“Same difference. Let’s get you wrapped.” She gestures, and Alex extends his arms. She methodically covers his knuckles and wrists with sturdy tape, telling him to keep them relaxed. “We’re going full fundamentals today. Jab, cross, footwork. Then we’ll incorporate some rough-and-tumble moves for that Cassian grit.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Henry listens intently to Master Del Rosario , the Kali instructor, who’s explaining the basics of stick-fighting footwork. Alex glances over occasionally, sees Henry practicing short arcs with slender rattan sticks.

Coach Vargas leads Alex to a small ring area. She makes him run a quick warm-up: jump rope, shadow-box, shuffle steps. Alex’s heartbeat thrums in his ears. He’s done some working out, sure, but not this kind  of intense, technique-based training.

“Chin down,” Coach Vargas instructs as Alex tries a series of jabs at the focus mitts she’s wearing. “Good, but keep your guard up. Cassian’s going to be scrappy.”

He nods, sweat beading on his temple. One-two, one-two. The mitt cracks each time he lands a punch. She corrects his stance, tugs at his elbow, has him pivot for a cross. His arms are already burning.

Every so often, he glimpses Henry across the mat, swinging short practice sticks in a patterned drill under Master Del Rosario’s watchful eye. Henry’s face is taut with concentration, posture surprisingly adept. Or maybe not surprising at all, Alex muses, recalling the hidden physical ease Henry’s always had.

After about an hour of jabs, crosses, and footwork, Alex’s muscles ache. They pause for water, Coach Vargas patting his shoulder. “You learn quick, kid. We’ll get you throwing combos soon.”

He gulps water, half-laughing. “I might pass out, but yeah, let’s do combos.”

Soon, both coaches call a break. Alex peels off the padded gloves, panting. Henry sets aside his rattan sticks, rolling his wrists. They gravitate toward each other, leaning against a stack of spare mats.

Alex fans his sweaty face with a hand. “Whew. This is… a lot.”

Henry exhales, dabbing his forehead with a towel. “Understatement.” But there’s a small, content light in his eyes, like he’s relishing the exertion.

Alex can’t help a grin. “You looked good over there with the sticks, by the way. Very… lethal.”

“James’ supposed to be an elegant sort of fighter.”

Alex towel-dries his hair, grinning despite the ache in his shoulders. “Cassian’s more of a street brawler, apparently. I gotta show desperation in every punch. This morning alone has taught me I have zero upper body stamina.”

Henry unzips the top of his duffel bag to pull out a small protein bar. “Same. My arms may revolt before the day is out.” His gaze flits over the gym, the clang of metal rods and the low murmur of other trainees practicing footwork. “Though I have to admit, it’s invigorating.”

“Yeah.” Alex tips his head back, the warehouse’s overhead lights blur. “A month ago, I was just a normal college kid skipping half my lectures to chase auditions. Now, I’m in LA, punching mitts for a film role. Crazy life.”

Henry’s lips curve faintly. “Rather a leap, isn’t it? I suppose we both signed up for punishing training sessions.”

They fall silent for a moment, sipping water. “Speaking of leaps, how’s the rest of your schedule?” he asks. “I heard we might have an official script read again next week.”

Henry sets the half-eaten protein bar on his thigh. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been told. More choreography, too. My character apparently has a second fight scene halfway through the script. I’ll be back and forth between LA and London.”

Alex blows out a breath. “We’ll be living on planes. Meanwhile, my sister’s off living in a Vatican reading room, of all places.” He huffs a laugh, remembering June’s barrage of texts. “She’s basically gone full Indiana Jones.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, rolling a stiff shoulder. “She arrived last week and hasn’t stopped texting me since. She keeps sending me updates—like, real nerd stuff. She even bragged about seeing King Henry VIII’s letter to the Pope about divorcing Catherine of Aragon.”

“That letter’s quite famous, I believe. It’s stored among the Papal records. Must be something to see it in person.”

Alex smirks. “She’s over the moon. But that’s not the main reason she’s there. She’s trying to crack open Templar secrets. Something about ‘Blood Trials’? Seems she found references in partial diaries, some old alchemist documents. It’s apparently tied to the Templar knights—like ancient science that made them near-immortal, which then turned into the whole vampire rumor.”

“Blood Trials,” Henry drawls, fingers plucking at the wrapper in his hand. “They were rumored to have begun in Outremer, right? Where the Templars supposedly performed transfusions under near-death conditions? Some sort of mutated blood.”

Alex cocks his head, blinking. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

“The Knights believed it was divine grace, labeling it ‘Blood of Christ.’ Ultimately caused them to require regular blood to maintain their ‘holy warrior’ status.”

“That’s basically what June’s reading,” he says.

“It ties into the trials of the Knights Templar,” Henry adds. “They were famously subjected to the trials from accusations of heresy in 1307 and burned at the stakes. During those interrogations, all sorts of allegations surfaced: worshipping Baphomet, black magic, spitting on the cross…” He hesitates, then goes on, “and harvesting blood. But that part never made it into mainstream accounts, overshadowed by sensational charges of devil worship.”

Alex stares at him, realization poking at the edges of his mind. “How did you know that?”

Henry gives a tight shrug and tears open the wrapper again. “I told you I studied a lot of history at Oxford.” He looks like he’s about to add something, but then Master Del Rosario calls from across the gym, beckoning him to resume the Kali drills.

“I—I should get back,” Henry mutters, gesturing to the rattan sticks.

“Sure. We can… talk more later?” he asks and Henry nods tersely, turning on his heel.

Chapter Text

Just as his body hits the bed, he receives a FaceTime call from June and he tiredly he hits Accept . She appears in the frame, a little grainy from spotty Wi-Fi, hair escaping her ponytail in frizzy arcs.

“I’ve been waiting for hours to talk to you! Anyway, can you see me okay? You’re not freezing or anything?”

He rubs at his eyes, feeling that ache behind them that screams lack of sleep. “Yeah, you’re good. Sorry, you just caught me about to go faceplant. Another day of getting battered by a boxing coach. And tomorrow’s probably worse.”

She pushes her glasses up with one finger. “All right, let me make this quick. Guess what I found tonight?”

“The Templars?”

Her eyes glitter. “Ding, ding. Precisely.I actually found a reference in a 12th-century index that references a trial transcript from around 1310, which literally mentions knights who, quote, ‘sustained life only by the sanguine infusion each fortnight.’ Is that not basically code for vampiric feeding?”

“So they were basically on a blood schedule?” he asks, struggling to stay awake.

She claps a hand over her mouth to stifle an overexcited squeal. “Yes, exactly. Like, these Templars needed a ‘sanguine infusion’ every two weeks—that’s basically vampire mode. The trial notes apparently got buried in a stack of confiscated property ledgers. No wonder it’s not common knowledge.”

Alex flops onto his back, letting the phone angle up toward the ceiling, so June’s face is a floating square above him. “You know, Henry and I actually talked more about it.”

“He studied history at Oxford, right?” June says, “Kinda stands to reason he’d soak up that stuff. Oxford’s older than half the countries on Earth. Probably has entire wings dedicated to old manuscripts.” 

“He is genuinely intrigued.”

June cackles under her breath. “He better be.” Her face is momentarily serious. “Anyway, how is your dashing co-star? He’s not giving you the silent treatment, is he?”

“We’re good. Friendly. He’s still got his usual walls, but I think we’re inching closer to something like actual trust. Possibly.”

June hums. “That’s nice, though.”

“It’s definitely a step up from our old standoffish dynamic,” he says, nodding. “Makes me see a whole new dimension in him.

“Dimension,“ she drawls, “so the next dimension is you two hooking up?”

He nearly drops the phone, blushing. “Not everything’s about hooking up! oh ye of the tabloid mind.”

She tries to look innocent. “I’m just saying, you could probably coax out more details about these vampire knights if you keep batting those eyelashes. For your sister’s sake, of course.”

Alex rolls his eyes at the end of her last sentence. “Speaking of coaxing details, how about you? Did the archivist say anything interesting?”

She shakes her head, letting out a frustrated huff. “None. I combed the older indices, but it’s tricky. The diaries referencing Templar vampirism might not be labeled openly. I’ll keep searching. Actually, I emailed the Prefect about seeing a sub-collection. We’ll see if they say yes.”

Alex can’t help but grin at her determination. “You’re unstoppable, Bug.”

She winks. “Damn right I am. You rest up, big star. And oh, heads up! Dad texted me, apparently we left some fishing rods in the trunk back at the lake. He’s ranting about it.”

“Great,” Alex groans. “Good night.”

June blows him a kiss. “Night. Love you.”

He wakes the next morning to the unwelcome blare of his alarm, immediately cursing whichever past version of himself thought six-thirty in the morning sounded like a reasonable wake-up time. He drags himself off the bed and slumps into the shower, letting the water run hot enough to sting.

His arms ache in that way that insists they carried heavy boxing mitts for hours. Then there’s also purple blossoming on his ribs from a miscalculated side kick. By the time he’s dressed—sweat-wicking shirt, battered joggers, hair still damp around his temples—he’s sipping black coffee from a to-go cup and stumbling into a half-lit soundstage that’s been rigged up as a training space.

He spots Coach Vargas sorting gear off to the side. Rubber knives, wooden kali sticks, aluminum training swords.

“All right,” she says. “We’re working on Kali sequences again today. Let’s get those angles tighter.”

He picks up two battered rattan sticks from the training table, the rough wood ridged and comfortable in his palms. For the next hour, Coach Vargas runs him through the warm-ups: sinawali drills, the basic “weave” patterns that go high-low-high, forcing his wrists to flick out in circular movements. 

But the moment she snaps, “Engage your core,” he’s reminded that any misstep means a whack across the knuckles—or across the face if he’s not careful.

“You keep forgetting your footwork,” Coach Vargas says, rapping his ankle  with her own stick. “Step into the angle, not away. Otherwise, you’ll lose the line of attack.”

He pushed into the drill until sweat beads at his temples.  After lunch, he spots Henry on the other side of the training space, working with a different set of coaches. Henry’s tall frame is taut in black workout gear, his cheeks red from the humid and sweat. 

Coach Vargas snaps a finger in front of him to get back his attention and he embarrassedly faces her. They run a final series of block-and-disarm combos. Every time Alex blocks a strike, he has to pivot, pass the stick, and slice in toward Coach Vargas flank. Despite the mistakes—like whacking her once with a swing—he’s improving.

As soon as the training is done, he goes to the showers and runs tepid water this time, because the hot water handle is apparently on strike. He stands there, letting his muscles shiver under the lukewarm spray, and wonders if it’s possible to sleep standing up.

Henry’s gone by the time he’s back in the changing area. Disappointment nips at him, but he tamps it down. Tomorrow, the schedule says, is more of the same. Maybe they’ll run into each other then.

The next day, he’s stumbling onto set with new set of bruises near his elbows. Today, he’s performing a practice sequence with one of the other stunt actors, panting and blocking repeated overhead strikes, when there’s a call from the far side of the room.

“Henry? Alex? You’re up.”

He glances across the gym. Henry’s already stepping forward, his tee clings to his chest in damp patches.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Vargas says, stepping between them. “We’re going to walk through a short kali sequence. We’ll adjust for cinematic later. Understood?”

They both nod. The rest of the stunt team drifts around, evaluating. It feels like a test he’s only half-prepared for, and Henry must feel it too, because he lifts a single brow in a silent, Are you ready?

Alex sets his jaw. “Bring it on.”

The first run-through is slow. Their wooden sticks come together with hollow cracks as they go through each step—high block, cross block, check, disarm. They do it over and over, each time a hair faster.

Then Henry flicks a strike toward his shoulder; Alex meets it with a quick block, then angle sideways to attempt a mild push on his wrist. Henry deflects.

Their steps circle each other. The warehouse’s echo highlights each collision of wood on wood. Henry parries with a neat move that nearly catches him off guard. His gut clenches—close call.

Alex lunges in for a diagonal strike that’s more muscle memory, but Henry manages to duck, and their sticks lock at a crossed angle near their chests. They’re so close that he can see the sheen of sweat on Henry’s forehead, the quickening of his breath.

“Nice,” Henry breathes as they break contact.

Coach Vargas calls out, “Okay, let’s incorporate that disarm.”

Henry leads with a feint toward Alex’s right side. Alex blocks it, then see his opening to slip the left stick under Henry’s arm in an attempt to roll his wrist away. His foot slides behind Henry’s, an attempt to shift his balance. For a split second, it works—he’s off balance, letting Alex angle the stick up toward his forearm.

But Henry recovers faster and twists his body, snapping his free stick under Alex’s elbow, forcing him to release the hold. Another swift movement, and Alex is the one with his arm pinned sideways, forced to drop a stick or risk losing it.

“Fuck,” Alex curses while Henry’s got this half-smile that is between smugness and apology.

They continue the sequence, and each time the choreography shifts, they find a new angle to surprise each other. Alex’s arms burn from repeated locks, his calves protest from swerving.

Master Del Rosario raises a hand. “Stop. Good. That was strong—both of you.”

His lungs gulps for air. Henry’s hair is all over his forehead, and he’s breathing in short bursts too. Coach Vargas points a finger in their direction. “Grab water, then we’ll refine any messy parts.”

Henry stands an arm’s length away, pressing a cold water bottle to the side of his neck. “You nearly had me off guard that second time, you know,” Henry tells him.

Alex wipes the sweat from his brow, gulping down the water. “I tried. You’re too quick.”

He shrugs. “You adapt fast. Next time, maybe you’ll actually disarm me.”

Coach Vargas beckons again, so Henry nods at him and they return to their position. Another hour of sweaty combos, pointers about stage presence, dozens more bruising collisions of sticks on wrists.

When the session’s end, Alex cannot even lift his arms. The second he strips off his protective sleeves, he sees the new growing red marks on his forearms—a scoreboard of how many times Henry’s aim bested him.

Henry notices him wincing. “Need some ice?”

“Probably. If you aim one inch lower next time, I’ll never hold a pen again,” Alex says.

“ Sorry,” Henry says, eyeing him apologetically, but Alex just flings a wry grin his way.

“We have the rest of the day off, don’t we?” he asks.

“Yeah. Tomorrow, too,” Henry says.

“Any plans?”

“Probably sleep.”

Alex’s expression fell slightly. “That’s it?”

A tiny smirk plays at Henry’s lips. “Yes, that’s it.” 

Alex hums in exaggerated disappointment. “What a waste of a perfectly good evening.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be grabbing dinner with a friend. He owns a restaurant here,” Alex says, rolling out his neck.

Henry nods, wiping his cheek with the edge of his towel. “Sounds nice.” Then, with a nod, he slings his gym bag over his shoulder. “Take care, Alex.”

Outside Delicere, Alex stands with his jacket draped over one forearm, staring through the front windows where warm light spills onto the sidewalk. He flexes his shoulders, easing the stiffness from his workout.

Suddenly, the door open, and Rafael Luna appears. His dark, neatly trimmed hair frames a face that instantly brightens when he spots Alex. He’s wearing a snug T-shirt under a well-worn apron, a folded dish towel slung over one shoulder.

“Look who finally made it,” Rafael says, beckoning Alex inside with a quick wave. His grin is broad. “C’mon, man, quit hovering in the cold.”

Alex returns the smile and steps into the lively chatter of the restaurant. The scents of grilled peppers and simmering sauces drifting from somewhere near the back. He shrugs his jacket on properly, the inside still carrying a faint chill from outside.

Rafael pulls him into a quick one-armed hug. “Good to see you, kid. So, how are your parents?”

Alex laughs, recalling that exasperated text from June about their dad’s missing rods. “They’re doing well. Dad’s making the most of his retirement—if you can call it that.”

Rafael shakes his head, smiling proudly. “I remember when your dad was my teacher back in high school, always telling me I could do something bigger than just flipping burgers. He used to say, ‘Hustle with heart, kid—your talent’ll take you places.’ I guess he was right.”

He pats Rafael in the chest and glances around the restaurant—a cozy mix of brick walls, hanging woven lamps, and an open kitchen behind glass.

“And look at this place,” Alex adds, gesturing to a row of tables where diners are laughing over bright platters of food. “Looks like you’re doing pretty damn well.”

Rafael rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Can’t complain. Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

Servers in matching aprons weave between the tables with plates of tacos, and even what looks like a ramen bowl twist on a Mexican soup, sending tantalizing scents swirling through the air.

“This area’s for the regular dinner crowd,” Rafael explains. “We also do tastings in that private corner,” he points to a nook framed by hanging lights and trailing vines. “Sometimes local musicians play there on weekends.”

They reach a secluded table near the back, set with a small vase of fresh flowers and an unrolled set of silverware. “Sit,” Rafael instructs, pulling out a chair. “You look half-dead from the day you’ve had.”

Alex sinks into the seat, massaging the  throbbing in his shoulders. “I’ve been battered by a martial arts coach, but I’ll live.”

Rafael cracks a grin, then disappears into the open kitchen, returning a few minutes later with an array of dishes. He arranges them on the table: one is a plate of chicken enchiladas topped with melted Oaxaca cheese and tomatillo sauce, another is a bowl of roasted cauliflower tossed in spicy peanut sauce with a tangy drizzle, and there’s a side of cilantro lime rice dotted with bright red pepper flakes. A small dish of pickled onions and homemade salsa stands ready at the side.

“Wanted to give you a spread,” Rafael says, settling across from him. “Mostly Mexican-based, but I’ve been playing with flavors from Southeast Asia. Let me know what you think.”

His stomach instantly growl. “I already know I’ll love it,” he says, spooning some of the rice onto his plate. He takes a bite of the enchiladas, warm cheese pulling with each forkful. The tang of the tomatillo sauce hits his tongue, layered with slow-building heat that makes him grin. “Damn, that’s good.”

Rafael leans back, looking pleased. “So, how’s June?”

Alex washes down a bite of cauliflower with a sip of ice-cold water. “She’s in Rome right now. The Vatican Archives, of all places. She somehow got a research pass—she’s chasing leads about a string of murders back in D.C. The Omega case? She’s trying to figure out if there’s a high chance it’s supernatural.”

“I caught something about that in the news, then your dad mentioned it. No new victims lately, right?” Rafael asks.

“None that we know of,” Alex says, setting his fork down.

“You’re out here filming, training late sometimes,” Rafael says, pointing at him with a fork, “be careful, okay? Large cities isn’t exactly the friendliest place once the sun’s down. Don’t stay out too late by yourself.”

Alex gives a good-natured laugh. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ve been learning to throw punches and disarm people with sticks all week. I like to think I can handle myself if it comes to that.”

“I’m serious,” Rafael says sternly, “If trouble shows up, I’m giving you a lift back to your hotel tonight, no arguments.”

“No need. And if some crazed attacker tries anything, I’ve got my brand-new self-defense skills, right?” He flexes an arm that’s honestly still sore, but he tries to look convincing.

Rafael pins him with a look that’s protective. “If that happens, you run. We’re not losing you to some psycho. You might be a hero in your movie, but this is real life.”

Alex exhales, conceding a nod. “All right, all right. If anything sketchy happens, I’ll run for the hills.”

“Good.” Rafael slides a container of fresh salsa closer. “Now eat up. Let me know if you want seconds.”

He diligently spoons more rice and cauliflower onto his plate, savoring the flavors. Half an hour and several stories later, Alex checks the time on his phone. “I should probably head out,” he says, sliding to his feet and shrugging on his jacket. “Tomorrow’s another early call time, and Coach Vargas does not believe in mercy.

“You sure you won’t let me drive you back?” 

“I’m okay. Really. I’ll just catch a taxi—hotel’s only thirty minutes away.”

Rafael frowns, but there’s acceptance in his eyes. “Just text me when you get in, all right?”

“Promise.” Alex taps Rafael’s arm. “Thanks for dinner. It was awesome, as always.”

“Anytime, kid.” Rafael walks him to the front door, giving one last wave as Alex steps outside.

The cab lets him off the entrance, the driver muttering a polite “Have a good night.” Alex thanks him and steps into the lobby. A lone staff member at the front desk offers a nod, and Alex heads straight for the elevators.

He punches his floor number and leans against the mirror-paneled wall. A small ping signals his arrival, and the doors glide open.He passes a handful of rooms until he reaches Henry’s door —a  silver plate reading 1017 . The lights are off inside, and the door is firmly shut. No sound seeps out from under it.

He’s probably sleeping, Alex thinks with disappointment. They barely saw each other after training today. He shrugs it off, pushing forward to his own room a few doors down.

He flicks on the lamp, tosses his jacket over a chair, and sets his keycard on the dresser. He toes off his shoes and checks the time on his phone. 10:20. Too restless to crash immediately, he decides on a quick swim. Might as well do some light laps to ease the tension in his back. He still got forty minutes before the pool closes.

He changes into a pair of swim shorts and slides on some flip-flops, grabbing a towel from the closet. The elevator ride back down is empty, hallways silent. Anyone with sense is either out enjoying the nightlife or asleep.

The pool spreads out in front of him, and the high windows reveal the night cityscape beyond. A row of deck chairs stands off to the side, stacked with clean white towels. The far end has a large potted palm, leaves casting dramatic silhouettes on the wall.

He drapes his towel on a lounger, pulls off his T-shirt, and dips a foot into the shallow end. The water is cool, but it’s refreshing so he slides in, letting the water close around his waist, then pushes off the edge.

The first lap is languid, each stroke loosening stiff muscles in his arms. He’s halfway through a backstroke lap when the lights flicker . It’s brief, just a quick stutter of illumination. Alex stops, treading water in the deep end, gaze darting upward. The overhead bulbs shimmer once more—then hold steady.

“Cheap wiring.” He glances around, noticing that the corridor outside the glass door seems darker now, as though half the hallway lights died.

He’s nearly made it back to the shallow end when he senses movement near the entrance. Someone is standing by the door. A man in a hooded jacket steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He’s average height, the hood shadows his face, but Alex can see the slope of a bald scalp and a pointed chin glinting in the low light.

“Hey,” His voice echoes weirdly off the tiled walls.

The man just stands there, fingertips pressed to the glass door, gaze locked on Alex. The overhead lights flicker again, longer this time, and the water’s reflection flutters across the man’s face. 

Swallowing uneasily, Alex pushes through the water toward the ladder. Something about this dude sets alarm bells ringing. “The pool is about to be closed,” he calls again, “if you’re planning to swim.”

Silence.

He climbs out of the pool, water dripping down his calves. There’s a prickling sensation at the back of his neck—the sense that something is wrong.

The stranger takes two slow steps forward. The flickering lights overhead dim again, casting weird, shifting shadows around them. Alex rubs a droplet from his eyelashes, blinking as if that’ll clarify the man’s features.

“Hey, man,” Alex tries again, “you okay?”

Suddenly, the overhead lighting goes out entirely . Only the underwater pool lights remain, casting an eerie bluish glow that ripples across the walls and ceiling. In that half-light, the man’s face emerges from the hood: sallow skin stretched too tight, eyes sunken and unnervingly wide.

Something primal in him knows this is bad. He takes a step back, water pooling around his feet. With an abrupt snarl , the man lunges forward—so fast. Alex jumps aside, nearly slips on the wet tile, and the man’s hand claws through empty air.

“W-What the hell?!” Alex gasps, lurching sideways to keep distance. He sees the man’s mouth parted—teeth sharpened, gums receding in a gruesome grin. He looks almost rotted, veins dark beneath pale skin.

The man attacks again and Alex manages to throw a punch aimed at the his jaw, but as soon as his knuckles connect, he realizes it’s like hitting stone. Pain radiates up his arm, and he hisses, clutching his bruised fist. It’s not human, something in his mind screams.

He tries to dodge, but the man barrels into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. Water from Alex’s body spatters everywhere. His lungs seize when the man’s bony grip finds purchase on his shoulder.

“Get off!” Alex shouts, jamming an elbow upward with all his might. He hits the man’s ribs, but it feels like smashing into iron. He throws another punch, aiming for the cheek. It connects, and he feels something crunch, but the attacker barely staggers. Instead, there’s a ghastly grin, blackened blood trickling from the mouth and licks it away.

Alex stares in horror at those fangs. The next moment, the vampire clamps a hand around Alex’s neck, forcing him backward. Fear floods his veins, and he gasps, vision spotty from lack of oxygen. He tries to pry the cold fingers loose, but the creature’s grip is unyielding.

The man snarls, Alex chokes on a panicked whimper as he sees the man’s eyes glinting with feral hunger. He seizes Alex’s wrist and slams it to the tile.

He’s going to die. The stranger’s teeth are inches from Alex’s throat now, breath foul, eyes rolling. Just as his strength falters, something wrenches the monster away. The grip on Alex’s throat breaks, and he heaves in precious air.

Disoriented, he scrambles back on all fours, chest burning. He looks up and gawks at Henry who is holding the vampire at bay, shoving it against the wall. The vampire lashes out, but Henry dodges, hooking an arm around the attacker’s neck and twisting.

Then lightning crackles around Henry’s free hand, dancing across his skin with popping noise. The vampire’s eyes wide in apparent fear or rage. And in a split second, Alex sees something terrifying. Henry’s eyes are glowing red, and bears his own set of fangs with a low growl.

Alex covers his mouth in shock, his breath locking in his throat. Henry is…like this too?

The attacker manages a desperate surge, driving Henry sideways. Tiles crack under their feet. Henry recovers with uncanny speed, channeling that electrical energy into the vampire’s torso. The stench of scorched flesh floods Alex’s nose, making him gag.

The vampire screams as Henry’s palm burns a hole on his chest, pouring more electricity in. The overhead lamps flicker frantically, as though they can’t handle the power surge.

The man seizes, convulsing with violent tremors, until finally Henry shoves him away. Alex watches the man collapses near the wall, wisps of dark smoke rising from the scorched clothing.

Henry snaps his head to Alex, his eyes are blue again, but it doesn’t erase what came before. He takes a step forward but Alex flinches away. 

Guilt flashes across Henry’s face in an instant. Shame follows close behind, settling in the tight line of his jaw. “It’s me,” Henry mumbles, gently taking Alex’s wrist and warmth flows outward from his touch. “You’re safe now.”

Alex gulps as he stares at the vampire’s motionless form. He don’t thinks so.

“Hey,” Henry says, his eyes glowing and Alex’s mind starts to become hazy. “you’re going to forget this ever happened. All right?”

He tries to break free but Henry just strengthens his hold.  “You slipped at the edge of the pool,” Henry says, shaping each word carefully. “You fainted. I found you unconscious. You didn’t see anyone else here. You only remember swimming, losing your balance, hitting your head… Then you blacked out.”

Alex blinks heavily, swaying on his feet. He tries to hold onto the reality of what he just witnessed. Henry’s hand steadies him, slowly curling around his nape. “You understand?”

Confusion tangles in his thoughts, but it’s smothered by an inexplicable fatigue that weighs him down. The last thing he registers is Henry’s arm around his shoulders, propping him up, and a soft, “I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Text

Fourteen years ago…

He and June have been staying at their grandfather’s lakehouse for the past two weeks, a summer tradition their Dad insists on about “getting out of the city” and “learning life skills” and “not spending the entire break glued to a screen.”

June hates it. Alex doesn’t mind so much. Grandpa Oliver’s lakehouse is old and sprawling, its wood-paneled walls lined with photographs and shelves cluttered with books. It has a dock that stretches out into the water, an attic filled with things Oliver refuses to throw away, and a dog that follows Alex around like he’s the most interesting person.

That afternoon, Alex explores the woods. He isn’t supposed to go too far behind the house, but he’s been out here before. He knows the way back.

Scout, Oliver’s golden retriever, follows him, his tongue lolling happily as he trots along. Every so often, he stops to sniff at something in the brush, tail wagging, before bounding after Alex again.

He walks through the trees, past the small clearing where he sometimes pretends he’s on a secret mission. He’s about to push farther when Scout suddenly stiffens beside him, ears pricking forward. A low, warning growl rumbles from his throat.

“What?” he whispers, even though it’s not like Scout can answer.

The dog barks again, alert, and Alex follows his gaze to a patch of grass near the base of an old oak tree. He squints, heart picking up speed. There’s something small moving there.

He inches forward, stepping lightly over the ground. Scout stays close, tail lowered, his whole body tense with whatever primal instinct dogs have when they sense something’s off.

Then Alex sees a fox kit curled in on itself, shivering. Its red-brown fur is matted with dirt, its ears flattened, and when it shifts, Alex sees the thin, dark line of dried blood running along its right front leg.

“Oh.”

The kit lifts its head weakly, limping. Alex lowers himself to his knees, moving slowly so he doesn’t startle it. “It’s okay” he murmurs. “I won’t hurt you.”

The fox lets out a weak, breathy growl, lips snarling over tiny, sharp teeth.

Alex holds out a hand. “I’m not gonna—”

The kit snaps at the air between them, a last-ditch warning, and Alex jerks back. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I get it. You don’t trust me.”

Scout barks again, and the kit flinches violently, like it wants to run, but it doesn’t have the strength. He doesn’t know how bad the injury is, or how long it’s been out here, or if its family is even close enough to come looking.

“Scout, stay,” he says, pointing at the ground, and the dog sits, tail wagging slightly but otherwise obedient. Then Alex cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Grandpa! Grandpa Oliver! Can you come here?”

Heavy footsteps crunch through the undergrowth, and Oliver appears through the trees, squinting at Alex like he’s already expecting trouble.

“What’s all the fuss about?”

Alex gestures toward the fox. “Look.”

Oliver’s expression shifts to concern immediately. He kneels, taking in the small, quivering shape in the grass. The kit doesn’t fight him as he reaches out, fingers brushing over its fur.

“Well,” he mutters. “Poor little thing.”

Alex watches, stomach twisting with worry, as Oliver gently lifts the kit, supporting its injured leg as he cradles it against his chest. The fox whimpers but doesn’t resist.

“Can we—” He doesn’t even know how to ask.

Oliver glances at him. “We’ll take care of him for now.”

June is on the sofa, watching Parent Trap, but she jumps to her feet the moment she sees Oliver carrying the little fox. “What is that?”

They gather in the living room. Oliver sets the kit down on a towel, assessing the wound. The scratch isn’t too deep, but it’s enough to explain why the little creature looks so miserable. With a first-aid kit and some warm water, Oliver cleans the area, calmly explaining to both Alex and June how he’s checking for signs of infection.

The kit whimpers a little but doesn’t try to bite again. Alex hovers at the edge of the couch, anxious. “Grandpa, do you think we can keep him? Just for a while?”

Oliver shakes his head, a soft, regretful smile carving lines into his cheeks. “He’s not ours to keep, bud. We’ll tend him, but the right thing to do is help him find his way back home.”

“Okay,” Alex says weakly.

For the rest of the day, Alex takes care of the kit like it is his. He sits beside his grandfather as they bandage the little leg and make sure it’s nothing worse than a bad sprain. He lets the fox curl up next to him on the porch, feeding it bits of chicken from dinner.

When his grandfather finally declares it time for bed, Alex even sets up a little spot in his room, complete with a spare pillow and a small dish of water. By nightfall, the fox is curled up in a ball on his bed, dozing uneasily. He calms it with a few pats behind one ear.

The morning arrives and Alex wakes up with a start. He’s alone.

Panic spikes through him.

He scrambles out of bed, scanning the little nest of blankets he’d fashioned. Nothing. The towel is rumpled, the water dish empty. He rushes into the living room—no fox in sight. Checks the kitchen—just June sipping mango juice.

Finally, he throws open the front door but there’s no sign of the kit anywhere on the porch, or out in the yard, or at the treeline near the lake.

The fox is gone.

He just stands there, barefoot on the porch, staring out at the woods. Maybe if he waits long enough, the kit will come trotting back out. But he knows that it won’t.

Still, he hopes.

Alex tried to reconstruct the events that led him to waking up like this. He remembers dinner with Rafa, heading back to the hotel, deciding on a quick swim. Then… nothing. Just a big, frustrating blank space where his memories should be.

A knock rattles the door, and before he can do anything about it, Zahra’s voice comes through,

“Alex? I’m coming in.”

All that comes out is a half-formed, groggy, “Huh?”

Zahra strides in with the energy of someone who has just spent several hours restraining themselves from committing murder. “I almost had a heart attack,” she almost shouts, closing the door with her heels. “Do you have any idea how freaked out I was when Henry called to tell me he found you unconscious in the pool?”

Alex winces, pushing himself up onto one elbow. His head throbs painfully. “I—I was unconscious?”

Zahra fixes him with a look like he’s just asked if water is wet. “Yes, Alex. You fainted. In a pool. While alone. Do you see why that might be concerning?”

“I don’t even remember that,” he admits. “I thought I was just tired, but—”

He moves to sit up properly and—oh. That’s new. His hand is wrapped in an elastic bandage, his knuckles stiff and sore in a way that suggests something more dramatic than just resting weirdly in his sleep. He lifts it, frowning. “Did I hurt my hand?”

“The on-call medic thinks you must’ve banged it against the side of the pool.”

Alex exhales slowly, looking down at the bandage. “Lucky.”

“If you start feeling weird—headaches, dizziness, anything—tell me immediately. I don’t care how stubborn you think you are. I will physically drag you to the ER if I have to.”

He musters up a sheepish smile. “I’m okay now. Thanks, Zahra.”

She eyes him, clearly not believing him, then gestures toward the nightstand. “Water bottle. Extra-strength Tylenol. Take both.”

“Okay,” Alex interrupts, propping himself up a little more.

“Alright. I’ll check on you in an hour. And Alex?”

He looks up.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says with a warning gaze before heading outside. “Or you’ll be benching your own career.”

He lets out a tired lopsided grin. “Got it.”

There’s a vague sense of shame coiling in his and it has something to do with the fact that Henry apparently saved his unconscious, waterlogged self. Not exactly his finest moment.

He follows Zahra’s instructions, popping two of the pills and downing most of the water bottle in three large gulps. The rest can probably be fixed with coffee.

He peels back the duvet and trudges to the bathroom, where he splashes cold water on his face and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like the losing side of a bar fight—pale, dark circles under his eyes.

A quick shower feels like an act of mercy. By the time he’s dressed, he’s feeling a little more human, albeit a battered version of one.

Downstairs, the hotel’s lobby café is doing brisk business. People in suits, people in sweats, a parade of travelers passing through on their way to flights or meetings or early check-outs. Alex picks out a chocolate croissant, and orders a double espresso.

He settles at a small table in the corner, halfheartedly scrolling through emails on his phone. There’s relief when he notes no fresh headlines screaming about his fiasco—yet. That’s probably a small miracle courtesy of Zahra’s damage control.

When the croissant is reduced to crumbs and the espresso has done at least something to jump-start his brain, Alex stands, stretches, and heads toward the main lobby, already planning how to salvage the rest of the day.

That’s when he spots Henry  by the glass doors with Shaan just beside him, juggling two phones and a Burberry bag that belong to Henry.

“Henry! Hey!” Alex calls out, waving both of his arms as he jogs towards Henry.

“Alex. You’re… up.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, his fingers itch at the memory of his near-swim-disaster. “Thanks, by the way. For… you know. Not letting me die in the deep end.”

“No need to be so dramatic. You were breathing. Mostly. I just made sure you didn’t end up drowning for real.”

“Which I appreciate,” Alex replies, trying not to cringe at how awkward it sounds. He clears his throat, glancing at Shaan. “Morning, Shaan.”

Shaan greets him with a polite nod, adjusting the Burberry bag. “Good to see you’re feeling better.”

Alex notices the small carry-on at Henry’s feet and the way Shaan is obviously ready to escort him off somewhere. “Are you… leaving?”

“I’ve got a flight out this morning  back to London.”

“Already?” Alex blurts, unable to hide his surprise. Part of him was expecting Henry to be around for more trainings though he’s not sure if that’s just wishful thinking or some half-remembered plan.

“Well, safe flight,” he finally says, feeling a burst of self-consciousness. “I, uh… guess I’ll see you around once the shoots start?”

Henry’s polite smile holds a note Alex can’t decipher. “I expect so.”

Shaan casts Henry a quick glance, then addresses Alex with courtesy. “We should head out soon to beat traffic, or we risk missing check-in.”

“Of course.” Henry takes a small step toward Alex. “I am glad you’re all right. Take care,” he says then collects his coat from Shaan’s outstretched hand and turns to head for the exit.

“Bye,” Alex murmurs, watching Henry’s figure disappear.

Henry settles into the wide leather seat of the first-class cabin, letting his shoulders sink back as the plane begins its taxi toward the runway.

“I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

The first time Henry heard that introduction, Alex had walked into the audition room all kinetic energy and confidence, dimples flashing like he was already in the middle of a conversation with the entire panel.

Henry had to actively stop himself from staring.

He can’t be… could he? The boy from the lake house.

After all, there must be thousands of curly-haired American men in the world. But now—Henry is sure that Alex is that boy. The difference is that he’s taller now, broader in the shoulders, more sure of himself. But so much of him remains the same.

“We were lucky,” Shaan says. “That newly turned vampire could have done so much more damage if we hadn’t intervened.”

The memory of the attack still rattling around in his brain. It’s not the first time he’s faced a rogue vampire, but it’s the first time one nearly killed someone he cares about. If he’s being honest with himself, seeing Alex like that triggered a panic he’s never felt before.

“You need to be more careful,” Shaan continues, adjusting the collar of his suit jacket. “Both for yours and Alex’s sake. If your grandmother find out you’re still meddling with human affairs—”

He’s well aware of the ramifications.

The Hanover-Stuarts keep their secrets under lock and key, and the moment Henry risks exposing it—especially for a human —there will be consequences.

His  grandparents were purebloods. As his grandmother never fails to remind him: a line stretching back to an era when templar knights, gained a mutated blood that granted them nearly endless life… at a cost. 

Their family line carried this inheritance forward across centuries, often passing for normal aristocracy in modern Europe. His mother was always expected to marry another pureblood. Instead, she fell in love with his father after seeing him perform in a West End play.

Catherine had loved Arthur enough to walk away from the pureblood traditions, to withstand the ridicule of her own family. She never turned him, never took away his humanity out respect for his choice. And in the end, she had to watch as illness stole him from her, piece by piece.

Henry remembers the way she had folded into herself after his father passed, the way his mother had never returned in the same way.

She still wears her wedding ring.

And Henry—out of all three of their children—was the only one who had inherited his father’s humanity in ways that his family found, disappointing.

Philip had fangs by six, shifting effortlessly into an eagle before he had even learned to ride a bike. Beatrice was five when her abilities first surfaced, shifting into a silver fox and can control illusions. But at ten years old, Henry still had no abilities like his siblings. No shapeshifting. No powers.

Philip taunted him for it, claiming he wasn’t a true member of the family. Their grandmother agreed, she found his inherited humanity contemptible.

However, that summer, everything changed.

His father was shooting a film in Texas. Their whole family had come along because his mother hated to be apart from his father for too long. They stayed in a secluded rental not far from where the production was filming in Austin.

After hearing yet another jab from Philip about how he was “just a puny mortal,” Henry decided to prove otherwise.

He stomped out to the backyard, Philip had swooped overhead as an eagle (a show-off, as always), screeching in a way that made Henry bristle with jealousy.

Beatrice was reading in the shade and only rolled her eyes at the sibling rivalry. Henry focused with every ounce of concentration he possessed, trying to call upon that dormant part of himself that must exist.

It happened in a painful, jerky instant—he felt his bones shift and ended up as a scrawny fox. Small, red-brown fur, bushy tail.

Philip spotted his unimpressive transformation and flew off, cackling as eagles do. Furious and flustered, Henry tried to run after him, but the undergrowth was thick and tangled—he couldn’t keep up, and soon he realized he didn’t even know which direction home was.

Panicking, he tore through the brush, hoping to find a road or a marker. That was when the mountain lion struck.

He’s exhausted from a fresh shape shift and so the mountain lion easily pinned him down. Fighting back with his small fox teeth got him raked by a sharp claw across his leg. He yelped, wriggling free in a frenzied burst of adrenaline. Half-hobbling, half-sprinting, he fled blindly until he reached the edge of a lake. By some miracle, the cougar gave up the chase.

Bleeding and shaken, Henry limped through the tree line, eventually collapsing near an old oak. That’s where a boy found him—messy dark curls, sun-browned cheeks, melted chocolate eyes.

Henry had never seen a human child so gentle or worried. He’s going to hurt me , Henry thought initially.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

The entire day, that boy fussed over him, offering water, letting him curl up on a spare blanket in a bedroom. He meant to slip away earlier, but it was so comforting—like he’d found a safe place in that lake house.

Fourteen years later they met again. And just last night, Henry found himself stepping into the pool area after sensing a turned vampire—some poor soul who had survived the infection but was now enslaved by its hunger.

Henry’s hand clench around the armrest. He used a measure of power he typically keeps locked down. Alex’s eyes were brimming with confusion and terror, though Henry had no choice but to kill the rampaging vampire before it ripped Alex’s throat out.

“It’s sorted,” Shaan says, regarding the incident at the pool. “I spoke to our contacts, and they’ve taken care of the remains.”

“Thanks.”

“Henry.” Shaan’s tone is sympathetic. “Your mother let you chase your dreams because she believed you deserved a chance to live freely. But you know how this path usually ends.”

Clouds drift past, an endless expanse of white against the brilliant blue.  “I know I can’t do this forever,” he murmurs.

Shaan’s gaze flickers. 

“This entire façade. Everyone around me will age, while I age slower. Give or take a few decades. Eventually, it’ll raise questions.”

A charged silence fills the space around them. Other passengers remain oblivious, headphones on or browsing their phones. He knows the time will come when he can’t stay in the spotlight. He’ll have to fake a retirement, vanish for a while—like so many in his bloodline have done over the centuries.

If that day comes, wiping away a single terrible night won’t be enough—he might have to erase every memory Alex has of him.

Possibly even the fox that once limped into that lake house, so many summers ago.

Chapter Text

It’s half-past nine when Henry arrives in Arundel Castle. All around, other cars glide up, delivering men and women dressed in eighteenth-century finery. Footmen in powdered wigs bow, waiting to escort the guests through the massive wooden doors into the castle’s foyer.

This is the annual Spring Assembly for Europe’s pureblood vampire aristocracy—a centuries-old tradition, hosted by noble human and vampire families. The past Dukes of Norfolk having lent their ancestral home to these gatherings for almost two hundred years.

No one would suspect that maybe one percent of Europe’s population are vampires, most living inconspicuously among humans. But that tiny fraction includes many of the continent’s oldest, wealthiest families.

They own banks, shipping lines, vast stretches of farmland, or investment consortiums that shape entire economies. Over the centuries, their ties to certain political leaders have solidified.

Prime ministers and presidents come seeking patronage, discreetly, to secure financial backing or an influential push in private negotiations. In return, those officials turn a blind eye to certain… peculiarities.

He adjusts the ornate gold buttons on his embroidered Georgian-style coat, the lush velvet collar brushing his neck. The entire evening’s theme—“Georgian Soirée”—has been dictated by the elders, vampires well over five centuries old, who romanticize an era they actually lived through.

Classical music swells from a string quartet in the reception hall. Pale-faced guests wearing powdered wigs and trailing brocade skirts mingle, giving gracious nods of acknowledgement as Henry passes.

He returns them with fleeting smiles. Beatrice falls into step beside him, seizing his arm. She’s stunning in a sky-blue gown with a fitted bodice and bejeweled stomacher.

“You’re late,” she mutters through a tight smile, mindful of the nearby guests. “Everyone’s out in the gardens.”

He gestures to his velvet coat. “Must we always indulge this?”

Beatrice’s mouth twitches in a dry smirk. “You know how they are. Next year, they might choose Victorian. Don’t give them reason to pick the Tudors again; I still have nightmares about that ruff collar.”

Footmen in white stockings and buckled shoes open tall glass doors, allowing Henry and Beatrice to step onto a stone terrace. The night sky drapes over the hedges, and the melody of a waltz carries on the breeze. 

Everywhere, small clusters of vampires—and a handful of mortal dignitaries—chat politely. The Duke of Norfolk himself, a man in his sixties, stands by a marble fountain speaking with none other than Philip and Martha.

When Philip notices Henry and Beatrice, he lifts a hand, beckoning them closer. He’s wearing a tailored tailcoat with elaborate gold threading—an outfit he seems to relish, likely because it sets off his aristocratic bearing. Martha stands with her gloved hands folded at her waist.

“Henry,” Philip greets, smiling through perfectly even teeth. “Decided to grace us at last?”

Martha dips her head. “We were worried you wouldn’t bother showing up. You’ve been filming so much.”

“Duty calls,” Henry murmurs, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone. “And who could refuse dressing up like we’re about to waltz with Marie Antoinette?”

The Duke of Norfolk catches Henry’s eye and shake Henry’s hand. “Welcome. Always an honor to host your family here.”

Henry inclines his head in return. “Thank you for receiving us, Your Grace. Arundel looks splendid as ever.”

“The castle staff have been preparing for weeks, I assure you.” The Duke says with profound pride. “Please, enjoy the night. We have a quadrille on the schedule soon.”

Philip lingers to chat more with the Duke, so Henry and Beatrice continue, wending their way around the perimeter. The path leads them toward a rose arbor ringed by lanterns. He spots his grandmother with powdered hair arranged in an upswept style, jewels glittering at her throat.

Next to Countess Mary stands King Charles III, resplendent in a classic black tuxedo with subtle medals pinned to the lapel. He’s conversing in hushed tones with an older vampire baron Henry recognizes from Bavaria. As soon as they approach, Charles breaks off and turns, face brightening with recognition.

“Ah, my dear Beatrice—and Henry!” King Charles says. “It’s been some time, indeed.”

Mary gives her glass of burgundy to an attendant, her lips curve in a cultured smile. “Your Majesty, may I present my grandchildren.”

Charles offers Beatrice a gracious nod, then returns his gaze to Henry. “I hear you’ve been quite busy, my boy, starring in all sorts of pictures. Your grandmother mentioned you’ve gained quite a following.”

“That’s correct, Your Majesty. Work’s been full-on for months now.”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve actually seen one of your recent films—quite enjoyable,” Charles comments.

“Henry is committed to his chosen career,” his grandmother says, her voice perfectly modulated. “We only hope it doesn’t distract him from his obligations to the family.”

“He seems to be balancing both well enough, Lady Mary.” A gentle smile crosses King Charles’ features before he glances at Henry again. “But yes, do remember, dear boy: your family’s legacy is quite significant.”

The monarchy has known his family since the late 1500s, when Henry’s ancestor secretly funded the English war effort against Spain between 1585 and 1604. In return, the monarchy extended certain protections and privileges to his family.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Henry says. “I appreciate your confidence.”

King Charles nods, then notices another human diplomat hovering nearby, clearly wanting to speak to him. With a genial wave, the King excuses himself. Mary remains, regarding Henry with a cool lift of her chin.

“I trust you’ll remember the conversation we had.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Good. I won’t have our family’s name entangled in scandal.”

He can practically feel her dismissal, so he bows and withdraws, Beatrice following at his side. Once out of immediate earshot, he breathes out. The swirl of violin music and distant chatter seems louder now, filling the space left by his grandmother’s pointed criticisms.

“That went well, all things considered,” Beatrice says dryly. She loops her arm through his, guiding them farther down a gravel path. “She said fewer than ten words about your acting. A new record.”

Henry laughs that lacks real humor. “Hooray for small mercies.”

A passing waiter in knee breeches and a carefully coiffed wig offers them both tall flutes of champagne. Henry takes one with a murmured word of thanks. The crisp bubbles pop against his tongue.

Clusters of vampires continue mingling—some talk business deals that might span decades, others discuss politics. Henry even catches the words “financial crisis” mentioned in passing, as if some of these ancient families are orchestrating global markets from behind the scenes.

“So,” Beatrice says, pressing a gentle hand to his forearm, “are you going to last the night, or do I need to start spinning excuses for your early exit?”

Henry casts a sidelong glance at a group of older vampires gliding past, their fans fluttering in time to the string quartet’s waltz. “I’ll manage,” he replies, sipping his champagne. “I’ve endured worse social minefields.”

Beatrice’s lips quirk in a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps, but this is a particularly thorny one.” She steers away from  guests who keep casting curious glances. “Well, at least your name’s out there in a positive light. People admire you.”

“ Humans do, perhaps. Here, in this crowd? My name’s little more than a novelty.”

Beatrice adjusts the lace along her wrist, then looks at him with quiet intent. “Alex—he’s part of your film, yes?”

The mention of that name momentarily stealing his breath. He tries to smooth his expression. “He’s… yes. My co-star.”

She notes his hesitation. “Is it still as odd, after all these years? Seeing him again?”

Henry can’t meet her gaze. He glances over at a cluster of ladies in pastel gowns, giggling behind fans, probably gossiping about who wore the better petticoats. “Bea, that was a lifetime ago. We were children.”

“Children, sure, but you never really forgot.” She quirks a brow in that knowing way.

He attempts a dismissive shrug but Beatrice persists. “Henry, you’ve had to hide your real nature for so long. And from what you told me, Alex almost—” She sighs. . “All right. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Bea, do me a favor? Cover for me if Grandmother or Philip goes looking. I need a break.”

“Of course. Tell them you stepped out to make a phone call or something.”

He bows to her in a flourish. “You are infinitely kind.”

A pair of footmen nearly collide with him in their hurry to deliver more wine to the guests. He sidesteps them, stepping into a quieter side walkway. At the corner, near an arrangement of topiaries shaped like chess pieces, he overhears a voice.

“Oh, but you should’ve seen the look on her face when I told her those pearls were far too gaudy. She refused to believe me. Then again,” the speaker drawls, “Marie Antoinette rarely believed anyone but her own whimsy. I warned her about her spending once—she actually laughed .”

It’s the Countess of Navarre, an elder pureblood known for being just shy of six hundred. She regales two wide-eyed younger vampires with scandalous tales from centuries past.

“Could’ve told her it would end badly, but would she listen?” She laughs, a brittle sound.

He skirts around them, hoping not to be drawn into the conversation, already striding for the side exit. A black Aston Martin car idles near the portico, the engine quietly purring. Through the windshield, Henry sees Shaan in the driver’s seat.

Shaan looks up as Henry approaches, immediately stepping out to open the rear door. “Finished for the evening?”

Henry sighs and slips off his velvet tailcoat. “Completely finished, thank you.”

Shaan folds the coat neatly over his arm. “Your mother asked me to remind you she’s in Valencia at the moment, helping oversee the bank’s new Spain branch. She wondered if you’d fly in for next week’s shareholders’ dinner.”

Henry eases into the car. “Ah, yes. That. I suppose I’ll have to make an appearance.” He glances up at Shaan. “But not yet. One overbearing function per night is enough.”

The car glides away from Arundel Castle, heading out onto the dark roads. It’s just over an hour’s journey to Highgrove House, Henry’s family residence in Gloucestershire. The estate used to belong to minor English nobility who fell on hard times around the turn of the nineteenth century.

By then, his family had been expanding their holdings—discreetly buying up farmland and grand houses that could provide refuge and cover. Highgrove was purchased under a subsidiary name and passed down the family line.

Philip and Martha prefer their apartment in Kensington, with quick access to London’s social circuit and corporate headquarters. Beatrice keeps a stylish flat in Mayfair, near her office. But Henry, whenever he’s in the UK, tends to retreat to Highgrove. It was, after all, his childhood home.

They arrive at the tall wrought-iron gates, which open smoothly at the security guard’s nod. Beyond lies the main house: a handsome Georgian structure draped in creeping vines, its stone façade bathed in soft uplighting.

Shaan brings the car to a gentle halt in the circular drive. A small fountain gurgles in the center, and carefully tended hedges line the walkway to the front door. As soon as Henry steps out, the door to the house opens, revealing a maid in a neat black-and-white uniform. At her side is David, whose tail starts wagging furiously the instant he spots Henry.

Henry crouches and greets the beagle with a fond scratch behind the ears. “Hello, old boy,” he murmurs. David sniffs Henry’s shoes, apparently satisfied, then nuzzles up to him for a proper pat. “Missed you too.”

The maid curtsies. “Welcome home, Sir. Your luggage will be brought in directly.” Indeed, two attendants appear behind her, ready to cart Henry’s bags inside.

He straightens, David at his heels, and crosses the threshold into the entry hall. Shaan follows him in, phone in hand. “You have your scheduled checkup with Doctor Okonjo tomorrow afternoon. I believe it’s at two o’clock.”

“Yes, Pez has already reminded me three times today,” he says. “I won’t forget.”

Shaan nods crisply and half-turns as if about to depart, but Henry calls after him. “Shaan.”

“Yes?”

“About the incident. I’m sorry I dropped you into a mess, cleaning up the remains, doing damage control.”

“It’s my duty—and my family’s honor—to serve you and yours, sir,” Shaan says gently.

Henry gives a grateful nod. “Thank you. Truly.”

“I’ll leave you for the night, then. Please don’t hesitate if you need anything else.” Shaan steps out into the corridor, footsteps soon fading.

A large tub waits in the adjoining bathroom—already filled with steaming water thanks to a thoughtful attendant. Henry shrugs off the rest of his clothes.

The heated water quickly embracing his sore muscles. For a while, he simply floats, eyes half-lidded. The day’s tension dissolves, and he can feel himself drifting toward sleep. A little voice warns him Don’t doze off, but the warmth is overwhelming, and soon his chin nearly dips under.

He jolts awake and decides that’s enough, pressing the lever to drain the tub. Steam curls around him as he steps out, grabbing a plush towel to dry off. The bathroom mirror is fogged, leaving him only a misty outline of his reflection.

He’s never understood where the myth started—this idea that vampires don’t have reflections. It’s not that they reflect nothing; it’s that they reflects differently. The light fails to pin them down the way it should.

It used to bother him in his teens, when he was still figuring himself out—how much of his vampiric traits were real, how much of them could be hidden—he avoided mirrors entirely. The delay was worse back then. It made him feel like a glitch in his own skin.

Years of training taught him how to work around it. On set, he knows his angles. Fast, fluid motions make the effect stronger, so he’s trained himself to move with every gesture deliberate. His team has noticed how he’s unnervingly good at making sure his movements translate perfectly to the camera, how his face always lands exactly where the frame needs it.

They think it’s just actor’s instinct.

He wraps himself in a black terry-cloth robe, cinching it at the waist, then pads into his walk-in closet. A tall brass coat rack stands in one corner, Henry heads toward a series of drawer-front cupboards near the far end and grabs a dark-blue top and matching drawstring trousers.

As he slides open a drawer, something small tumbles from the shelf above—an old blanket, pale blue with the letter A neatly embroidered at one corner.

He crouches, picking it up from the floor, running a thumb over the stitching. Before he can linger too long, his phone vibrates on top of a small circular wooden cabinet in the middle of the closet.

He crosses the room and taps the screen: an unknown number appears in bright text.

Hi, it’s Alex.

I hope you saved my number?

Setting the blanket on the round cabinet, he shrugs on the pajama shirt and steps over to the leather settee near the far wall.

His finger hovers, hesitant, until his phone buzzes again.

Sorry, did I catch you at a weird time?

I can text later if you’re busy or, like, asleep?

He quickly saves the contact to his phone— Alex —and then taps out a reply.

Not asleep. Just finished a bath.

Your timing is fine.

Mind telling me how you managed to unearth my number?

Blame my agent. Zahra has a magical network of contacts.

She said it’d be good if we could keep in touch for “professional reasons.”

She basically blackmailed your agent’s assistant into giving it up.

I suppose I should be glad she only threatened my poor assistant verbally.

Yup. I assured her that physical violence was off the table. So you’re safe.

Henry shakes his head, exhaling a laugh. He stretches his legs out, crossing one ankle over the other.

I appreciate the non-violent approach.

So how have you been?

Kinda crazy with my classes. But, you know, still upright and breathing, so 👍

Good to know you haven’t been completely run into the ground. I can’t imagine trying to juggle a degree on top of memorizing lines.

How about you?

I made an appearance at a family gathering. Some of it was entertaining. Some not so much.

If it’s anything like my family gatherings, you’ve got my sympathy. Also, sorry for randomly texting you.
I just remembered we never exchanged numbers properly, and I guess I wanted to say hi.
And maybe thanks again, for helping me out.

You don’t owe me thanks. But I do appreciate you reaching out.

Then I won’t keep you.
Talk soon, Henry!

Henry wakes to the echo of birdsong drifting through the windows of Highgrove House. The morning sun casts narrow beams on the polished wooden floor, and David’s tail thumps happily against the bedroom door. After another half hour of drifting in and out of dozing, he finally rouses himself, aware that he has an appointment to keep.

A glance at the clock on his bedside table tells him he has plenty of time before Pez is due to arrive, so he descends the sweeping staircase to the breakfast room.

A housekeeper offers coffee, which Henry accepts with a smile. Shortly after nine, the doorbell rings, and Pez saunters into the drawing room, stethoscope dangling around his neck.

Pez raises both eyebrows. “All right, let’s do this.”

Henry smirks, motioning for Pez to follow him into a smaller sitting room just off the main hall, more private. A tall window overlooks manicured lawns. It’s bright and full of morning light—one of the many perks of being half human rather than pureblood. They have none of the severe sunlight aversions that affect some vampires.

That said, the trade-off is not being fully accepted in the aristocratic vampire world—something Henry and Pez have bonded over since their days at Eton where they shared a dorm room for three years. Both of them were half vampires in a social environment that worshipped pureblood heritage.

They come to a stop near a wide settee, where the house staff have laid out water and fresh fruit. Henry settles into a sofa, unbuttoning the top of his shirt so Pez can place a stethoscope on his chest.

“Any headaches? Fatigue? Muscle cramps?”

“Not particularly,” he says. “A bit worn out from traveling. And I was at a family event last night, so that never helps.”

Pez presses the diaphragm gently against Henry’s skin. “Heart rate’s steady. You look better than you did last month.”

“Always reassuring.” He glances aside, noticing how the sunlight makes dust motes swirl near a bookshelf.

They continue the routine check. Henry’s half human, so unlike a pureblood, he doesn’t need daily or even weekly blood intake, but he still requires a monthly supply to keep certain physiological needs in balance—particularly iron levels and some mutated proteins that his half-vampire body can’t fully generate on its own.

If he neglects it for too long, fatigue sets in, followed by migraines and, in the worst cases, dangerous collapses.

Pez secures a small cooler from his bag and hands it over. “Here’s the supply. Enough for the next month.”

Henry takes the cooler. “Thanks,” he says, pressing the lid closed.

“Remember Eton? Some of those purebloods gave us flak for not needing to feed every day.”

“They thought we weren’t ‘committed’ to the cause or something. As though we had any control over our genetics.”

His phone in his pocket trembles with an incoming text. Henry hesitates, but curiosity gets the better of him and he retrieves it.

My class got cancelled so I’m free!

Pez strips off his gloves, tossing them into a small waste bag.“You look suspiciously cheerful, though.”

“I’m just in a decent mood. We wrapped that big family function last night, so that’s behind me.”

Pez narrows his eyes, following Henry’s sidelong look to the phone. “And who, pray tell, is texting you that’s got you biting back a grin?”

“No one.”

“Uh-huh.” Pez’s knowing smirk intensifies. “But your face says otherwise.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “It’s—well, Alex , if you must know.”

“The same Alex who found you all those years ago in that lake house in Texas?”

“One and the same.”

“So now that you’ve run into him again—” Pez begins, waggling his eyebrows. “—maybe you can finally return that blanket of his?”

“I don’t have it anymore,” he quickly protests.

“No?” Pez’s tone is pure teasing. “You sure about that? Because I recall our first night at Eton, you threw a tantrum at one in the morning—about the maids forgetting your precious blankie. ‘Mummy, how can I possibly sleep without it?’”

Henry scowls. “Keep your voice down,” he mutters, darting a glance at the closed door. “Unless you want your entire hospital to have a sudden power outage.”

Pez barks out a laugh, hands lifted in surrender. “Easy, mate. I’m done.”

“It was one night,” Henry mutters defensively. “And I was thirteen, new to boarding school. Give me a break.”

“ Of course, ” Pez says, grinning shamelessly. “So, tell me more about Alex. How is it seeing him now, after all this time?”

“He’s…” Henry hesitates, searching for words that feel true without revealing too much. “He’s grown up, obviously. Confident, ambitious, maybe a bit brash—but in a way that’s refreshing. We’re not close, exactly, but… there’s a familiarity there. He’s different from the rest of my colleagues. More noisy.”

“And does that worry you?”

“Yes and no. I’m cautious about letting anyone new in, especially when they might poke around in my life. Normally, I wouldn’t even share my personal number with co-stars. If it had been a different situation, I’d have had Shaan fire the agent’s assistant for leaking my contact info.”

“But you’re not doing that now,” Pez points out. “Because you like him.”

“Not like that,” Henry huffs. “I just mean… he’s easy to talk to, about normal things. He doesn’t treat me like—”

“a ‘disgraceful halfbreed’ that purebloods whisper about behind closed doors,” Pez finished.

Henry’s expression clouds and Pez must sense his mood shift because he pats Henry’s shoulder. “I’ve got to head to the clinic soon. Text me if you feel any side effects from the new supplement batch.”

“Will do,” Henry says. “Thank you again.”

He should expect that Pez can’t resist a parting jab. “Don’t forget to offer that blanket back. I’m sure Alex wants to know where it’s gone.”

“Out,” Henry half-yells with annoyance.

Pez chuckles, throwing a wave. “Bye, mate.”

He watches Pez leave, and finds himself alone in the sitting room. He sets the small cooler of blood supplies on a side table, eyes drifting to where his phone lies next to a half-finished glass of water.

A sigh escapes him. You should keep your distance, a voice in his mind tells him.

He knows that. It would be safer. Smarter.

Instead, he picks up his phone.

Lucky you. What happened?

Professor got the flu.
Damn, you actually texted back.
Thought I’d have to wait three to five business days for you to respond.

I am quite capable of basic human interaction.

I’ve seen you in interviews.
You look like you’re five seconds away from bolting at all times.

I am contractually obligated not to bolt.

You free later?

There’s no logical reason for his pulse to spike at such a simple question.

That depends. Why?

Just thought maybe we could actually talk.
Like normal people who are going to spend the next few months working together.

Talking is what we’re doing right now.

Yeah, but really talking. Voice, not thumbs.

He should tell Alex he’s busy.

And yet.

I should be free after ten.

Cool! I’ll call you then.

Henry stares at the screen, wondering what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

Alex stares at the clock on his phone and wonders if it’s ridiculous to feel nervous over a simple call. The digit glow 9:58 p.m. , and he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pillow hugged tight against his chest. His room is cluttered with textbooks, takeout containers, and a hamper overflowing with laundry he keeps promising himself he’ll do tomorrow .

He knows he’s not doing anything illicit. He and Henry are supposed to talk for completely professional reasons, right? Still, his heart thrums like he’s about to break the news to a date’s parents. It’s absurd.

He opens the  lamp by his bed, tries to stretch the wrinkles in his T-shirt, then snorts at himself. Why am I trying to look good for a phone call? Henry can’t even see him.

But the thing is—Henry’s not like anyone else in his orbit.  There’s still that memory of Henry at the audition, eyes so distant it felt like a snub. It annoyed Alex, but it also made him want to figure Henry out.

9:59 p.m.  

“C’mon, c’mon…”

When 10:00 finally ticks over, his phone buzzes. He jabs the green icon and lifts the phone to his ear, clearing his throat like he’s about to present in front of a class.

“Hey.”

Henry’s accent comes through. “Hello, Alex.”

A tiny swirl of excitement lights up Alex’s stomach. Fuck it. “You actually called. Guess you’re not as allergic to human interaction as the press claims.”

“It’s possible the press exaggerates.”

Alex grins, hugging the pillow closer. “How’s life across? I’m picturing you in a literal castle.”

“ Technically , it’s a manor house,” Henry corrects, but he sounds wry.

He hears a muffled bark in the background, and Alex’s grin widens. “Is that David?”

“Yes. He’s apparently decided my attention belongs to him, not my phone.”

“Man, I’m jealous. My parents refuse to get a dog at the shop. They say we can’t afford the liability if the dog chews a tire or something.”

That earns a genuine laugh from Henry. He chides himself to focus on the conversation rather than the weird flutter in his chest.

“So, do you have, like, five personal attendants who feed you grapes and brush your hair?” he teases. “Is that standard for movie stars?”

Henry hesitates just long enough for Alex to realize he might not be joking. “Uh… well, the staff here isn’t that large,” Henry says slowly. “But there are people around.”

“Got it.” He expects Henry to withdraw, but the Alpha surprises him.

“What about you? Is your day as frenetic as usual?”

“Yep, standard me. Classes, part-time job at my parents’ auto shop, plus I’m memorizing lines for the next script read-through. I don’t think I can keep living on four hours of sleep, though. It’s unsustainable.”

“Try to take care of yourself. Our schedule will only get more demanding once production starts.”

He knows Henry’s just being practical, but his the concern makes Alex’s chest squeeze. “I am taking  care of myself—uh, mostly. I even ate a vegetable today.”

“Impressive,” Henry deadpans.

“So—” Alex says, biting the side of his lip. “—if we’re gonna be co-stars, I figure we should learn each other’s quirks. Like, do you have any weird habits? Pet peeves?”

There’s a reluctant shuffle on Henry’s end, as if he’s shifting in his seat. “I detest loud chewing. Especially in quiet rooms. It’s maddening.”

“Oh God, I get it. My sister used to eat cereal, and holy crap , I wanted to fling her bowl.”

That earns another soft laugh. “All right, your turn.”

Alex rolls the pillow under his head. “I guess I have this habit of spinning pens—like a little drumstick—when I’m anxious. Drove my high school teachers insane.”

“I can picture that.”

He feels that impulse to rush forward, to really know Henry. But he senses Henry’s caution, like a glass wall between them. He wants to smash right through it, but he also doesn’t want Henry to hang up. So he tamps down the urge.

“Anyway,” he says, “I don’t want to keep you if you’re tired. It’s gotta be crazy-late for you.”

“It’s not too late. I—don’t mind talking.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’d like.”

“Cool. Then… tell me something random. Something I wouldn’t know from reading your wiki page.”

Henry is quiet for a second. “I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in under thirty seconds.”

“ No way. ”

“Yes .”

“That’s unreal. If we had a Rubik’s Cube right now, I’d make you prove it.”

Henry chuckles. “Next time we meet, perhaps.”

“Deal.” Alex grins into the phone, warmth filling his veins. “Guess I’ll let you go to bed eventually. But thanks for picking up.”

Henry hums, the sound oddly intimate through the receiver. “No need to thank me. …Good night, Alex.”

A stupidly happy smile curving his lips. “Night, Henry.”

Even a month after the fiasco of his audition, it still feels surreal that he is texting the Henry Fox, the star he once idolized. He used to scour the internet for interviews of Henry’s dad, Arthur Fox, or whatever tidbits he could find about Henry’s mom. But media coverage of Henry’s mother has always been vague—“Aristocrat from a distinguished line.” That’s it. No further details.

Henry hardly ever mentions her, and the tabloids never get past recycled quotes like the Lady Catherin e. Alex learned early on not to pry.

Henry is easy enough to talk to when the conversation sticks to everyday stuff—favorite songs, humiliating stories from set, exactly how many hours it takes to memorize lines. But the moment Alex even inches toward personal questions, Henry’s side of the chat slows to a trickle.

It’s only been a week since that phone call, the one that left Alex wide awake past midnight, thinking Way to be weirdly flirty on the phone, dude.

In the days since, they’ve fallen into a rhythm of texts and the occasional voice call. Alex tries not to read too much into it—Henry isn’t exactly buddy-buddy with people. But he’s answering Alex’s messages, asking about his life, listening .

He types out a reply.

Pretty good. Just finished a shift at the auto shop. Gonna face the mountain of reading for my policy class now.

A minute passes, then the phone chimes.

Shall I call you tonight, or are you busy?

His heart does an annoying little leap that he tries to squash under pure logic. They’re co-stars , and Henry is just being polite about coordinating.

I’m free after eight, if you want. No pressure.

He’s halfway through a dense policy reading—highlighting key paragraphs, doodling little angry faces in the margins—when the phone rings again.

After eight it is. Good luck with the reading.

He flips his notes closed, because let’s face it, his focus is shot. Instead, he rummages for a snack—a crushed granola bar—and starts scrolling through social media.

Naturally, the moment he opens Twitter, Henry’s face pops up: a paparazzi snap of him leaving some swanky café in London. The tweet says about him meeting with a “potential producer,” but Alex’s eyes snag on how that black sweatshirt grip Henry’s muscles.

Alex is curled up on the couch when Henry calls. Henry mentions yet another family function he has to attend next week, some fancy dinner in Spain related to his mom’s side. Alex tries to picture what that must be like—he’s only got the barest facts about Henry’s mother: aristocratic, wealthy, apparently philanthropic in some capacity.

“You gotta fly out for this dinner?”

“Apparently. My mother’s been quite insistent. I guess it’s networking.”

“Fancy aristocratic networking.”

“Something like that. Anyway, how’s your schedule next week?”

Alex rants about how he can’t seem to nail one of his comedic lines, and Henry offers suggestions—he’s surprisingly helpful, and Alex soaks up every word.

They keep talking for a while, an hour slipping by until Alex’s phone battery is ten percent. Once the call ends, Alex is left with a dopey grin. Henry is definitely loosening up. That’s good, right?

He starts sending Henry random photos.

• A shot of the auto shop’s old cat sleeping on a tire.

• A half-empty coffee cup from Starbucks with Alec scribbled on it instead of Alex.

• The campus courtyard, bright with midday sun and crammed with students.

Henry, in turn, sends a photo from the inside of some lavish foyer, or David sleeping in a patch of sunlight, or the script for their film, marked-up with neat red notes.

They start sharing innocuous personal details—favorite junk foods, mild childhood embarrassments. Alex never would’ve guessed Henry’s so into classical mythology, or that he can recite entire lines from The Odyssey on command.

You’re basically a Greek myth nerd.

I prefer the term “amateur classicist.”

Monday morning dawns, and Alex practically leaps out of bed to pick up June from the airport. He rushes across the arrivals area and spots June by baggage claim. She’s wearing a black blazer, her hair pulled into a short ponytail, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

“Wow,” Alex says, arms wide. “You look like you had the time of your life.”

June groans dramatically and drops her carry-on, letting him envelop her in a bear hug. “Rome was gorgeous, but the archives were a slog,” she says, stepping back to assess his face. “You look chipper.”

“What, I can’t be in a good mood?”

“You texted me last week about being stressed with classes and the film. Now you’re borderline glowing.”

He coughs. “Uh, new face cream?”

She gives him a yeah, right look. They collect her suitcase and head to the parking garage, Alex’s excitement over her return boils over. “So,” he says, leaning on the trunk while she situates her luggage, “did you find anything? Like, actual clues in the Vatican stuff?”

June snorts. “It’s the freaking Vatican Archives, Alex. They don’t let a random American poke around top-secret relics. I had a limited pass for certain sections, so half the time, I was trying to interpret centuries-old Latin without a real translator.”

“So that’s a no?”

“More like a maybe . There were references to Templar archives around the early 1300s—‘dark rituals.’ But it’s all coded, or contradictory. People writing back then had a flair for drama.”

Alex helps toss her suitcase into the trunk. “So no direct mention of vampires .”

“Nope.” She slams the trunk shut. “Guess it’s back to combing local police reports and waiting for another angle.”

“That sucks,” Alex says honestly. “But… thanks for trying.”

She shrugs. “Worth a shot. And hey, at least I got to see the Sistine Chapel.”

They climb into their dad’s Jeep, June slumps in the passenger seat. After a few minutes, she side-eyes Alex. “Soo… anything else new? Did I miss major drama while I was gone?”

“Henry and I… we’ve been.. talking.”

“Wait, you and Henry Fox ?”

“Don’t freak out. We’re chatting sometimes, that’s all.”

“Okaaay.” She fiddles with the seatbelt. “How is your idol these days?”

“He’s surprising. Like, not the cold jerk I first met. He’s—” He flails for a term that isn’t weirdly sweet. “Good.”

June smiles cheekily. “Uh-huh.”

He ignores her tone. “We’ve gotta get you home. Mom’s probably making a big dinner.”

“Right, change the subject, sure,” She plugs in her seatbelt. “So what’s Henry’s favorite color?”

He flushes deeper. “I dunno.”

She laughs. “You’re so full of it.”

He pulls out of the parking spot, hoping the conversation will steer somewhere else, because he really doesn’t want to dissect his friendship with Henry in front of his sister.

Tonight is the Hanover-Stuart Financial Group’s annual shareholders’ dinner. Their official history dates back to the 1700s, but in truth, the Hanover-Stuart name (and the fortune they command) is older than the concept of modern banking itself.

A curated crowd of attendees mills around a reception area, sipping champagne under a grand chandelier shaped like a twisting helix of crystal. He spots his mother near the center of the foyer. She wears a silver-gray evening gown that skims the floor, her hair in an elegant half-updo. A diamond tennis bracelet glints around her wrist.

She offers a fond smile as soon as she sees him and drifts toward him in a graceful swirl of satin. “Mum,” he greets, kissing both side of her cheeks. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you, darling. I’m glad you made it. We have quite the crowd tonight. They’re eager to see you.”

His mother escorts him through small knots of people, some of them old enough to have known Catherine’s grandparents personally. Others are younger, up-and-coming executives—some human, some definitely not .

“Lady Catherine,” an older gentleman says in accented English. “And Henry, so good to see you both. My granddaughter adores your films.”

Another man introduces himself as a major investor from Southeastern Europe. Henry listens, glancing now and then toward Catherine, who fields questions about the bank’s expansions into Asia and the Middle East.

Hanover-Stuart started centuries ago as a clandestine funder of wars, propping up monarchies or rebellions for the right price. Over time, the family consolidated that power into more legitimate corporate structures: private banking and philanthropic trusts.

He sees a new figure cutting through the crowd: Renaud Montagne, a well-known pureblood who oversees the bank’s Swiss branch.  “Henry,” Renaud says with too-chummy smile. “Marvelous to see you again. My father sends his regards.”

Henry returns a thin smile. “Give him mine in return.”

Renaud beckons someone forward: a young green eyed man, mid-twenties, slender, with carefully styled raven hair and a shy expression. “Allow me to present my son, Sebastian,” he says. “He’s recently taken a position in our Geneva offices.”

“Delighted to meet you, Sebastian,” his mother says.

Henry echoes her. “Pleasure.”

Sebastian blushes, murmuring, “It’s an honor.” He bats his eyelashes. “I thoroughly admire your work on  film.”

Renaud interjects, “Indeed.  We’d be honored to host you in Switzerland. Maybe arrange a more private dinner?”

The Montagnes have been subtle about it for years, but they’re hardly the only pureblood family who’ve tried to link themselves to the Hanover-Stuarts through marriage. Henry can’t help but recall how Philip’s union with Martha Fitzroy was quickly approved by his grandmother—pureblood from a “noble line.”

Catherine speaks up. “I’m afraid Henry’s schedule is a bit beyond his control for the foreseeable future. His filming obligations keeps him busy.”

Renaud’s expression becomes disappointed, but he recovers quickly. “Of course, of course. Perhaps next year, then.”

Henry can practically feel the relief in his chest. Thank you, Mother. She glances sidelong at him, a conspiratorial smile in her eyes.

The dinner portion of the evening is hosted in an opulent hall with soaring windows that look out onto the lit skyline of Valencia. Long tables are bedecked with pristine white tablecloths, elaborate centerpieces of lilies and orchids, and candelabras.

Staffs move between the aisles, refilling wine glasses and setting down plates of arranged courses: a tasting menu of local Spanish cuisine.

Henry’s seat is near the head of one table beside Catherine. At the adjacent table, Renaud is busy schmoozing with a group of investors, occasionally glancing Henry’s way.

Catherine stands to deliver a short speech. She thanks everyone for coming, highlights the bank’s philanthropic efforts, and announces new expansions in renewable energy investments— applause follows.

Henry admires how she effortlessly commands the room. It was said she’d have made a formidable queen if she’d married a pureblood from a reigning house.  

As the main courses come and go, Henry fields occasional questions from tablemates: How’s the film shoot going? Did you really film that swordfight stunt yourself? He tries to be gracious, sprinkling in just enough Hollywood anecdotes to be charming.

When the final toasts wrap up and the plates are cleared—petit fours, chocolate mousse—Catherine gives him an indulgent nod, as if granting permission to slip away.

Henry mouths a silent “thank you,” rising from the table. He weaves through the guests and breaks free into a hallway that leads toward a glassed-in terrace. Beyond the property, Valencia’s lights glitter like scattered jewels.

His phone vibrates inside his inner pocket. Alex.

They’ve been talking more and more over the last two weeks. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he went from Why do I keep responding? to When can I talk to him again?

You still alive?

Just stepped away.

Survived the dinner, but the night’s not over yet.

The screen flickers, and Alex’s face appears. “Henry!” Alex crows, sounding a little too excited. “Look at you, all business-chic. Seriously, do all bankers dress like GQ models in Spain?”

Henry glances at his reflection in the glass. He’s undone his tie a fraction, but yes, it’s still a very nice suit. “I suppose so,” he says wryly. “Though I suspect I’m the only one here who had to do a swordfight scene last week.”

Alex laughs, and Henry can’t help the tug in his chest at the sound. He angles a bit so the palm fronds obscure the rest of the corridor. “Don’t you have some exam soon?”

“Oh, yeah,” Alex says, waving it off. “I’m half-done with my reading. Needed a break. Figured I’d see if you’d escaped the lion’s den yet.”

“I haven’t,” Henry admits. “But you’re making it more bearable.”

Alex opens his mouth, and for a second, Henry sees what looks like genuine warmth flash across his face. “Well, hey, if you need a bigger escape, I can read you the Policy 202 syllabus. Put you straight to sleep.”

“Tempting.”

They fall into an easy back-and-forth, Alex telling him about some fiasco at his parents’ auto shop—a broken lift, an irate customer—and Henry trying not to smile too widely in a hallway that could be invaded by bankers at any moment.

Alex notices him glancing over his shoulder. “I’m, uh, distracting you, aren’t I?”

Henry lifts a shoulder. “You’re a welcome distraction. But yes, I should probably return soon before they realize I’ve gone. My mother can only shield me for so long.”

“Gotcha. Don’t let me keep you, then. Good luck, Henry.”

Henry is about to hit the End button, but he hesitates. “Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For calling.”

Alex’s grin lights up the screen. “Anytime. Later, Henry.”

They hang up, leaving Henry staring at his own reflection in the black screen for a second, that little ache of longing fizzing around inside him.

Enough, he tells himself. Tucking the phone away.

Henry expects to fall into a dead sleep the moment he returns from the shareholders’ dinner, but his mind churns well past midnight. Even after stripping off the formal suit, washing the evening’s cologne off his neck, and tugging on a soft T-shirt and pajama bottoms, he can’t settle.

He sits on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the silent phone on the nightstand. Half of him wants to call Alex again, or at least send a silly text about how exhausting fancy events can be. The other half scolds him for even considering it.

You’re treading on dangerous ground.

He grabs his phone, flips it over in his hands. No new notifications. He’s probably asleep, Henry tells himself.

Reluctantly, he sets the phone aside, flips off the lamp, and tries to drift off.

The next morning, Henry wakes to watery sunlight pushing through the curtains. He squints at the clock—nearly nine. He has a flight back to London midday. A gentle throb of tension remains at his temples, but otherwise, he’s rested enough to face the day.

He’s freshly showered when his mother’s  text pings:

I’m meeting with the board for a final briefing this morning. We’ll leave for the airport around noon.

He thumbs a quick Okay, see you soon reply, then checks for anything from Alex. Nothing. The smallest pang of disappointment sneaks under his ribs. He’s likely in class. Or sleeping, if he pulled another all-nighter.

They are whisked away from the hotel, skipping the main airport for a private terminal. Spain’s sun blazes overhead, reflecting off the runway. As they approach the dark-gray jet waiting on the tarmac, Catherine glances over at Henry.

“That wasn’t too awful, was it?”

Henry releases a breath. “At least you rescued me from Renaud’s matchmaking attempts.”

She cringes. “That man’s persistent. Your grandmother would be delighted if it worked out, but I—” She shrugs. “I want you happy, Henry. Don’t let them push you into anything.”

He meets her gaze. Her support means more than she knows. “Thank you, Mum,” he says softly.

Moments later, they’re stepping up the jet’s stairway and into plush leather seats. A steward stands by, offering drinks. Henry declines, settling with water instead.

As the plane ascends, Catherine busies herself with finance reports while his attention drifts. Should I text Alex? Or is that too… clingy?

He battles with that internal question until he can’t stand it anymore. Eventually, he types a quick message:

Hey. Flying back to London. Survived the dinner in one piece.

He hits send, sets the phone aside, and tries not to stare at it like an anxious teenager. They land at a private airfield just outside the city, greeted by a drizzle. It’s late afternoon, overcast skies casting everything in  gray. The usual black car waits on the tarmac, Shaan standing by with an umbrella.

Henry says a quiet goodbye to Catherine—she’s heading to a separate meeting in the city—before sliding into the back seat. As the car glides toward Highgrove House, Henry’s phone finally buzzes.

He stops himself from snatching it immediately.

Glad you lived.

Also, you’re back in London? Don’t freeze.

Henry chuckles a little, ignoring Shaan’s quick glance in the rearview mirror.

A little of both, maybe. And yes, back in the land of drizzle.

I’m about to head to the shop.

He reaches the Highgrove and staffs welcomes him, carrying his luggage inside. David rushes over, tail wagging so frantically his whole rear end shakes.

“Good boy,” Henry coos. The dog answers with a happy snort, then scampers off.

Shaan rattles off the next day’s schedule: a meeting with his agent, some calls with the production team, and a dinner with Bea. Henry nods absently, glancing at his phone once more.

The screen remains black, so he heads upstairs to change out of travel-wrinkled clothes. He stands by his bedroom window afterward, watching droplets race down the glass. His mind floats to how Alex would probably be cursing at the weather if he were here.

Henry ends up in the library—a stately room lined with shelves of old leather-bound volumes and a massive fireplace, although he doesn’t bother lighting it tonight. It’s quiet except for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

His phone buzzes, and he nearly drops the book he’s reading.

Hey, sorry. Got busy.

Where are you now?

Library. Trying to do some readings.

He’s about to press the dial button, but Alex beats him to it—a FaceTime notification lights the screen. Henry slides a thumb across to accept.

Alex’s face fills the display. Behind him, Henry can make out rows of books and a hush of background chatter from other students.

“There you are,” Alex says in a stage whisper, trying not to disturb the library. “Look at you, all cozy in your big fancy house.”

Henry glances around at the towering shelves of antique books behind him, and a self-conscious smile tugs his lips. “You’re in a normal library, and I’m in the world’s most pretentious one. Who’s winning here?”

Alex props his phone against a stack of books and rubs his eye with the back of his hand. “You looked kinda drained when we talked last night.”

“It can be rather claustrophobic.”

“My family’s nowhere near the same scale, but there’s definitely pressure.” Alex glances off-camera, like someone might be giving him a look. “Uh, I should probably get back to these readings before the librarian kicks me out. But you okay?”

Henry nods. “Yes. Much better now.”

A private smile appears on Alex’s lips again. “Yeah, me too. Call me if you can’t sleep?”

“All right,” he says quietly. “Goodbye, Alex.”

“Bye, Henry.”

They end the call, and he’s oddly comforted.

Chapter Text

Alex hasn’t even finished tearing open his packet of cheap mustard before he hears someone a two tables away yell, “Turn it up!”

He’s in the cafeteria, seated with a tray of fresh chicken strips and a pile of fries. It’s afternoon, which means the place is at full capacity—students sprawled at round tables, half of them on their phones, the other racing to cram for next hour’s exam.

There’s a flat-screen TV bolted high on the wall, tuned to WUSA9, the local D.C. news station. Alex glances over just in time to see the screen flick to a Breaking News banner. He recognizes the face of Metropolitan Police Chief Kevin Bowers , his blocky jaw filling the shot as he stands at a podium outside the D.C. Metro Police headquarters.

“We can now confirm that the individual we arrested early this morning,” Bowers is saying, “is James Freedman , age thirty-nine, a former postal worker from the Capitol Hill district. We believe Freedman is responsible for multiple homicides of four omegas in the D.C. area. Evidence recovered at his residence—”

They caught him? He thought this case would go unsolved for ages. He sets down his strip of chicken, the entire cafeteria is all eyes on the TV.

He hears a reporter off-screen asking, “Chief, can you confirm Freedman’s motive?”

“We’re still piecing that together, but it appears Freedman’s actions were premeditated. Right now, we believe he acted alone. Our team is working closely with the FBI to ensure no further victims or accomplices are involved…”

June’s surely going to be losing her mind. She’s chased every lead on this for months, going through obscure archives and hounding the D.C. police for updates.

He snaps a quick photo of the TV screen—Freedman’s mugshot. Bald, round face, trimmed mustache. He looks like someone’s uncle who feeds birds at the park and never raises his voice. Harmless. Normal.

Two Princesses and a 🐸

1:03 PM EST

(Sends pic of Freedman’s mugshot on the TV)

did you see this?
They caught the killer!

irl chaos demon:

Yeah, it’s everywhere, I just got a CNN alert. Cops found a bunch of weird junk in the basement.

1:10 PM EST

Bug:

I’m on my way to the station NOW. If Bowers is still giving interviews, I might get a statement.

Suspect is apparently a former postal worker? That’s nuts.

The TV replays Freedman’s walk of shame—a shaky phone video of him being escorted out in handcuffs, police shouting at gawking onlookers to step back.

The phone buzzes again:

1:40 PM EST

Bug:

Just arrived at Metro PD.
I’m gonna try to get Bowers on record.

A bunch of students a few tables over start murmuring about Freedman, theories about how a “normal guy” became a murderer. He keeps thinking about Freedman’s mugshot because it’s creepy how ordinary he appears.

He takes a bite of another fry, then glances at his phone and pulls up Henry’s chat thread, the one that scrolls back this morning, full of inside jokes and memes Henry sometimes needs explained.

They found the Omega killer.

if you remember me mentioning that.
The city’s going crazy.

Better not to spam Henry with too many details but maybe he’ll want to know. Right on cue, his group chat with June and Nora pings again.

1:56 PM EST

Bug:

I’m basically tailgating the entire press pack out here. Bowers might do a Q&A soon.

irl chaos demon:

Knock ‘em dead, June!

A text from Henry hasn’t arrived yet, so Alex throws his phone in his bag, finishing off what’s left of his meal in silence. The cafeteria TV replays Freedman’s arrest footage, and Alex notices everyone’s collectively exhaling after months of fear.

Some are excitedly whispering, others look skeptical, as if Freedman can’t possibly be the real culprit. He dumps his tray and heads out. He’s got a lecture in twenty minutes.

Henry arrives at the boardroom early, just as the last of the human executives are gathering their papers and exiting. Windows on one wall overlook the misty London skyline and a long black table stretches down the center of the room.

He gives a respectful greeting to a departing vice president, who murmurs a hurried “Good afternoon, Henry,” before shuffling out the door.

One by one, the regular board members file out until only the elite circle remains which are Lord Alastair, and Lady Merivale. His grandmother stands at the head of the table, her silver hair swept into a flawless chignon.  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Mary says. “Our last conversation indicated we might finally have some resolution to these… incidents.”

She gestures for them all to sit. Henry takes a seat to her right; Philip sits on her left; Bea folds herself into the chair beside Henry.

“I’ve just received confirmation,” Mary begins, “Authorities in Washington, D.C. have arrested Mr. Freedman, a rogue vampire.. He is now confined within the specialized unit at ADX Florence. He’s to be executed next month, as per our laws.”

Mary’s eyes shift to one of the senior pureblood, Lord Alastair. “Under interrogation, this rogue vampire gave up a name. Or rather, a legend. He claimed his ‘maker’ was none other than Odessa,” Lord Alistair adds.

Lady Merivale gasps which catches Henry and Bea’s attention. “Odessa is dead for centuries.”

“That is what we’ve all believed,” Alastair says. “However, there are some among our older ranks who suspect she survived her supposed execution.”

“Who is Odessa?” Philip interrupts.

It’s Alastair who answers. “Odessa is a human who was turned into a vampire by her husband who was one of the Templars that underwent the blood trial. King Philip IV of France had them arrested in 1307. It’s said her husband was among those who were burned under the King’s command. She somehow infiltrated the palace, assassinated the king then staged it as natural death. Afterward, she fled, rampaging across Europe, turning others to form her own legion.”

His grandmother’s face slowly becomes petrified, and Henry can understand why. Such a figure would be a nightmare for their society, especially in those centuries when secrecy was paramount.

“Even the existing vampire houses tried to contain her, but any vampire who refused her cause was slain,” Alastair goes on. “She ignores every code that existed. The King of Spain authorized a massive manhunt to bring her down. Many tried and failed to kill her. She outlived even the hunters who prided themselves on felling entire covens. But at last, a hunter succeeded in 1315. By the end of that year, Odessa was presumed dead.”

“So,” Henry says, finally speaking up, “if she was, in fact, executed in 1315, why do people believe she’s behind these new rogues?”

“The rogue in custody insists his maker was a woman who claimed to be that Odessa. We can’t confirm any of it beyond rumor.” Mary shakes her head, unsettled. “She’s a scourge to our kind. If by some horrendous chance she’s alive…”

Bea looks at their grandmother. “But do we actually have evidence? Something more than the claims of a rogue?”

Philip’s voice is low. “Rogues will say anything, especially if it means stalling their punishment.”

Mary gathers herself. “For now, we proceed with the execution of this rogue. We’ll dispatch our own people to investigate the claim about Odessa.” She looks around the table, meeting each of their eyes. “We must keep this from leaking to the human press. Understood?”

They each nod in turn. Henry’s mind whirs with the implications. If Odessa truly lives, she could be the greatest threat their society has faced in centuries.

Zahra has whisked him straight from campus to a radio station for an interview with Henry —their first official appearance together since they signed on for this film.

Alex and Zahra arrive at the station ten minutes early. A receptionist, wearing chunky headphones, glances up. “Hi, we’re here for the noon segment with DJ Ronnie,” Zahra says.

The receptionist checks the schedule. “Right on time. Please wait a moment—I’ll let them know you’re here.”

Alex shifts from foot to foot, staring at the posters advertising other shows. He feels the nerves that always hits when he knows he’s about to share a mic with Henry. They’ve talked on the phone a hundred times by now—he shouldn’t be jittery.

Henry steps in from an adjacent hallway, and Alex’s pulse fucking flutters. His blond hair has gotten a bit longer, and he’s wearing a slim-fitting navy button-down beneath a jacket, the color highlighting the blue in his eyes.

Henry offers a friendly smile, and Alex has to restrain himself from being giddy at the mere greeting, “Hello,” from the Alpha.

“Hey,” Alex says.

Zahra nods at Henry. “Ready for the show?”

Henry glances at her. “Of course. I believe DJ Ronnie’s staff wanted us in the booth soon.”

A production assistant appears, waving them forward. “Mr. Fox, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, right this way, please!”

They’re lead to a glass-walled studio. Alex spots DJ Ronnie behind a wide console,-turned toward a second mic setup. The DJ soon notices them and rises to greet them. “Hey! Great to have you here. I’m Ronnie.” He’s a tall man with a friendly grin, wearing a baseball cap over braided hair.

“We’ll do a live segment in about five minutes. Mostly talking about your new movie, maybe some personal insights. Sound good?”

“Perfect.” Henry sits onto a stool in front of one of the microphones. Alex takes the seat beside him, Zahra hanging back in the corner of the booth to monitor together with Shaan.

The producer i gives them both a thumbs-up, and DJ Ronnie click a button that turns on an “ON AIR” light.

“Good afternoon, D.C. and beyond,” Ronnie’s voice booms cheerfully through the studio speakers. “This is DJ Ronnie and I have with me two very special guests: Henry Fox and Alex Claremont-Diaz , stars of the much-anticipated film After Fall ! Gentlemen, welcome!”

“Thank you for having us,” Henry says.

Ronnie turns to Alex. “Alex, first time on live radio?”

“It is,” Alex admits. “I’m excited. And maybe a little terrified.” He shoots a grin at Henry, who returns it with a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you’re in a safe space,” Ronnie laughs. “Now, let’s talk After Fall . This movie has been all over social media—people are hyped! Henry, you’re leading as James, the big bad with a heart, and Alex, you’re Cassian, the rebel forced under James’ control. How did you both land these roles?”

Henry folds his hands in his lap. “I was part of the initial development. The director, Marquess Lee, approached me about playing James a year ago. Once I was on board, the casting process began for Cassian. That’s how Alex and I crossed paths.”

Ronnie bobs his head. “Alex, you auditioned for a smaller role first, but ended up bagging the lead. Is that true?”

“Yeah. I’d gone in for a side character—things didn’t go so well at first.” He shares a fleeting glance with Henry. “But after some reshuffling in the production, I got called back to read for Cassian, and here we are!”

“So you guys have known each other for how long?” Ronnie asks.

Alex says, “Just two months, but it feels longer—getting thrown into daily training sessions can accelerate the bonding process.”

“I love that. Now, people are curious, Henry—your Dad was Arthur Fox. How’s it feel following in his footsteps? Did you ever feel pressure?”

Henry’s posture turns pensive. “Dad inspired me in many ways. He taught me you have to love what you do. I won’t deny there was pressure—everyone expects me to be a certain way, but I chose roles I believed in. After Fall is another step in that direction.”

Ronnie nods, then swivels to Alex. “Your family are about an auto shop?”

“Yep,” Alex says with pride. “They fix up everything from old trucks to fancy imports. Totally different world from showbiz.”

“So how did your parents react to you diving into acting?”

“They wanted me to be practical, but once they realized I wasn’t giving up, they supported me in their own way,” he says then adds, “A lot of compromise—like I still help out at the shop on weekends when I can.”

“That’s awesome. Now let’s talk about your personal backgrounds—like, any childhood stories that shaped you both?”

Henry shifts a bit in his seat. “I, uh… well, my father traveled a lot for filming. Whenever he was free, we’d have these jam sessions at home—he’d play piano, I’d sort of sing along. One time, Dad took me to watch the West End cast rehearsing Les Misérables . I was eleven, and I remember standing in that empty theater feeling like the walls vibrated with possibility. That’s when I knew I wanted to be a performer. He was always supportive, telling me to find my own path.”

Ronnie folds his arms on the table. “That’s beautiful, man. Thank you for sharing. Alex, any memorable childhood anecdotes of your own? Something that made you who you are?”

“Well… I’ve got a story. Not sure if it’s as inspiring as Henry’s, but when I was around secen, I spent a summer at my grandfather’s lake house in Texas. I wandered into the woods behind the property and found this injured little fox kit.”  He can’t help smiling at the recollection. “It had a hurt leg and was trembling like it had been attacked. I was just a kid, but I tried to help—fed it scraps, let it sleep in my room. Next morning, it was gone.”

“That is adorable,” Ronnie says. “You basically rescued a wild animal?”

“Yeah,” Alex replies, getting shy, “it was only there for one night. I still think about it sometimes—like, did it get back home? I’ll never know. But I remember being so happy caring for something that needed me for the first time.

“Great story, Alex,” Ronnie says and glances at the time on his Apple watch. “All right! we’ve got just a minute left. Let’s do a quick rapid-fire. Favorite comfort food—go.”

“Falafel,” Henry says.

“I’m more of a pizza guy,” Alex says.

“Next one: any final hints you can drop about After Fall ? Any teasers for the fans?”

Alex turns to Henry, letting him answer first. Henry offers a nod. “All I’ll say is expect emotional twists, intense action sequences, and a lot of tension between our characters.”

“And so you won’t be able to predict the ending,” Alex adds, smirking. “Trust me.”

Ronnie rubs his hands together. “Ah, that’s what we like to hear! Big thanks to Henry Fox and Alex Claremont-Diaz for joining us live today on WZRC. Stay tuned for more updates on After Fall , hitting theaters soon. And now, we’ll cut to a quick commercial break—don’t go anywhere!”

A soft beep signals they’re off-air, and the big ON AIR sign dims. Ronnie takes off his headphones and shakes both their hands enthusiastically. “Fantastic interview, guys. Thanks for sharing those stories—I bet the listeners will love it.”

Henry thanks him, and Alex has a wide grin face. Already, the station staff is shuffling them toward the exit. Zahra gives them a thumbs-up.

That interview wasn’t half-bad. In fact, if he’s honest, it felt comfortable, almost fun —and that’s saying something, given how Henry usually feels about live media appearances.

Henry notices Shaan hovering a few paces away with an expectant look. The man is probably counting the minutes until they can leave for whatever meeting Henry forgot about. They’re halfway across the lobby when he hears footsteps behind them.

“Wait!”

Shaan stops, jaw setting in mild exasperation. Henry turns around and sees Alex weaving through a couple of interns, wearing a hopeful smile on his face. “Hey,” he says, a bit out of breath. “Do you have time for coffee?”

Henry glances at Shaan, who is definitely in a rush. His assistant is silently communicating we do have places to be . But Henry surprises himself by saying, “I still have an hour free.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” Shaan mutters. “We’ll keep an eye on the time.” He departs with a curt nod, leaving them alone near the front doors.

Alex’s smile widens into something bright. “Great!” he says, sounding genuinely relieved.

You truly have no self-preservation instinct, his mind chides. But maybe one cup of coffee can’t hurt.

They crossed the street to a café that advertises Locally Roasted Beans! in the window. The place smells of espresso and baked goods, and a chalkboard menu lists pastries Henry’s never heard of.

The walls here are a lime green with plants and art prints. Henry shrugs out of his coat, folds it neatly over the back of the chair. Alex sets down two paper cups—coffee for Henry, which  smells suspiciously sweeter for himself—and takes the seat opposite. He notices the little smear of ink on Alex’s forearm, probably from some notes he was scribbling earlier.

“Hope this is okay,” Alex says, pushing the coffee across to him. “It’s black, but I grabbed sugar packets in case you take it sweet.”

Henry’s lips twitch with appreciation. “Black’s fine.” He picks it up, testing the heat. “Thank you.”

We should talk, Henry thinks. He wants to talk; that’s the entire reason we came here. But he finds himself tongue-tied.

Alex, as usual, breaks the silence first. “So,” he says, swirling his own cup, “that was a pretty wild interview, huh?”

Henry exhales, half-smiling. “It was. You handled it better than the first time I did.”

“I was practically shaking. Couldn’t you tell?”

“If you were, you hid it well.” He recalls how Alex’s face lit up whenever he spoke about the film or his family. “Um… About the fox. You never told me about that before.”

He has no idea I was that fox kit. He never will, if I have any sense, Henry thinks.

Alex gives a small shrug. “It just kinda came out. I still don’t know why I chose that story for the radio, but hey, it’s a childhood memory that stuck, I guess.” He lifts his gaze, features softening. “I hope that little guy ended up okay. The next morning, he just vanished.”

He wants to tell him outright that the fox survived. But he can’t. Not without explaining the entire truth of who he is. “I’m sure it found its way. Foxes are resilient,” he offers instead. “I’d like to think it survived, maybe found its family again.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, tapping a rhythm on the table. “That’s what I tell myself. I never really told many people, but I was a lonely kid sometimes. Only my sister June seemed to get me. So discovering a lost fox to look after… I guess I needed something to hold on to. A furry friend.” He trails off, looking a bit sheepish for sharing so much.

You have no idea how much I needed you that night too, Henry thinks but doesn’t dare say.

Instead, he offers a gentle nod. “I understand.”

Alex stares at his cup. “What about you?” he asks softly, then lifts his eyes to meet Henry’s. “You ever have anything like that? A random childhood moment that stuck with you forever?”

His entire childhood is filled with glamor and old traditions—but it all feels overshadowed by that single other memory: stumbling around in fox form, wounded, terrified, until Alex’s voice lulled him into safety.

He forces himself to conjure something simpler. “I—my father used to take me to film sets sometimes,” he begins, picking his words. “Nothing special. Just wandering around the trailers, seeing how everything worked. I was too young to truly appreciate it, but I remember feeling safe. Like the hustle of cameras and crew was normal, even if it wasn’t what the rest of the world saw as normal. He’d hold my hand and point out little details. It stuck with me, that sense of belonging somewhere.”

Alex’s features shift with sympathy. “Sounds like you and your dad were close.”

A complicated warmth spreads in Henry’s chest. “We were,” he murmurs. “Those have stayed with me.”

Alex nods, expression open and kind. “Thanks for sharing,” he says. “I know it’s not always easy to talk about that stuff.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Now you know a bit more about me.”

“I like hearing it,” he says then push the cup aside. “Sorry if I’m prying. Sometimes you seem a bit guarded.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

“No,” Alex says, waving his hands. “That’s you.”

A ring from Henry’s phone pulls them both back. He checks the screen to see Shaan’s name. Time’s up, apparently. Alex reads the situation instantly, eyes flicking to the phone. He stands and brushes crumbs off his jacket.

“I should probably—”

“I get it,” Alex murmurs. “It’s okay.”

They shuffle to the trash to toss their cups, the moment turning awkwardly finite. Henry hates the abruptness but can’t think how to fix it. As they step outside, the wind picks up and ruffles Alex’s hair.

Henry inhales without meaning to. He fights the urge to close his eyes, to savor the scent longer, knowing that it is both a solace and a risk.

Shaan is parked a three spaces away, engine running. He’s already spotted them and looks pointedly at his watch.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Henry says to Alex.

“Sure. You owe me since I paid.”

“I’ll make sure to settle the debt. We have more press appearances coming up anyway.”

“I’m looking for to it.” Alex’s eyes darts away, then back, as if he wants to add something. “Talk soon, okay?”

Henry smiles a little. “Talk soon,” he says and crosses the pavement to Shaan’s waiting car. Shaan holds the door open, wearing that patient but put-upon expression.  As the car pulls away, he glances back through the tinted window.

Alex is still standing on the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets, gazing after him with a thoughtful smile. Alex saved him once. And he’ve been finding his way back to him ever since.

Chapter Text

A hand wraps around his neck, pinning him down. He claws at the attacker’s wrist, chest heaving for oxygen. “Get off me!” Alex wheezes, flailing.

In a flash , a second figure appears and tears the man away from him. Tall frame, eyes glowing a shocking red.

Alex can’t comprehend.

Henry?

“It’s me,” a voice says, coaxing. “You’re safe now.”

Alex bolts upright in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his hair is damp at the nape of his neck. It takes a second for him to remember he’s inside his bedroom. No monster. No Henry with blazing red eyes.

A nightmare. But it felt so intensely real that he can still feel the phantom pressure of those iron-fingers on his throat.

Why was Henry even there? Maybe it’s because you’ve been around him so much.

Henry’s always on his mind these days. They text, they talk, they do interviews. No wonder I’m dreaming about him.

“Calm down,” he tells himself. “ Just a dream .”

For the past weeks he’s been juggling auditions, classes, training ; he’s exhausted. Of course his subconscious is punishing him with nightmares.

He breathes in slowly, counting to four, then out again. It’s only 3:13 a.m. He could try to go back to sleep, but he’s not sure he wants to risk another replay of that horrific scenario. He stands up, looking a bottle of water near his desk. Downing half of it, he flicks on the lamp, flooding the space with orange glow.

It’s not like that dream means anything. People dream about messed-up stuff all the time, especially when they’re stressed. He rubs his eyes, trying to purge the final scraps of the nightmare from his mind.

When he comes down,  June is already in the dining table with her MacBook, and a plate of scrambled eggs. Without lifting her gaze, she acknowledges Alex with a “Hey. Morning.”

“Morning,” Alex responds and grabs a plate from the cabinet. He tries to swipe a piece of the bacon on her plate but June slaps his hand away.

“Get your own.”

Rolling his eyes, he slumps to the stove to scrape a portion of eggs onto his plate, plus a couple bacon strips from the pan. “You’re such a bacon hoarder,” he mumbles.

June grunts in reply, furiously tapping the keys. “Says the guy mooching off my plate.”

Alex sits into the chair across from her, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “Any update?” he asks around a bite of bacon.

No reply. She’s still pounding away on her laptop. “Hellooo?” he tries again, knocking on the table.

She finally lifts her head, sighing in annoyance. “If you mean the Freedman case, then not exactly. Bowers gave me a statement with practically zero real info. Freedman’s locked up, no bail, multiple homicide charges. The cops claim they have conclusive evidence tying him to the Omega murders, but I can’t get them to elaborate.”

“Huh,” Alex says, finishing off a piece of bacon. “At least nobody’s been found dead in the last week, right? That’s something.”

“Sure,” she concedes. Her eyes flick over him appraisingly. “Anyway, You look like you crawled out of a crypt.”

He grimaces. “Thanks, appreciate that.”

“Seriously. You’re, like, sweaty, your hair’s a mess, and you have these enormous bags under your eyes. You get any sleep last night?”

He flushes, then dodge her gaze. “I… had a dream. A nightmare, really.”

“About?”

He scratches at his neck. “I kinda dreamt about Henry. It was weird.”

A slow grin spreads over June’s face. “You’re fantasizing.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You used to watch Les Misérables reruns just to rewatch his scenes. And now you’re working with him, and apparently dreaming about him?”

“It was a freaky nightmare,” he argues, ears burning. “had nothing to do with anything. The entire scenario was messed up.”

June snickers. “It’s natural to dream of your crush once in a while.”

“He’s not! ” Alex practically yelps, reaching for leftover piece of tissue, crumples it, and tosses it towards her.

“Wow, the denial is strong.” June catches it, flinging the tissue back. Alex dodges, and it bounces off the side of the chair.

“You’re impossible.”

She just beams. “So what was Henry doing in your dream?”

The memory of those red eyes and lightning-laced hands keeps haunting him. “I don’t even remember all the details.” Lie. “But it’s not because I’m crushing on him.”

“So you’re telling me you fanboyed over Henry since you were a teen, and now that you’re spending time with him, your subconscious definitely wouldn’t put him in your dreams. Right. Makes perfect sense.”

“That’s not the reason! He’s just around a lot. We have this film project. He’s practically half my life these days.”

“That’s my point,” June counters. “You’re literally living out your teenage dream. The line between professional admiration and personal feelings can get murky.”

“You’re so annoying,” he says, throwing her a death glare. “Why am I even talking to you?”

“Because I’m your big sister,” June says, patting herself in the chest smugly. “and you secretly crave my wisdom.”

He jabs a finger at her. “You can keep your ‘wisdom.’ I’m good.”

“Fine. But seriously, get some rest. You look rough.” She adjusts her glasses, returning to her MacBook. “I need to finish up this draft before I head out. Some of us are actually busy. ”

He grabs his plate and drops it into the sink. “I’m heading out. Gotta swing by campus for a lecture, good luck with Bowers.”

“Thanks,” June says, already typing again.

The door to Room 208 is propped open, revealing a wide lecture hall with rows of old wooden tables and black swivel chairs. Many students have already claimed seats; a few chats while flipping through notes.

Slinging his bag down in a seat near the middle, he offers a smile to a classmate named Ryan. A moment later, Dr. Pierce appears, stepping up to the podium with confidence. He’s dressed in tan suit, longish dark hair brushing his collar.

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Pierce begins in a resonant tone that commands attention. “Today, we’ll be focusing on the Knights Templar : how they rose to prominence, and how their downfall left ripples through European governance.”

A student assistant nudges the projector on, and the first slide appears: a vintage illustration of Templars in white cloaks, red crosses on their chests.

Alex jots down notes in neat bullet points:

• Origins in 1119 – nine knights led by Hugues de Payen

• Official endorsement at the Council of Troyes (1129)

• Rapid accumulation of wealth and property

• Strong ties to European monarchies

Dr. Pierce changes slides to maps showing Templar strongholds across Europe and the Middle East. He points out key ones—Acre, Cyprus, Paris headquarters—and how these served not just as military bases but also as early “banking centers.”

“They invented a sort of credit system,” Dr. Pierce explains, “which drastically reduced the risk for pilgrims carrying large sums of money.”

He flicks to a slide of King Philip IV of France. “Philip, heavily indebted to the Templars, found it politically expedient to accuse them of heresy. On Friday, October 13th, 1307….”

After an hour, Dr. Pierce glances at the clock. “We’ll wrap up here. Make sure you do the assigned reading—chapters 7 and 8. That’s all for today.”

Chairs scrape, notebooks snap shut. A wave of chatter fills the space as everyone prepares to leave. Alex tucks his notes into a folder, he doesn’t want to look like a conspiracy nut, but he can’t resist the chance to ask a couple of pointed questions.

He waits until the majority of students funnel out, then approaches the lectern where Dr. Pierce is packing up. The professor glances up, catching Alex’s eye. “Yes?” he prompts with impatience.

Alex adjusts his backpack strap. “I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz, by the way.”

Dr. Pierce holds an expression as if matching his name to a mental roster. “Yes, Claremont-Diaz. How can I help you?”

“I’ve stumbled across some online forums,” Alex says. “It claims the Templars are onto a ‘blood trials’ in the Holy Land. I know it sounds wild, but I was wondering if there’s even a shred of historical basis to that.”

“In my professional opinion?” Dr. Pierce says, and Alex nods. “No legitimate evidence suggests they had anything to do with actual vampirism—if such a thing even exists. It’s more likely these stories arose from a mix of propaganda, plus the medieval fascination with the occult. People in tumultuous times latch onto the supernatural to explain political or economic upheavals.”

“I guess that makes sense,” he says, though he sounds unsure.

Dr. Pierce shrugs with an indulgent smile. “The historical record points to mundane political motivations behind the Templars’ downfall. The vampire angle is a modern flourish. Romantic, in a way, but not grounded in facts.”

Alex tries not to look too disappointed. “Right. Good to know. Thanks, Professor.”

Dr. Pierce gathers his binder and glances at Alex again. “If you’re interested in these Templar myths, you might enjoy reading some primary source translations—testimonies from the Inquisition. You’ll see how the accusations, when read in context, reflect the paranoia of the era. Blood rituals, devil worship, spitting on the cross… it’s all a tapestry of fear used to dismantle a threatening power.”

“That sounds cool,” Alex says, mind already churning. “Any suggestions for which translations?”

Dr. Pierce scribbles a short list of references on a spare notecard. “Here. Try the Barber or Nicholson compilations. They’re reputable academic sources. Avoid random websites that spin grand tales without citations, unless you want creative fiction.”

Alex takes the card, eyes scanning the titles. “Thank you. Appreciate it, Dr. Pierce.”

“Anytime.” The professor slides his satchel over his shoulder, giving Alex a last friendly nod. “Good luck with your research, Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”

Alex nods back. “Have a good day, sir.”

On one hand, the professor’s explanation feels thoroughly rational. On the other, it doesn’t quite quell the possibility Alex feels whenever June spouts her more outlandish theories.

He merges into the flow of students streaming past, catching snippets of conversation about weekend plans, upcoming exams, and random campus gossip. His phone buzzes in his hand, and the screen lights up with a calendar notification:

🎉 Nora’s Birthday Celebration Tonight!

8:00 PM | Cielo Club

He’s got three hours before the party kick off. That might sound like plenty—until he remembers he still needs to buy Nora a gift. And get home to change. And commute to the club. Damn it.

The traffic is the usual slog, but he manages to inch his way downtown. By sheer luck, the third department store he visits still has one bottle in stock, tucked away behind some other fancy perfumes. He nearly kisses the sales associate in gratitude.

Two hours later…

Alex arrives exactly 8:00 pm at the club that Nora’s dad reserved for her birthday. The exterior sign glitters in neon pink, and a bouncer stands roped off by a velvet barrier. “Name?” the man rumbles over the thump of bass leaking through the doors.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

The bouncer finds his name, lifts the rope, and gives him a curt nod. “Private lounge is to the left.”

The bass thrums through the floor, a steady beat that reverberates in his chest. Near the front, a DJ booth is elevated on a low platform, complete with flashing LED bars that sync to the beat. Swarms of people dance in, arms raised, eyes half-closed as they lose themselves in the sound.

A well-dressed hostess, wearing a sleek black dress and carrying a slim tablet, greets Alex with a professional smile. “Welcome. You’re here for the private event?”

“Yes,” he says, and she gestures toward a roped-off lounge area along the left side of the club. It’s slightly elevated from the main dance floor, offering a bit more privacy. Plush couches in dark red velvet are arranged around low glass tables topped with candles and rows of cocktail glasses.

Sure enough, he spies Nora on one of the plush seats, wearing a sequined halter blue dress that compliments her figure well. She’s surrounded by three other women—Amina, Sasha, and Zoey—Alex recognizes them as her friends from MIT.

Nora sees him instantly.  “Alex!” she cries, jumping up and throws her arms around him in a quick hug.

“Happy Birthday,” he says into her ear and slips the small wrapped box into her hands.

“Oh my God, did you? ” She tears at the wrapping enough to glimpse the ‘Parada Paradoxe’ label.

“You lifesaver!” Nora gushes, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Anything for the birthday girl. Happy Birthday, Nor.”

Nora tucks the perfume safely into her oversized clutch, then turns to her friends. “Sweethearts, this is Alex—though I’ve told you all about him already.”

Her three friends wave and smile, and Alex greets them with an awkward half-bow. “Hey, I’m Alex,” he says unnecessarily, because Nora’s mentioned him, but better be nice.

Amina, the one with the braids giggles, “We’ve heard so many stories… good ones!”

Sasha, the tall auburn-haired friend offers a graceful handshake. “Nice to finally meet you.”

The edgy brunette who is Zoey lifts her glass in a mini toast. A server glides by with a tray of colorful cocktails—some kind of neon pink concoction with fruit slices. Nora grabs one for herself and thrusts another at Alex. He takes a sip, sweetness and a tangy bite flooding his tongue. It’s surprisingly good.

Music blasts from speakers overhead, a pop/dance track that sets the whole space running. Immediately afterward, Zoey tugs the other two women onto the dance floor, leaving Nora and Alex by the lounge area.

“Where’s June?” Alex shouts over the music.

“Traffic. She’ll be here soon. Meanwhile—” Her tone shifts slyly, and Alex is already suspicious. “You should invite Henry!”

Alex almost chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Nora insists. “It’s my birthday. Don’t you want me to have fun?”

He sets his drink down. “I’m not sure Henry would even want to come to something like this,” he deflects. “He’s kind of busy—”

Nora jabs him in the ribs. “Aren’t you busy with school and everything, yet you’re still here? Come on, do it for me. Pleeease.”

He sighs, feeling cornered. “Fine, I’ll shoot him a text, but don’t get your hopes up.” He fishes his phone from his back pocket, the bright screen glowing in the dim club.

Hey, hope you’re free. I’m at Cielo.
It’s my friend’s birthday and she’s demanding I invite you.
Wanna come?

Almost immediately, Nora crowds in, reading over his shoulder. When he hits send, she claps with delight.  “Yes! I just want my favorite white boy on my birthday!” she shouts, bouncing on her toes and smacking his shoulder in excitement.

Alex tries to shrug her off. “He hasn’t even answered yet,” he mutters, though he can’t help a small grin at how giddy Nora looks.

About five minutes later, he got a reply.

I’ll be there in half an hour.

What sort of gift should I bring for your friend?

He hurries to text back:

She says your presence is the real prize.

Nora tries to peek at his phone screen again, and when she sees Henry’s reply, she lets out a shriek again. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Zoey grabs him by the wrist and tugs him toward the dance floor. “We’re celebrating,” she insists. “Move that body.”

Nora, Amina, and Sasha laugh and follow, all of them swirling into the throng of dancers as the music shifts to another high-energy track.

Henry should’ve said No.

He has a flight in a handful of hours, and Shaan will have his head if he finds out Henry’s planning to slink away at this hour. Besides, clubs are typically the last place on earth he’d choose to go. His senses have always made him wary of such environments.

Too much noise, too many scents, too many pounding heartbeats that can overwhelm him if he’s not careful.

But Alex asked. You’re an idiot, Henry.

He walks to the closet, pullung the double doors open to check what he’s stashed inside. He never had much reason to fuss about clothes—usually, he sticks to classic styles that please stylists and onlookers.

Within moments, he’s dismantling the arrangement, tossing coat after coat onto the bed. He chose a dark jeans and vintage jacket  that molds comfortably around his shoulders over the white tee.

A baseball cap sits folded—dark green with Ralph Lauren emblem on it. He puts it on, tugging the brim low. Nodding once at the mirror, he murmurs, “That should do.”

Time to go.

He pockets his phone, snatches up his wallet, and edges out of his suite. From somewhere near the elevator bank, he can hear Shaan’s urgent voice on a call—undoubtedly discussing tomorrow’s flight. Henry doesn’t dare slow down.

He makes it to the lobby unnoticed and  a valet meets him at the door with a professional smile. “Your vehicle is prepared, sir,” the man says, holding out a set of keys.

“Thanks,” he says with a quick nod. The black Porsche parked out front glimmers under the streetlights.

He fires up the engine. It purrs to life, sending a reverberation through the steering wheel. A sneaky grin crosses Henry’s face—he can’t remember the last time he actually drove on his own. Generally, he’s chauffeured, for security.

He checks the navigation to the address Alex texted, and pulls onto the main road. The downtown clubs soon come into view and he’s made exceptional time—only 30 minutes for a trip that should’ve been far longer. He finds a spot on a side street, parks, and steps out into the night air that smells of car exhaust and cigarette smoke.

A bouncer at the club door is turning away a group of rowdy men. But the moment Henry steps forward, the man instantly recognized him and the rope was unclips without a word. Henry ducks inside before the queue can protest.

The bass line is so deep it practically vibrates his ribcage. Lights in every color slice the darkness in rapid strobe sequences. His senses pick up everything: the press of bodies, the swirl of cologne, the crush of heartbeat after heartbeat.

He only needs to find one person in this sea of neon and thrashing limbs. It doesn’t take long. His gaze snags on a certain dark curls—Alex, right in the center of the dance floor. His grin is huge, his arms thrown above his head, and there’s a glint in his eyes that radiates pure happiness.

Henry finds his feet carrying him forward. A few people do double takes as he passes, but his focus is on Alex, whose gaze finally snaps upward, as though sensing Henry’s presence.

He steps into Alex’s orbit, and the music seems to fade, at least in his mind. The flush in Alex’s cheeks suggests he’s had more than one drink. He looks disarmingly happy.

“You actually came!” Alex shouts over the pounding bass. He sways a little on his feet, the crowd jostling him from behind. “I didn’t think… I mean, this isn’t really your scene, right?”

Henry has to lean in, lips close to Alex’s ear. “I had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Nora’s somewhere around here—birthday girl! She’ll want to say hi.”  Then he’s being tugged by Alex in the wrist through the throng. They cross the dance floor to a section with plush seats, and a group of people wearing big smiles.

Nora lets out a yelp when she sees him. “I was starting to think you’d skip! Happy to be proven wrong!” She grabs a shot glass from the low table and thrusts a shot into his hand.

“Cheers,” Nora says, tapping her own glass against his. He tilts it back, swallowing in one go.

It’s far stronger than the refined wine or brandy he’s used to sipping. Alex laughs at the look on his face, patting him on the shoulder.

Nora points to the dance floor. “Let’s go back” she yells, grabbing Amina and Sasha by the arms.

Alex turns to him, tipsy grin firmly in place. “You’re not leaving yet, right? Because I am definitely making  you dance.”

“I’m not sure I know how to dance to this,” he yells back, hoping the music drowns out the tremor in his voice.

The throbbing pop music is already drilling into his ears, an insistent beat that makes the floor quiver.

Alex waves him off. “Just move. That’s the whole point.”

The DJ transitions into a new track and the crowd roars, fists pumping, voices chanting along. “I Gotta Feeling.” Tonight, it’s practically an anthem.

Henry finds himself yanked back into the mass of club-goers, Alex’s hand snug around his wrist, then sliding down to lace their fingers and goosebumps runs through Henry’s veins.

Alex moves as if the music is a language only his body understands, all loose limbs. His hips sway, hands above his head, mouth curled into something between a grin and a challenge. Henry watches it all for a minute too long, feeling both drawn in and painfully out of place.

“C’mon!” Alex encouraged.

He tries to catch up. He’s embarrassed at his initial movements, his arms and legs jerking in a series of awkward motions that contrast with the smooth flow around him. He’s done the fox-trot and the waltz in fancy halls, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Everyone in the dance floor jumps, sway, and belt out the lyrics at the top of their lungs.

“See?” Alex says, spinning toward him. “not so bad.”

He stumbles, nearly colliding with Alex, and can’t resist a breathless laugh. The crowd shifts, and Henry gets a dizzy glimpse of disco-ball reflections scattering like shards across the ceiling. Somewhere behind them, Nora yells, “June’s here!” and waves frantically. She disappears into the crowd, presumably to greet June, leaving him and Alex in a pocket of space in the center.

The song dips into a quieter bridge, giving them a moment to catch their breath. Panting, Alex tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. His skin shines under the colored lights.

A voice in Henry’s head whispering that he should savor this while it lasts. The music picks up again, but slower, heavier with bass. Alex’s lips are parted, the gleam of sweat near his collarbone.

Get a hold of yourself. It’s a rational, reasonable request. He’s been making similar ones all night—don’t stare, don’t let on, do not make this harder than it already is.

And then Alex smiles, the corner of his mouth quirking up like he’s sharing some private joke with Henry alone, and every sensible thought he’s ever had simply ceases to exist. His hand is moving before he can think better of it, lifting to cradle the back of Alex’s neck.

The space between them collapses in an instant. Then Alex inhales, meeting Henry halfway with an almost incredulous softness. The rest of the club melting away in that single, burning point of contact.

His mind goes blissfully quiet in a way it never does because he’s used to thinking—running risk assessments. He can’t plan a single bloody second of this, though, because Alex’s hands finds its way up his jacket sleeve.

Someone bumps his shoulder as they squeeze past, but he all feels is the push and pull of Alex’s lips, the slide of those warm fingers around his neck that makes his chest aches with the wild want of it.

For a breath, or maybe forever, he’s certain there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here. But then the reality of it snaps into place. Henry jolts back, heart clamoring in his chest.

Alex looks stunned while Henry staggers a step away, swallowing a knot of fear so thick it hurts. “I— I’m sorry.”

He can see the confusion on Alex’s face, can practically feel the question forming on his tongue. Henry spins around, ignoring someone’s startled shout when he bumps their shoulder.

“Henry! Wait—” Alex calls after him, but he’s already in the exit within seconds.

He rushes down the sidewalk and finds the Porsche right where he left it. Flinging himself behind the wheel, he slams his foot on the gas and drives away fast.

You moron.

He had spent years convincing himself that the boy in the woods had meant nothing. But who is he fooling? Henry had never wanted anything so badly in his entire, cursed existence as he had wanted to see him again.

No.

He has to stay away.

For good.

But his chest won’t stop hurting.

Chapter Text

He’s still standing in the middle of the dance floor, neon lights strobing around him in waves of pink and blue. 

Henry just kissed him.

And then he was gone.

Dazed, Alex’s eyes dart around the sea of dancers. Bodies press in on every side, but he only wants to see the one who just left him breathless and confused. He spots Nora pushing her way through the crowd with June close behind.

“Alex!” Nora calls. “Where’s Henry?” June is right on her heels, eyes scanning the throng.

His body’s still buzzing from that electric kiss—adrenaline spiking. He manages to get the words out, yelling over the beat of the music. “He kissed me!”

“What?!”

“He— He kissed me and just ran off!”

June’s jaw drops, and she leans closer to catch his next words. “He did what?!”

“I swear, one second we were dancing, and then he—” His brain scrambles for coherence, replaying the moment Henry’s hand cupped the back of his neck, the shock of his lips on his. “He fucking kissed me, then took off!”

Nora’s mouth forms a perfect O of disbelief, then morphs into a grin that’s part astonished. “He kissed you? Henry Fox kissed you?” she practically crows, but the thunderous music all but drowns her out.

June, on the other hand, is gaping like Alex just told her the world is flat. “And you’re telling me he bailed? That’s insane—where’d he go?”

“I don’t know!” His voice trembles with anger and confusion. “He literally bolted. I tried to grab him, but he vanished.”

The bass throbs under their feet, the crowd jostling them from every angle. A neon strobe flashes across Nora’s face, revealing her stunned expression. June glances around, scanning the dance floor as if Henry might be lurking behind a cluster of partiers. But the space where they danced is just full of strangers.

“I’m gonna find him,” he says. “He can’t just do that and disappear.”

Nora catches his arm. “Alex—are you sure? This place is huge, and he might’ve already left—”

But he’s already pushing his way toward the exit. “I have to check,” he yells over his shoulder. Henry can’t get away after doing that to him.

He shoulders past a group of dancer s. The pounding music fades as he nears the lounge area, where the roped-off entrance leads back to the club doors. People waiting in line for drinks shoot him annoyed looks.

“Henry!” he calls, hoping maybe Henry’s just outside the lounge, collecting himself. The corridor leading to the main exit is empty except for a couple giggling about something. No Henry.

He bursts out through the club’s front doors and into the muggy night air. The tang of city fumes hits him, mixing with the acrid smell of spilled beer near the curb. A few smokers linger off to one side, the glow of their cigarettes bright in the dark. The bouncer eyes him as he passes, but he ignores him, scanning the sidewalk. Nothing. Henry’s nowhere in sight.

A raindrop splashes on his cheek—then another, heavier. It’s starting to rain, the sky opening up in a slow drizzle that quickly escalates to a steady downpour. Some club-goers huddle under the small awning, cursing the weather as they wait for the bouncer to let them through. Alex steps into the drizzle, letting it soak his hair, searching the street for any sign of Henry’s silhouette. Cars blur by, headlights gleaming on wet pavement, but no familiar figure in a jacket.

“Damn it,” he hisses under his breath. Why did Henry run? One minute, they were dancing, lost in that moment, and the next, he was gone. Anger simmers under his confusion. You can’t just do that, Henry. Kiss me and vanish. Not fair.

His phone is in his back pocket, and he yanks it out, shielding it from the rain with one hand. His heart beats even faster as he scrolls for Henry’s name. He dials. It rings once… twice… eventually going to voicemail. No answer. A frustrated noise escapes his throat, and he tries again, ignoring the water dripping off his chin onto the phone screen. Still no answer.

Henry’s ignoring him. His chest constricts. The rain intensifies, spattering against his shoulders. He sees a couple of people sprinting to hail cabs, jackets over their heads.

He dials once more, but it’s pointless. Straight to voicemail. Why is he running? The Henry he knows is always calm and sure. But then again, he never expected Henry to do something like kiss him in the middle of a club.

Water runs down his temples, soaking his hair. A shiver courses through him; his adrenaline is wearing off, leaving him cold and damp. The voice in his head roars that he should keep looking, but he knows deep down Henry is probably long gone. Maybe he’s already on the road. Maybe he’s at home, ignoring his calls.

A taxi glides up to the curb, its tires hissing on wet asphalt. A small group rushes forward to claim it, but Alex cuts in, ignoring their curses, flinging the door open. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I really need this.”

The driver barely spares him a glance, just nods for him to get in. He collapses onto the back seat, letting the door slam behind him. His shirt clings to his chest, soaked from the rain, and his heart is still hammering from everything that happened inside.

“Where to?” the driver asks, monotone.

He pauses, swallowing the knot in his throat. Where does he even go? His mind is a whirl of confusion, embarrassment, a spark of anger. He should probably go home. Or does he go to Henry’s place? His stomach twists. Henry can’t get away with just leaving him like that. But he has no clue if Henry’s even there. Still, he has to try.

The driver starts to get impatient. “Where to, man?”

“The Hay-Adams,” he says.

The taxi lurches away from the curb, and rain pounds on the windshield. He cradles his phone in his lap, staring at Henry’s contact photo—some formal headshot from an event. It feels so different from the man who kissed him on a dance floor moments ago.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, frustration burning behind his eyes. He’s not letting this slide. A swirl of unresolved questions churn in his head: Did that kiss mean something to him? Did he regret it instantly?

He deserves answers, and he’s going to get them one way or another.

The cab weaves through the rainy streets, neon reflections shimmering in puddles. He catches his reflection in the window—disheveled hair, water droplets rolling down his cheeks, eyes brimming with too many emotions. His lips still feel ghost of Henry’s kiss. His fists clench.

They are so not done.

Alex strides into the Hay-Adams lobby, still dripping from the downpour outside, and immediately feels the weight of a hundred curious stares. Everything inside gleams—marble floors, chandeliers shaped like crystal galaxies, staff in uniforms offering polished smiles.

A group of elegantly dressed guests at the check-in desk turns to eye him, brows raised, because apparently soggy hair and damp jeans don’t fit the “luxury hotel” aesthetic.

He swallows, refusing to be embarrassed. Not even the thick stench of disapproval can stop him. He approaches the front desk and the man behind it— Mr. Rollins , according to the shiny gold nameplate—glances up. His smile flickers between courtesy and worry, probably deciding whether to ask if he lost his umbrella or politely show him the door.

“Good evening, sir,” Mr. Rollins says, voice refined. “How may I assist you?”

Alex inhales. The air smells like lilies and money. “I’m here to see Henry Fox,” he says, forcing the words out before he can second-guess. “He’s staying here.”

A flash of alarm crosses Mr. Rollins’s face, and he recovers with a professional cough. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose—”

“He’s definitely here,” Alex interrupts, leaning over the counter, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the immaculate marble. “Please. I need to talk to him.”

Mr. Rollins shoots a glance at a couple of guests behind Alex, who are now blatantly gawking at the scene. He lowers his voice. “One moment, sir.” He picks up a sleek black phone and presses a few buttons. “Yes—Mr. Srivastava? There’s a visitor in the lobby for—”

Alex does something borderline insane and that is  snatching the phone from Mr. Rollins’s grip. The man gasps, scandalized, and tries to grab it back, but Alex shifts away, pressing the receiver to his ear.

“Hello? Mr. Rollins?” comes Shaan Srivastava’s clipped British accent from the other end.

“It’s Alex Claremont-Diaz,” Alex blurts, voice shaking with a mixture of nerves and fury. “I’m in the lobby. I’m drenched. And if Henry has one ounce of decency after—” He stops, licking his lower lip. “After what he did to me, then disappearing, he’ll come down and face me. Right. Now.”

He slams the phone back onto the cradle before Shaan can respond, ignoring Mr. Rollins’s horrified sputtering. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not sorry at all, and turns on his heel.

The onlookers whisper, eyes trailing after him as he marches to a cluster of plush armchairs. He slumps onto one, crossing his arms, water seeping into the expensive upholstery. He dares someone to kick him out. Let them. He’s not leaving until he gets answers.

Within seconds, a uniformed security guard materializes, clearing his throat. “Sir, if you’re not a guest here, I’m afraid you can’t—”

“ It’s all right. ”

Alex looks up to see Shaan Srivastava himself, phone in hand, approaching with that trademark stoic expression.  The guard steps back, deferring to him. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz,” Shaan says, eyes narrowing as he surveys Alex’s soggy clothes. “Come with me, please.”

He ignores the disapproving stares and follow Shaan leads to the private elevator. The doors slide open with a chime, and they step inside. Shaan presses the button for the tenth floor. “I trust you realize how reckless this is,” he says menacingly. “Mr. Fox is a household name, and you’re just beginning your career. If word gets out that you’ve barged in like this—”

Alex clenches his fists. “I know, okay? I’m sorry. But I need to see him. He can’t just…” He can’t say He can’t just kiss me and run.

Shaan nods tersely. The elevator glides upward. “This will be the last time I allow such a scene, Mr. Claremont-Diaz. We can’t afford a scandal.”

Alex bites down on his lip, guilt warring with anger. “I get it.” He rubs a palm across his damp forehead. “I just… I’ll say what I have to say, and then I’m out of here.”

They reach the tenth floor, the doors sliding open onto a hushed corridor lined with cream wallpaper and tasteful sconces. Shaan leads him to a suite at the end of the hall, swipes a keycard, and pushes the door open a crack before turning to Alex.

“You have five minutes,” Shaan says. “And for what it’s worth, I suggest you keep your voices down.” Then he stands aside, letting Alex slip in.

“Thanks,” Alex mutters. As he crosses the threshold, Shaan adds, “This is the last time I’ll let it slide. Understand that.”

Alex’s cheeks burn. “Yeah. Understood.” He’s about to stammer more, but Shaan closes the door behind him.

The suite is all quiet luxury and soft lamplight—thick carpeting, plush couches in subtle gold and beige, a nice arrangement of white roses on a glass coffee table. It smells of bergamot and something expensive, like the whole room is custom-scented.

Alex stands near the entrance, feeling acutely aware of every drop of water clinging to him, of the fact that he absolutely does not belong in this world. Then Henry appears from a side room, halting mid-step when he sees Alex. He’s still in the same clothes from the club and his hair is slightly disheveled, face pale, eyes ringed with tension. The same one that Alex’s own heart has been clutched in all night.

For a second, his chest twists with a complicated longing, and he attempts a smile. “Hi.”

Henry’s jaw setting in a line that spells trouble. “Have you no shame?” he demands. “You show up here, cause a ruckus in the lobby—do you have any idea what that could cost me?”

Alex’s mouth falls open. Not the greeting he expected. “ I have no shame? You’re the one who—” His voice spikes. “You literally kissed me and then vanished! And now you’re lecturing me about the scandal?”

Henry’s eyes flash with a fury Alex rarely sees, like he’s been holding everything in and it’s finally splintering. “You might be a rising star, but you don’t seem to realize how precarious this is. I can’t have you bursting into my hotel at midnight, making demands, risking—”

Alex’s frustration explodes. “Risking what, Henry? The tabloids? The big secret that you kissed me in a sweaty nightclub and left me alone, like an idiot, on the dance floor? If you’re so worried about your image, maybe you shouldn’t have done it in the first place!”

Henry looks momentarily stricken, but his features set into a cold mask. “I told you, I’m not who you think I am. You’ve built up some idolized version of me in your head—”

“You’re right,” Alex snaps. “I did idolize you. Ever since I was thirteen. Then I grew up, realized you can be a total jerk when you treated me like I was nothing at the audition. But I still—” He stops, smiling painfully. “liked you anyway. I got to know you better, and I… I thought we were becoming friends. Then you do this —and blame me for showing up, wanting an explanation? I’m not naive. I’m aware of what’s at stake. But guess what? You still kissed me. You can’t just throw that bomb and run away. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?

Henry flinches, and for a split second, Alex sees guilt in his eyes. Then Henry’s voice drops, almost a plea. “Alex, just leave..”

His chest clenches with fresh fury. “You think I want to stay here, hearing you scold me like a child? I came because I deserve an explanation. You owe me that. So which is it? Are you so repressed you can’t even handle your own impulses? Or do you just enjoy toying with me?”

“I—I’m not what you think I am.”

Alex’s voice drops to a simmer. “Yeah? Well, maybe you’re worse than I thought. Because right now, you’re acting like scum. And I regret every second I wasted liking you.”

“I’m—“ Henry stops and just a silent heartbreak crosses his features. Alex can’t stand another second of it. He spins on his heel, ignoring the rush of tears that threaten to spill, and he storms out into the corridor.

The next morning, Alex wakes up to the buzz of his phone rattling aggressively on top of his head. “Hey, Zahra.” His voice comes out scratchy, not nearly as confident as he’d like.

Zahra wastes no time. “Thank God you’re up,” she says, words urgent. “We have a problem.”

His stomach does a swift nosedive. “What kind of problem?”

“The After Fall production is on indefinite hold. Henry Fox quit last night.”

“He—what?” He literally has to steady himself with a hand on the edge of the bed. “He can’t just— He’s the lead! How can they possibly—?”

“I know,” Zahra interrupts. “He emailed the producers around two a.m. Some official statement about creative differences and personal commitments. Henry’s out, and the film can’t move forward without its biggest star. They’re losing their anchor. The studio’s going ballistic.”

Henry quit ? He poured weeks into table reads and training sessions, he’s practically the face of the entire project. “That’s insane. They can’t recast him that fast. The entire schedule—”

Zahra sighs heavily. “You’re telling me. The entire production is basically on hold while they figure out if they’ll attempt a recast or shut down entirely. There’s talk about months of delay or even indefinite cancellation. Investors are freaking out, staff’s being told to stand by.”

A numbness spreads through his limbs. He sinks back against his pillow. “Have you heard from him personally?”

“Only a public statement from his agency, which is basically corporate PR spin.” Her voice is dry. “They said something about ‘Mr. Fox deciding to focus on other professional endeavors and philanthropic commitments at this time,’ that he ‘remains grateful for the opportunity but must step away due to personal reasons.’ You know, standard boilerplate. No mention of anything specific, obviously.”

Of course not. Alex presses his eyes shut. Personal reasons. That’s definitely code for I freaked out and torched the project. He’s not sure if he’s more furious or wounded. “So, it’s official, then. He’s gone.”

“Yes,” Zahra confirms. “We’ll see if the studio can salvage anything, but if Henry’s really out, it might all collapse. They banked on his name for distribution deals, marketing campaigns. The After Fall brand is built around him. Without Henry Fox, there’s no hype. Or not enough to justify the budget.”

He thinks about the entire crew. People who poured heart and soul into this project—now it’s hanging by a thread. And in some twisted way, he feels responsible. If last night’s meltdown is part of why Henry quit…

Zahra’s next words snaps him back. “Anyway, I wanted you to hear it from me before it hits the trades. Expect a media frenzy soon, maybe this afternoon. Keep your phone on—there’ll be statements, but the producers are as blindsided as we are. They might ask you for a comment.”

“Great,” Alex mutters, swallowing a surge of bitterness. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem,” she says, exhaling. “Just don’t do anything rash, okay? Let’s handle this carefully. I’ll keep you updated.”

By midday, the news is everywhere: Henry Fox Quits Upcoming Film ‘After Fall’; Production Halted. Entertainment sites plaster Henry’s agency statement: ‘Mr. Fox has decided to refocus on philanthropic work and upcoming solo ventures, departing the film after careful consideration…’

Some fans guess it’s a scheduling conflict. Others whisper about “health issues” or “burnout.” None of them know the truth, or how painfully it intersects with Alex’s last conversation with Henry.

The phone pings every few minutes with another article link from friends or acquaintances: OMG, is this real? So sorry, man. Heard about Henry quitting. He can’t bring himself to respond.

Eventually, he drags himself to his desk and opens his laptop, half-dreading, half-hoping. If Henry’s ignoring calls, maybe an email is all that’s left.

Maybe this is how it ends, with him pinned between heartbreak and regret, that final kiss still thrumming in his veins, and the film that once felt like a dream dissolving into headlines and question marks.

A part of him wonders if he should’ve left Henry alone that night, or never gone to the club, or never accepted that first audition. But regret is a hollow comfort.

It’s been two weeks since Henry quit the film, two weeks since the entire production ground to a tragic, humiliating halt, and Alex has tried everything—burying himself in reviewing for exams, even reorganizing his entire closet by color and function. None of it stops him from checking social media the second he wakes up.

So, naturally, he’s scrolling through a headline-littered feed at the crack of dawn when he sees it: Henry Fox Spotted in Geneva at some fancy socialite event, decked out in a cream double breasted suit, hair combed into submission, flashing that lethal grin at the cameras.

The article gushes about Henry’s “new philanthropic engagements,” accompanied by a shot of him holding a champagne flute like it’s a birthright.

It takes Alex a full five minutes of outraged sputtering to realize he’s been clenching his phone so hard his thumb’s going numb. He can’t decide which part irritates him most: that Henry looks like the picture of contentment, or that the caption calls him “poised and carefree.”

After all the chaos he left behind? The film is in limbo, the cast and crew in tears, and Henry is out there smiling for paparazzi in Geneva. Alex wants to throw his phone across the room, but he settles for a strangled grunt and stomps out of the kitchen before his mom can ask why he’s glaring daggers at an empty coffee mug.

The next day,  he escapes to his grandfather’s lake house that’s supposed to be a sanctuary from his swirl of Henry-related rage. He, June, and their grandfather set off on a small trekking trail that winds through patches of cedar and rocky outcrops.

Oliver leads the way, sporting a baseball cap and carrying a walking stick that’s more for show than support, while June chatters about some article she’s writing. They walk until the midday sun is blazing overhead, and the lake glitters between the trees, bright as a polished coin.

The trek itself is hardly epic—just a meandering route Oliver swears is good for “building character.” June jokes it’s more about building an appetite for lunch. They reach a spot overlooking the water, where a cluster of boulders forms a makeshift diving ledge. Oliver claims a foldable blue chair from his backpack that looks suspiciously like it might collapse if he sneezes. He sets it up under a patch of shade, roaming in his pocket for his beloved Leica camera.

“You kids go on,” he says. “I’ll document your foolishness from a safe distance.”

June and Alex exchange a glance, because they both know what’s coming next: an hour of Oliver snapping pictures from random angles, a personal paparazzi who actually loves them.

June peels off her tank top, revealing a brown swimsuit underneath. He shrugs out of his T-shirt, and they scramble down to the water. Alex dips a toe in— holy it’s cold, a jolt that makes him yelp.

June wades right in, and shrieks, “Oh my God, it’s freezing!”

“Shit,” Alex mutters, teeth threatening to chatter. He dives in with a splash, feeling the chill.

June surfaces, hair plastered to her cheeks. “Feeling better?” she asks, voice muffled by the gentle lapping of waves.

Alex sputters, “Better’s a strong word. Let’s say I’m feeling less likely to set my phone on fire.”

They float for a minute, letting the sun on their shoulders take the edge off the water’s chill. Alex is just starting to relax when June’s voice spikes in excitement.

“Awww, cutie! Alex, look!” She points to a small shape near the tree line, where the slope of rocks meets the brush.

He thinks it’s a stray dog. But no—the color is too vibrant, that trademark russet fur. It’s a fox ears pricked forward as it regards them with inquisitive eyes. He can’t see one without thinking of Henry. Fox… Henry Fox. Fuck.

“D’you think it’s friendly?” June whispers, treading water. “Can I pet it?”

Alex gave his head a sake, water droplets flying from his hair. “I doubt it. Probably just scoping us out.”

The fox stares for a minute, tail flicking, then scampers away into the brush. Gone before Alex can even blink again. When they trudge back to the lake house in the late afternoon, the sky is painted with streaks of orange. They’re sweaty from trekking, and all he wants is to take off his socks, down a gallon of ice water, and pretend Henry Fox doesn’t exist.

For dinner, they had the fish that their grandfather grilled which is flaky and perfectly seasoned, served up with corn on the cob and a pitcher of sweet tea that June guzzles like she’s in a desert.

After they clear plates and shoo Oliver off to his crossword puzzle, Alex and June decides for a movie marathon. Alex hugs the pillow on his bed with an old blanket thrown over his legs, June cross-legged on the floor surrounded by popcorn.

And before Alex knows it, they’re somehow on the third film of the night, which turns out to be 50 First Dates. It’s already 3:00 a.m., and June’s is slumping sideways, mouth open in a very unflattering snore.

“June,” he hisses, giving her foot a nudge. She snores louder in response, absolutely gone to the world. Fine. He picks up the remote and kills the TV. He’s about to sleep when Scout gives a low, rumbling growl from the living area. The hairs on his arms stand up. Scout doesn’t typically do menacing growls unless there’s a squirrel or an intruder.

The house is dark, the only light coming from the porch lamp sneaking through the window. He gets out despite heart picking up speed and sees Scout, fur bristling, teeth bared. Alex follows the dog’s gaze—there are  two strangers stepping out from behind kitchen. They’re both tall, but the man is huge—broad shoulders straining the white henley he’s wearing, dark hair cropped short, and a smirk twisting his lips. His eyes are red, a detail that sends Alex’s brain scrambling.

The woman beside him is slender, with pale skin and hair that’s almost black, framing a face that might be beautiful if it weren’t set in a predatory grin. Her eyes, too, glow with that eerie crimson. Scout growls louder, stepping in front of Alex protectively. The woman bares her teeth—her canine growing to fangs. He’s not imagining it.

The large man glances at the woman. “It’s him,” he says, smug. “He looks exactly like his ancestor, doesn’t he?”

The woman’s smile widens into something cruel. She shifts her gaze to Alex, and he swears he sees the flicker of hunger there.  “You,” she says, “are coming with us.”

His mind is already in overdrive when he hears a sleepy voice behind him. “Alex? Why’s Scout growling?” June appears in the hallway, one sleeve of her T-shirt slipping off her shoulder.

Her eyes land on the two intruders with their scarlet irises and menacing grins, and she literally stops mid-step, jaw dropping. “What the—”

The woman with the gleaming black hair snaps her head toward June, lips curling back over elongated fangs. She lunges, and Alex’s body moves on instinct.

“No!”  he shouts, darting in front of his sister. Scout growls ferociously at the woman’s ankles, trying to fend her off.

“Get away from my grandkids!”

A sudden crack of gunfire rips through the night, making everyone flinch. The bullet misses the massive man by a hair, blowing a splintered hole in the door frame. The pair hisses, but the muzzle of that rifle is enough to buy them a split second.

“Run!” their grandfather yells at them, racking the gun for another shot. “ Get your sister out of here!”

June’s eyes flick between Oliver and the intruders. “No—”

“Go!”  Oliver roars, pulling the trigger again. The shot whizzes past the woman’s shoulder, blowing a chunk of plaster from the kitchen wall. She whirls, furious, and the big man snarls in a guttural tone.

Alex grabs June’s wrist, yanking her away. They bolt for the front door, adrenaline screaming that they have seconds before these creeps regroup. Another bang from inside tells Alex that Oliver’s still shooting. He then hears the woman saying, “Get them! I’ll deal with the old man.”

He hauls June down the steps and into the yard. They tear across it, feet pounding. Every cricket chirp grating on his ears.

“What the hell was that?” June demands between ragged breaths. “They had red eyes— fangs , Alex!”

He can barely form words. “I—I don’t know, just— run!”

A low rumble of thunder growls overhead, the sky heavy with clouds that weren’t there an hour ago. A gust of wind whips through the trees, making them sway. They plunge into the thin line of woods, twigs snapping, branches clawing at their clothes.

June stumbles over a root, hisses a curse, and Alex catches her by the elbow. “Keep going!”

A flash of lightning in the distance illuminates the trunk of a massive cedar. They crash through a cluster of brush, then June screams.

”He’s here!” She points, and Alex’s blood runs cold. The huge man stands on a hanging branch overhead like a predator. He leaps down and there’s no way they can outrun him. He’s going to tear them apart. Fear spikes so intense it’s almost dizzying.

Just as the man lunges for them, something small and russet slams into him from the side, snarling. A fox. Lightning forks across the sky again, casting everything in strobing white.

The fox is pinned to the man’s chest. It looks freakishly strong for its size, but the man wrenches free with a roar. Another crash of thunder, and the fox changes .

His eyes nearly bug out. In the space of a heartbeat, the fox’s limbs elongating until it’s no longer an animal at all. June gasps behind him.

It’s Henry.

The man staggers back, scowling. “Mind your business, shifter,”  he snarls, baring teeth. “These brats are ours.”

Another thunderclap splits the night. Alex watches both of Henry’s hands crackling with a bright-blue glow.

“You’ll have to get through me first,” Henry growls.

Chapter Text

Two weeks prior…

Henry’s inbox is in shambles—emails from a frantic agency, messages from a disappointed studio, and a publicist’s carefully crafted note about “other endeavors.” His mother hasn’t called, while his grandmother’s single text is simply, “Good decision.”

It is twelve hours since he abandoned that hotel room, leaving his heart in fragments and telling Alex, “You don’t know me. I’m not who you think I am.” In that span, he grows to despise himself more than he ever imagined.

He ignores Shaan’s insistent calls, dismisses every urgent email from his agency, and avoids glancing at the harsh headlines predicting his downfall. A knock at the door interrupts his isolation.

“Get up,” Shaan orders, yanking open the curtains. Morning light floods the room, forcing Henry into reluctant wakefulness. “The agency is outraged. The studio is in chaos. Investors are restless, and producers are weighing drastic measures. You have abandoned the most anticipated film of the year without a word.”

Henry sits at the edge of his bed, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. “I sent them an email,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I’ve paid them out. Whatever it costs—I just can’t stay on that film..”

Shaan’s gaze hardens. “And you did nothing for Mr. Claremont-Diaz?”

Henry’s hand twists around the bedsheet until it digs into his skin. “It was necessary.”

Shaan’s disappointment is palpable. “You are afraid. Instead of facing what you feel, you run. You hide behind this idea of self-preservation.”

Henry’s eyes drop to the floor. “I have spent my pretending to belong in a world that never truly accepted me. Do you know what it would mean if I allowed myself to want this?”

Shaan stands silent, his expression a mix of pity and resolve. “You should at least call him,” he insists.

“I can’t,” Henry replies.

Shaan exhales slowly. “Then you must be prepared to live with the consequences.”

Later that morning, Bea storms into the study. Henry sits by a bow window, nursing a glass of whiskey and struggling to focus on the pages of a book that refuse to hold his attention. 

“You quit without a word, Henry,” she snaps, marching forward to him. “Now you hide like a ghost.”

Henry averts his gaze. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

“Perhaps I do understand. You’ve run again, leaving behind a trail of chaos—upending productions, betraying trust, and hurting Alex. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“It’s better this way,” he insists, though the uncertainty in his voice betrays him.

“Better for who?” Bea challenges. “It isn’t better for Alex. And it isn’t better for you. I know you, Henry. I know the battles inside you. Pushing him away will not erase the pain. You love him, don’t you?”

The truth is plain on his face.

“Then don’t hurt yourself,” Bea pleads.

But he has already made his choice.

Over the next two weeks, Henry throws himself into a relentless schedule. He attends endless board meetings that are all about discussions of mergers and acquisitions. He donates substantial sums to select charities and makes few public appearances, standing beside dignified figures and offering forced smiles to the cameras.

He spends two days in Geneva, attending a fundraiser where he’s photographed looking “carefree.” It’s a lie.

His grandmother is pleased. “You’re finally focusing on what matters,” she tells him over phone.

He tells her what she wants to hear.

At night, he sits in his study, beer in hand, staring at his phone.

Alex’s name is there.

He types, I’m sorry.

Deletes it.

Types, I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types nothing at all. 

Two weeks later…

Henry sits beside his mother in the back seat of a discreet, government-plated SUV, watching the Colorado terrain blur through tinted windows. The road leading to ADX Florence is long and barren, marked by swathes of desert scrub and the occasional chain-link fence.

His phone vibrates on his pocket. Another call from the studio, no doubt. Henry ignores it. He senses his mother eyeing him calmly, assessing his demeanor. She sits with perfect poise, the collar of her coat framing her  face.

“You haven’t spoken to anyone from the production,” she says.

Henry shifts his gaze to the window. “There’s nothing more to say,” he replies, trying not to sound defensive. “I’m not going back.”

Catherine offers a nod, neither approval nor condemnation. “You need to remember,” she says, “there is a cost for every choice.”

They pass the last guard tower on the perimeter, a gray spire with cameras pivoting to track their approach. ADX Florence, the ‘Alcatraz of the Rockies,’ rises in the near distance—harsh lines of concrete and steel under the midday sun.

He’s aware that Freedman’s fate is sealed. Once a vampire is declared rogue by the council, no mortal law can protect them. The SUV slows at a heavy gate flanked by armed personnel. One of the guards requests identification, and glances at Catherine. Within seconds, they’re waved through.

They park in a cordoned-off section near an inconspicuous entrance. As Henry steps onto the asphalt, a cold wind bites through the thin mountain air. With brisk steps, they head toward a reinforced door labeled Authorized Personnel Only.

Waiting for them is a tall man with graying hair, dressed in a Bureau of Prisons uniform. A brass nameplate reads Assistant Warden Andrew Matheson.

“Welcome,” Andrew says, extending a nod, “I’m Assistant Warden Matheson. We’ve arranged everything per the instructions from your Council.”

Henry recalls the negotiations between several countries’ government and the High Council. Decades of secrecy balanced on an agreement to keep vampire affairs out of the public eye. In cases where a vampire goes rogue—feeding on humans indiscriminately, breaking the laws that keep their existence concealed—the council steps in.

The government, anxious to avoid a media circus and widespread panic, quietly complies. They label every rogues as “deceased,” closing the case with minimal scrutiny. Meanwhile, the High council enforces its own sentence, far from public courts and judicial hearings.

“This way,” Andrew says, gesturing for them to follow.

They trail the assistant warden through a corridor that is notably more secure than a typical prison wing: blast-proof doors, thick glass observation windows, and multiple electronically locked gates.

Purebloods—like his mother—born with vampiric lineage, often hold the highest authority. Half-breeds occupy a more precarious standing, neither fully human nor pureblood, but still protected under certain council laws. The turned are those who were once human and survived a vampire’s bite. They live under close scrutiny from the council, required to follow strict regulations.

Should a turned vampire disobey those laws and go “rogue,” as James Freedman did—slaughtering humans and risking discovery—the penalty is death.

They arrive at a thick metal door with a digital panel. Matheson scans an ID badge, then types a code. A muted click signals the door unlocking, and he holds it open.

Inside, the air feels even colder, the hum of ventilation more pronounced. Toward the back stands a glass-walled cell—reinforced panels with silver-embedded steel frames to weaken any vampire confined inside.

James Freedman crouches on the cell floor, restrained by heavy manacles. Henry sees his features twist into a feral grin—eyes sunken, skin pallid, canines elongated. Freedman’s body trembles with suppressed aggression, even subdued, a rogue vampire is dangerous.

They step closer to the reinforced glass. Freedman lifts his gaze, a faint hiss escaping his lips. “They send their royalty, do they?” His voice dripping with mockery. “I expected more ceremony.”

“James Freedman,” Catherine addresses him in a level tone, “you know why we’re here.”

“I know you’re here to spout your pompous laws to end me. But you want answers, don’t you?” He rattles his chains defiantly. “You want to who guided me into this glorious darkness?”

Henry glances at his mother. He senses her power thrumming beneath her calm exterior. “You will tell us everything. The council demands it.”

Freedman bares his fangs in a savage grin. “It won’t change anything. My master will rise to power soon. Daylight will soon ends and Darkness will prevail.”

Catherine’s eyes bore into Freedman’s. “Speak,” she commands.

Freedman resists her control, his face contorting in pain, but Catherine’s control over him is stronger. “Delilah,” the names rolls off his tongue. “She promised me power… told me I could roam free… feed as I please… if I carried out our will.”

Catherine presses further. “Who is Delilah? And What will?”

Freedman clutches at his restraints, fighting the compulsion. Veins protrude on his neck. “She serves Odessa directly. The Council… you… all pureblood lines… will kneel before our master or be destroyed.”

The guard by the door shifts uneasily, hand near his gun. Catherine keeps her focus on Freedman. “And how soon does she intend to move?” she demands.

Freedman’s eyes roll back, and a wet, rasping laugh escapes him. “It’s already begun. This preludes to the final night.” Then, with one last act of defiance, Freedman’s face contorts in a sneer. “You can kill me, but you can’t stop us. No one can!”

Catherine takes a measured breath. “End yourself,” she orders, her voice filling the chamber with absolute authority. “Now.”

Freedman’s chest heaves, his expression a clash of fury and terror. He brings his hands to his throat unwillingly. Henry watches as Freedman’s eyes glisten with panic. “Odessa…” he chokes out in one last whisper then twists his head at a brutal angle.

There is a sickening crack. Freedman collapses, the savage light extinguishing in his eyes as his body goes limp. The assistant warden stares, momentarily stunned.

Catherine looks at Andrew. “Ensure the official record stands. Freedman died en route to this facility.”

“Understood,” Andrew says, eyeing Freedman’s lifeless form with Henry can tell as fear.

The wind tugs at Catherine’s coat, and Henry can’t help noticing the slump in her usually perfect posture. He wonders if Freedman’s demise has weighed on her more than she lets on.

They walk in silence across the tarmac. His mother is wearing her customary wayfarer sunglasses, shielding her eyes from the glare off the runway. The surrounding mountains stretch in a hazy panorama under a pale afternoon sky.

He slows his steps, and Catherine immediately senses it. She stops a few paces from the aircraft stairs, turning to face him. The jet’s cabin door stands open, a flight attendant poised just inside. Catherine removes her sunglasses, folding them in her coat’s pocket.

“Son,” she says, “go where you want to go.”

At first, he isn’t sure he heard her correctly. She holds his gaze, an empathetic twist to her lips. As if granting him permission to depart.

Three hours later, Henry stands among the oak trees. His body tingles and the warmth in his spine rippling out until fur sprouts across his skin, muscles shifting. He presses his hands—now turning to paws—into the leaf litter. In seconds, the transformation completes, and he stands on four limbs as a red-brown fox.

As a fox, he senses the world in deeper shades of scent and sound. He passes a large cypress stump, the same one he remembers from long ago, still rotted on one side. Nothing here has changed much.

Henry’s ears pick up voices drifting from somewhere down the shoreline. He creeps closer until he sees a wooden dock, and, on it,  two figures.

Alex and June.

He wants to go to him, to apologize or at least offer some kind of explanation. But he can’t forget the harsh words he throws at him. So he slowly retreats, step by silent step, until he’s back in the cover of the trees, unseen.

Night soon settles. He sits on a low boulder, folding his arms and resting them on his knees, content to simply watch from afar. One by one, the interior lights of the lake house click off, and soon only a porch light remains glowing.

Turning on his heel, he heads into the deeper part of the woods until he feels two presence at least fifty yards away but closing in. The tang of their presence tugs at his heightened awareness. They’re heading toward the lake house.

Henry clenches his fists and shifts to fox form once more, his heart beats at a fearful pace. He hopes he isn’t too late.

Alex stands a dozen paces behind Henry, mud clinging to his bare feet. June breathes in quick, panicked bursts, her bare arms dotted with scratches from their frantic dash through the brush. She glances from Alex to Henry as if expecting for something worse than any of them have imagined.

Henry stands rooted between them and the intruder, posture balanced like he’s ready to lunge or dodge at the slightest movement. Rain drips from his hair, tracing lines down the side of his face. Thin streaks of pale-blue light pulse across his knuckles, a subtle current that raises hairs on Alex’s forearms whenever it crackles.

The other man snarls, “Fine. You’ll die first.”

Henry meets him head-on, no warning. Their bodies collide with a sickening thud that radiates through the woods. Henry tries to force the vampire’s arms aside and slam an electrical pulse into his chest, but the other man twists free with startling speed. He’s strong, impossibly so, and for a second they lock into a motionless grapple: Henry’s arms braced against the vampire’s wrists.

Rain intensifies, pounding on leaves overhead, splattering across the ground. Alex tastes iron on his tongue. Henry shoves the vampire’s left arm wide, and drives a crackling fist into his ribs. A bright snap of energy sparks in the gloom. The man reels back with a furious hiss, pain written in every line of his face.

June muttering under her breath behind him, her voice a tremor away from panic. They both sense another threat lurking somewhere. The male vampire recovers quickly. He lunges again, delivering a savage backhand that Henry barely deflects. The impact sparks a crack, and Henry staggers, feet skidding on the slick ground.

Henry’s posture squares up once more. Tiny arcs of electricity flicker along his forearms, lighting his profile in flashes. He seizes the vampire by the shoulder, jabs his opposite palm into the guy’s chest, and unleashes a wild surge of energy.

Thunder booms, mingling with the man’s agonized howl. His body snaps backward, slamming into the trunk of a towering tree. Bark splinters on impact. Henry’s face looks haunted and determined all at once.

The man slides down the trunk in a crumpled posture, snarl twisting into a nasty grin. His shirt tears at the shoulder, revealing dark, winding veins bulging across pale skin. A chilling laugh escapes his lips. “You’re half of what you should be,” he jeers. “A scrawny half-breed who thinks he can stand against real power.”

Henry’s jaw flexes, and for a moment, Alex sees anger there. The vampire lurches upright, ignoring the scorched pattern seared into his chest. He lunges a third time, lightning-fast. Henry blocks with his forearm, but the vampire ducks low and slams a shoulder into Henry’s stomach, driving him hard against the tree.

They grapple in a mess of elbows, fists, and snapping fangs. Alex can’t tear his eyes away, even as his stomach knots with dread. He spots an opening—Henry’s about to land another shock—but the vampire twists around, hooking a leg behind Henry’s calf. Henry loses his footing, slams onto his back in a pool of mud, the wind knocked from his lungs.

“Henry!” Alex shouts. His own voice choked with worry. He runs forward, unsure what he’s even planning to do.

June grabs his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do!”

The wretched raises a foot, aiming to stomp Henry’s ribcage. Henry twists last-second, rolling clear. He scrambles upright, blue sparks sputter around his palms, weaker this time.

A rustling from the left draws Alex’s eye. The female slid closer, her silhouette barely distinguishable in the blackness. A stripe of moonlight reveals sleek hair plastered to her cheeks, feral eyes locked on June. She’s circling the perimeter, looking for a chance to strike.

Henry notices, too, flicking a glance toward her. He doesn’t dare move from his fight, but the warning in his eyes: Stay behind me.

The man forces Henry into a frantic exchange of blows. Henry parries each strike but can’t break away. Sparks drip from his fingertips, the crackle of power growing faint.

The female takes that moment to dart in, eyes set on June. With a fierce snarl, she leaps across the clearing, hand curved into claws aimed at June’s throat. Alex acts without thinking. He steps in front of June, fists useless compared to a vampire’s strength.

Before she can land her hit, a blinding muzzle flash erupts near the tree line. A gunshot cuts the air in two. The female vampire screeches, jerking sideways as a splatter of inky blood pools from her shoulder.

All heads snap toward the sound. There, limping through the underbrush, is Oliver, rifle braced against his hip. His eyebrows knit in fierce determination. Another shot rings out—thunderous in the night—and this time it rips through the female vampire’s right shoulder blade. She doubles over, coughing up a harsh snarl.

Seizing the distraction, Henry lands his final blow. He slams his palm against the male vampire’s sternum, unleashing the last of his energy in a violent burst of blue. The vampire convulses, eyes flaring wide, before collapsing into the mud, unmoving.

Lightning flashes overhead, briefly illuminating Henry’s exhausted frame. He staggers backward, chest heaving, sparks fizzing out around his hands. The male vampire doesn’t rise. The female drops to her knees near the treeline, torn between fleeing and attacking again.

Oliver’s rifle remains trained on her. Rain courses down the barrel, dripping from his elbows. “You make one more move,” he warns, voice filled with rage, “and I finish you off.”

Snarling, the female vampire meets Oliver’s glare—then with a final hiss, she whirls and bolts into the dense trees. A moment later, she’s gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Silence clutches the clearing, punctuated only by the patter of raindrops on leaves and the breathing of everyone still standing. Alex realizes his nails are biting into his palms hard enough to hurt. He tears his gaze from the place where the vampire disappeared, then rushes to Henry’s side.

Henry stands unsteadily, eyes closed, mud streaked across his cheeks and forearms. Alex reaches for him, voice shaking. “Hey…”

Henry’s eyes slowly open and just stares back. Oliver exhales, lowering the rifle. June kneels in the grass, pressing both hands over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. The storm sputters overhead, thunder receding into a rumble as the worst of the danger passes, for now.

All the while, the male vampire lies motionless in the mud. Smoke curls from the scorched imprint across his chest. Henry sags against Alex’s shoulder, and Alex wraps an arm around him, unable to shake the feel of electricity still dancing along Henry’s skin.

Oliver’s voice rasps with urgency. “We need to get him inside,” he says, nodding at Henry’s slack form. “He’s done in.”

Alex manages to nod back. His arms quiver under Henry’s weight. June wedges her shoulder beneath Henry’s arm. “Let me—” Alex ducks under Henry’s other side.

They manage to heft him across Alex’s back. Henry’s head lolls against Alex’s shoulder, damp hair brushing Alex’s cheek. A few yards away lies the vampire’s corpse, sprawled in the mud with limbs askew. Its eyes are wide open, clouded by death.

A new wave of nausea pinches June’s features. “What do we—“ she gags, “do with him?”

“I’ll handle that,” Oliver says, “This man needs help first.”

They shuffle through the dripping woods, each step squelching in wet leaves. Henry’s arms sway limply over Alex’s shoulders, but Alex senses a faint stirring—like some part of Henry is trying to wake.

He whispers, “Hang on,” not knowing if Henry can hear him.

Scout’s bark cuts through the night before they even reach the lake house. The porch lamp halos the old dog’s shape, his tail raised in alarm. Rain patters on the wooden steps.

“Good boy,” Oliver soothes, patting Scout’s head in passing. “It’s all right. We got him.”

They stagger onto the porch. June fumbles with the handle, and the door pushes open. Alex half-stumbles over the threshold, Henry is dead weight in his arms.

They stagger onto the porch. June fumbles with the handle, and the door pushes open. Alex barely registers the warm glow of the interior lights. He half-stumbles over the threshold, heart pounding. Henry is dead weight in his arms.

“Couch,” Oliver commands, snapping on the overhead fixture. “Put him there.”

June kicks a stray shoe aside, clearing a path. Alex carefully lowers Henry onto the sofa. The moment Alex pulls back, a sharp prickle of panic clenches his chest—somehow seeing Henry laid out like this wrenches him even more.

Scout bounds forward, hackles raised, letting out a low rumble from deep in his throat. Oliver is quick to click his tongue. “No, Scout,” he says firmly, nudging the dog back. “He’s a good one. None of that.”

The dog yields, ears still flattened in uncertainty. June paces in front of the coffee table, arms locked across her ribs. Her laughter suddenly bubbles out, a near-hysterical sound.

“We just… fought vampires,” she says. “Fucking vampires. I was right!” She stabs a finger toward the open door. “I’m not insane. Vampires are real!”

Oliver sets down his rifle, leaning it against the wall. He rummages under the end table for a battered first-aid kit. “They’re real, all right,” he says. “And this one here”—he tips his head at the unconscious Henry—“is half-blood, from what I can tell.”

Alex’s knees give out. He drops onto the floor, mud smearing across the hardwood. “Half-blood,” he repeats, voice hollow. His mind flicks to Henry shifting from fox to man.

June spins, pointing a shaking finger at Oliver. “You always said none of that was real!” Her expression is between anger and relief. “Tío Armando wasn’t crazy—he was telling the truth!”

“I never thought it would come to this, m’ija.” Oliver reaches for Henry’s wrist, checking for a pulse, then gently tilts Henry’s head aside, looking for other injuries. Scout emits another growl, snout creeping closer for a better sniff. Oliver’s palm steadies on the dog’s neck. “He saved you tonight, Scout. That’s reason enough to trust him.”

Alex still can’t get a handle on his own thoughts while June’s voice breaks in. “All right, Grandpa, you can’t just say, ‘They’re real,’ and leave it at that. What on earth are you not telling us?” She flings her arm toward Henry again. “Vampires?!”

Oliver inhales. “It goes back centuries, Fourteenth century, to be precise. Our family… well, we had ancestors who joined a holy order. They fought rogue vampires under the leadership of a vampire known as Odessa—Tio Armando called her the Queen of a Thousand Demons. She ruled a legion of vampires who terrorized half of Europe.”

June’s lips part. Alex feels his lungs constrict. He shifts onto one hip, supporting himself with a shaky palm braced on the floor. Oliver continues, “No one could stop her except one man, Leandro Ruiz—one of our ancestor. Our family fought with the holy order for centuries, hunting her rogues across Europe. Eventually, the fighting spilled over into the New World. In the eighteenth century, our ancestor, Mateo Ruiz, was stationed in Mexico where he met Isabela Díaz. He left the order, married her, and took her family name. They started a normal life.”

June’s mouth works silently, as if grappling for words. She half-laughs, half-chokes. “That’s crazy. And you never believed it?”

“It was always just a story to me—some old family legend that Tio Armando tried to keep alive. He believed it, tried to warn us. I… well, I thought it was myth.” Oliver’s complexion ashen, mouth slack.

A cold sweat breaks across Alex’s skin. He tries to swallow, but his throat is bone-dry. This can’t be real. And yet, he just helped carry an unconscious vampire—half-vampire—through his front door. He saw fangs, saw red eyes, heard their snarls. He saw Henry shift forms in a blink. Denial is impossible.

Oliver sighs wearily and glances at Henry’s unconscious form again. “Right now, we look after him and figure out the rest as we go.”

Alex closes his eyes, resting his forehead on his knuckles. His entire sense of normalcy has shattered in the span of an hour.

Chapter Text

It has been ten hours.

That’s how long Henry has been knocked out on Alex’s grandfather’s couch, not moving, barely breathing. Ten whole hours—which is longer than Alex can process without going a little nuts. Somehow, in Alex’s head, vampires are these tireless creatures who never sleep, always up to something in the dead of night. But Henry’s out colder than any human he’s ever seen.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the sofa, arms draped over his knees. His mind churns with disjointed fragments of the night’s disaster: the storm-soaked fight, Henry’s fox form, the electricity snaking over Henry’s hands. His own grandfather shouting about rogue vampires. And the worst part: it was all real .

Every time Alex leans in, he can hear a soft inhale, maybe a small exhale, but that’s it. No other movement. No miraculous opening of those eyes that used to look at him like they held about a thousand secrets.

Thunder murmurs in the distance, an echo of the storm that passed. Time crawls. Ten hours is a long stretch to watch someone who you’ve recently learned is half-vampire, asleep.

Vampires sleep? Alex thinks for the fifth time today. He’d assumed they spent nights lurking on ceilings or doing shady business, definitely not conked out on a sofa. But apparently, Henry is full of contradictions, including the part where he’s also partially human, which might explain the exhaustion.

He’s supposed to be writing a final paper for his politics class. Right now, that feels so trivial it’s almost insulting. He picks idly at a loose thread on his sock and glances at the couch again. Henry’s still out cold.

A noise from the hallway startles Alex. He glances back to see June stepping in, wearing an old hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. She holds a glass of water, takes a sip, then sets it on the coffee table. She’s been up half the night and is one weird comment away from snapping.

Which, honestly, describes them both.

“You haven’t moved in ages,” she says, stopping near Alex’s shoulder. “I figured you were either in some meditative trance or had turned to stone.”

He huffs a grim laugh. “It’s definitely turning-to-stone territory.” Then he glances at Henry again. “He’s still out.”

“Yeah,” June says softly, hooking her thumbs in her hoodie pockets. “Grandpa says it’s not that weird. Half-vamps needs time to heal, especially after burning up so much power.” She grimaces. “I can’t believe I’m talking about vampire powers like it’s a normal thing.”

They both fall silent, the clock ticking off more minutes. Alex tries to stay calm, but his mind keeps replaying that moment Henry collapsed onto him, arms limp. He can’t shake the memory of Henry’s chest rattling with short, labored breaths before he slipped away.

“You sure you’re okay?” June asks.

“I’m…” He lets the sentence hang. He’s not okay. 

“I still can’t believe it. All of it.” She looks at Henry’s limp arm draped off the cushion. “Sometimes I keep expecting him to dissolve into a bat. Or wake up screaming about holy water. I—” She exhales. “We joked about vampires for months, Alex. And now…”

“…Now it’s real,” he finishes.

She nods. Alex can hear Scout scratching at the back door outside, probably sniffing for more intruders. The dog’s been on edge all night.

June folds her arms, stepping closer to the couch. She looks at Henry’s pale face, faint smudges under his eyes, hair stuck to his forehead. “He actually looks… I don’t know… younger, like this,” she says. “I guess that’s the half-human part. Does that even make sense?”

Alex doesn’t know how to respond without unlocking the swirling pit of confusion in his chest. “You should rest,” he tells her. “We were up all night.”

“I tried,” June says, voice tight. “Kind of didn’t work. You know, nightmares about red-eyed freaks—“ she stops when Henry’s lashes tremble, and an inaudible groan slips out.

Immediately, Alex scrambles to his knees, leaning closer. “Henry?”

Henry’s eyelids open, disoriented. His gaze flicks around then landing on Alex. A small exhale escapes him, confusion etched in every angle of his expression.

June inches forward then takes out rosary that Alex recognizes that belongs to their grandfather. “You’re not… allergic to this, are you?”

Henry blinks at the crucifix. “That’s not—” He stops to swallow. “That’s not how it works.”

“Good.” She sets the rosary on the coffee table. “Because I wasn’t sure if we’d have to fling that at you or something.”

Alex rubs at the tension in his neck. “You’ve been out for hours,” he murmurs. “Ten, to be exact.”

Henry pushes himself up on his elbows, grimacing at what must be muscle aches. “I—my body needed to recover,” he says. “I appreciate you… letting me do that here.”

Alex notices the bruises lining Henry’s neck and arms from last night’s fight. They look a sickly blend of blue and violet. The guilt and worry swirl in Alex’s chest. He wants to say something, to ask a thousand questions, but he doesn’t know where to start.

“You kind of saved our lives out there. Or at least prevented us from getting mauled by that creepo,” June says. “We had to return the favor somehow.”

He glances at the rosary again, lips curving into the smallest smile. “I promise I’m not about to burst into flames.”

June laughs. “Awesome.” Then her eyes sharpen. “Because we have a million questions. Starting with: what the hell was that last night? And how are you… what you are?”

“I suppose your grandfather explained some of it?”

Alex nods. “He gave us the short version. But we want your side.”

Henry draws a breath, wincing as he shifts. “I’m half-human, half-vampire,” he begins, meeting Alex’s eyes with honesty. “My father was human, my mother… wasn’t. I inherited enough traits to pass for human most of the time—like body heat, non aversion to the sun—but I still need blood for certain, um, physical processes. That’s why my… powers… can drain me so quickly. The electricity. The shifting. It’s not something I can do endlessly. I need rest.”

“So you’re basically half of both worlds?” June asks immediately.

“Something like that.” His gaze flicks to the window where drizzle still taps the glass. “I’m sorry if I deceived you.” His voice is quiet. “But this isn’t exactly something I can announce in a press release.”

“We get that,” Alex says.

June sits onto the sofa, crossing her legs. “Grandpa’s outside, probably poking at the yard to see if more of those creeps are lurking. Or burying that dude’s corpse.” She throws Henry a pointed stare. “That’s normal for us now, apparently.”

Henry’s expression shutters. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I truly didn’t mean for you to be dragged into any of this.”

“I guess we should be thankful you showed up,” Alex says. “We’d be toast if you hadn’t.”

June snatches the rosary from the coffee table, lifting it in front of Henry’s face. “So, you’re not scared of crosses, you don’t shrivel in sunlight, you can shift into a fox?”

“A cross is just metal and wood,” Henry says simply. “Belief can have power, but that depends on the vampire and the faith involved. I’m… not fully vampire anyway.”

June exhales, dropping the rosary back onto her lap. “I’m not sure if you’re, like, secretly a hundred years old and just look twenty.”

Henry, still propped on an elbow with that half-awake haze, breathes out a raspy chuckle. “No,” he says. “I’m only twenty-four, I promise.”

“Seriously?” June says, eyeing Henry with skepticism. “Because I’ve read vampire romance novels where they look twenty but they’re, like, five centuries old.”

Henry pushes the blanket off his legs, wincing slightly as he sits up more fully. “I swear. Twenty-four.”

Scout chooses that moment to creep up. The dog’s tail is half-mast. Alex scoops Scout into his lap, the dog’s weight is pressing on his thighs. “Easy, buddy,” Alex murmurs, stroking the dog’s flank.

Scout’s ears go flat, and he issues a low growl, eyes locked on Henry. “It’s okay,” Alex reassures, giving Scout an encouraging scratch. “He’s—he’s not a threat.”

Henry’s gaze drops to the old dog. “Sorry,” he says softly. “Animals sense what I am. Some handle it better than others.”

“I guess it’s the canine version of ‘Stranger Danger,’” June mutters, tapping a foot against the floor. She eyes Henry again, no less wary than the dog.

Alex is still absorbing the information with a faint shudder at the idea of living beyond a normal human timeline. “Wait—so if you’re only twenty-four, you’re basically… on a different clock?”

Henry’s fingers shift over the hem of the blanket. “You could say that. Ten years for a human might only equal about one year of aging for me. My power won’t stabilize until I’m closer to a hundred and fifty.”

June’s expression is equal parts intrigued and unsettled. “So you’ll still be looking like that when we’re all old and gray? No offense, but that’s kind of horrifying.”

A rueful smile crosses Henry’s lips. “I’ve learned not to think too hard on it. Believe me, half-blood existence is a balancing act. It… isolates you.”

A soft creak from the porch signals Oliver’s return. The front door clicks shut, and he steps in. His gaze sweeps the room, and he exhales at the sight of Henry upright and awake.

“Well,” Oliver remarks, voice gruff, “guess you got your wits about you again?”

Henry manages a respectful nod. “I recover faster than humans—thank you for letting me rest.”

Oliver’s mouth twitches in acknowledgment. He settles onto the couch’s arm opposite June, posture guarded. “My ancestors must be groveling in their graves right now, seeing me house a vampire in here. Especially Leandro. Never thought I’d see the day.”

At that, Henry’s eyes glows in surprise. “Leandro Ruiz?” he echoes.

“Yeah,” Alex cuts in, hugging Scout closer for some measure of comfort.

Oliver rubs a hand over his weathered face then casts Henry a meaningful look. “That may be why those two creeps showed up last night.”

“That’s nuts , why?!” June exclaims. “And what If they come back? More of them? Because I’d love to know if we’re about to get ambushed again.”

Scout gives a low huff, as if echoing her anxiety. Alex shares a haunted look with June: They nearly died once already.

Oliver shifts, his shoulders hunched. “The best we can do is prepare—“

“I’ll help in any way I can,” Henry says. “I have… contacts.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Alex wonders what kind of network a half-vampire might have.

June breathes out, lip caught between her teeth as she thinks. “Okay,” she says, hugging her arms around herself. “We need to let Mom and Dad know once they’re back from Monterrey.”

Alex sets Scout gently on the floor, giving the dog a nudge to encourage him to back off from glaring at Henry. “If we can figure out why they attacked now, maybe we can stop it from happening again.”

“I might know someone who can help us piece it together,” Henry says. “I’ll reach out.”

Oliver nods, standing up. “Good. In the meantime, I suggest we all get some rest—again. I’ve been up all night making sure we didn’t have more uninvited guests.” He looks down at the floor, frowning at the dried puddles of muddy footprints. “This place is a mess.”

June glances from Oliver to Henry to Alex. “I’d pay money to see Tío Armando’s face right now if he were here.”

Oliver scoffs under his breath. “He’d probably read us the riot act about letting a half-blood lounge on our couch.”

Henry does his best to look apologetic, though it reads more like a quiet acceptance: he knows exactly how unnatural his presence might seem to a family of ex–vampire hunters.

Clearing his throat, Alex moves to the corner of the couch. He eases down carefully next to Henry, leaving just enough space not to crowd him. Henry doesn’t flinch or bolt thankfully.

“So,” Alex says in a measured voice. “You’ll be okay, right? You said you heal faster.”

Henry turns, meeting Alex’s gaze. “Yes,” he says simply. “I’m almost back on my feet.”

“Good. Because, you know, I’d hate for you to pass out again and scare the life out of me.”

Henry’s tired eyes twinkle with humor. “I’ll do my best to keep the fainting episodes to a minimum.”

The sun hangs bright enough to sting Henry’s eyes. Even in half-blood form, the glare can be uncomfortable. The house behind him creaks in a lazy breeze, the sound reminiscent of a front-porch lullaby—if the last twenty-four hours hadn’t been so lethal.

He holds his phone in one hand, the other still stiff from last night’s fight. A tremor runs up his forearm whenever he flexes it. He presses the phone to his ear and Shaan picks up on the third ring, voice practically brimming with pent-up anger.

“Sir. You fought two vampires in the middle of a forest and nearly got yourself killed. And you’re telling me this now? Several hours after the fact?”

Henry shuts his eyes. Shaan’s reaction is exactly what he expected. “I needed to rest,” he replies, apology settling in his tone. “Believe me, if I had the luxury of calling mid-battle, I would have. It all happened very quickly.”

“This is beyond reckless. You can’t just storm into fights like you’re a pureblood.”

Irritation sparks in Henry’s gut. “If I hadn’t intervened, Alex and his sister would be dead.”

He can hear Shaan’s frustration in the other end. “If you’d died—”

“I didn’t, obviously.” He quickly feels guilty. Shaan, in his own brusque way, is one of the few who genuinely cares for his well-being. “Listen, I need you to do something for me. The family’s all right for now, but we need more information.”

Shaan’s tone turns suspicious. “What sort of information?”

“I’m worried about how far Odessa’s loyalists have spread. I suspect the Vatican Archives might hold the records we need. If they still have the Templar documents from the fourteenth century, there could be references to the Diaz family line and how it ties in with Odessa’s defeat. I want you to see if we can obtain access,” Henry says.

“The Vatican Archives? ” Shaan echoes, voice going thin. “We might as well request Holy Father’s personal diary.”

A humorless smile lifts Henry’s mouth. “You know we have connections. Speak with the Pope’s secretary, or the cardinal who owes us a favor—my grandmother negotiated that arrangement decades ago, ensuring some future courtesy. They’ll grant you limited access, provided we keep it off the official record.”

Shaan almost growls. “If your grandmother finds out you’re calling in a Papal favor for a Alex’s family— and after you nearly died —”

“She’ll know soon enough,” Henry mutters, already resigned. “I’d rather let her hear it from me. And if she balks at the notion of me helping the Diaz family, I’ll handle that conversation directly. She won’t like it, but Alex’s family needs protection. We can’t ignore that.”

“I’m still missing pieces. Since when have you become their personal guardian?”

“Their ancestry goes back to Leandro Ruiz,” he explains.

“Wait. I thought Leandro never took a spouse? He was rumored to have no heirs.”

“He didn’t,” Henry confirms. “But apparently his grand-nephew, Matteo Ruiz, did. The name changed somewhere in the eighteenth century. That’s how the Diaz family came to exist. That’s why Odessa’s people might be after them.”

“So they’re on some revenge quest? Over a centuries-old feud that was never fully put to rest?” Another frustrated exhale from Shaan. “Christ.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Henry huffs out an ironic laugh. “I’d like any documentation from the archives—whatever might confirm the family’s role, or how to stop Odessa if she resurfaces. She might be behind these attacks, or maybe her followers act on her behalf. We don’t know yet.”

“Understood. I’ll try to get you access into the Vatican Archives.”

Henry sets his jaw, eyes tracing the worn boards of the porch. “I appreciate it.” A rustling from inside the house catches his attention—footsteps drawing close.

“Stay safe. If you end up fighting another—”

“I can take care of myself, Shaan,” Henry assures him. They exchange a quick goodbye, and Henry ends the call just as the screen door creaks.

Alex steps out onto the porch, there’s a tense breath between them . “Everything… all right?” Alex tries. The sun picks out red highlights in his hair, reminding Henry of that night at the club when the neon painted Alex’s face with color.

“As fine as it can be,” he replies, aware of how rigid he sounds. The last time they were truly alone, Henry had kissed him in a sweaty club, then run off like a coward. Not to mention the fiasco with the film production.

“Um, we’ve got lunch if… you’re, you know, hungry?” Alex nearly rolls his eyes at his own words, since Henry’s half-vamp.

But Henry’s body does process normal food. “I’d like that. Thank you.” He follows Alex back inside the living room, silence filling the gap between them. “This place is… nice,” Henry offers. “Cozy.”

“My grandfather’s had it for years,” Alex says as they near the kitchen. “We can, uh, eat in the kitchen, or on the porch if you need space. Whichever.”

“Kitchen’s fine,” he says, following. “But can we talk for a minute?”

Alex halts, turning around.

“I owe you an apology,” Henry starts. “Probably many apologies. I handled things horribly. You deserved better.”

Pain crosses Alex’s face. “Which one? For quitting the film? Or… the club kiss? Because yeah, we do need to sort that out, but—”

Henry lowers his gaze, steeling himself. “No. Not just that. In the hotel pool. You were attacked by a rogue vampire. I intervened. You saw me—saw everything It was too dangerous, so I compelled you to forget.”

Alex looks genuinely thrown, mouth parted in shock. “You— Are you serious?” His voice wavers.

Guilt constricts Henry’s throat. “I wiped the incident from your mind. I told you you’d slipped, hit your head. I left you to believe that. I’m sorry.”

“You… manipulated my mind?”

Henry wets his lips, heart pounding with dread. “I told myself it was for your own good. I couldn’t risk you asking questions, or exposing yourself to more danger. I convinced myself it was the only way. But I was just afraid. Of you seeing me the way I really am.”

Shame rakes across his chest. “I should’ve told you. I should never have forced you to forget.”

Alex breaks eye contact. “God. This is… a lot.”

“I know. I wish I could take it back.”

Alex lifts a hand, halting Henry’s words. “No, I get it—I guess you freaked out. Doesn’t mean I’m okay with it, but… I kinda see why.”

Henry rubs his thumb over a bruise on his own wrist. “The club fiasco… Quitting the film… it was—”

Bitterness twitches across Alex’s lips. “The production is on hold. You left me there to pick up the pieces. And now you’re back, half-dead in my living room. I’m mad you messed with my head. But you saved me from that thing. If you hadn’t, maybe I wouldn’t be here.” He exhales. “So, yeah. I can’t exactly hate you for that.”

“It was never my intention to use that power on you. I just…” He lets the explanation fade. There’s no good excuse. Henry glances at the floor, mustering the courage to meet Alex’s gaze again. “I—I want to help you. And your family. Keep you safe from whatever Odessa’s followers might do.”

He sees the same spark in Alex’s eyes that drew him in from day one—fierce, disconcertingly sincere. “Fine,” Alex says, chest rising with a reluctant acceptance. “We’ll try not to kill each other in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“Guess we’d better go. My sister might eat all the stew if we take too long. C’mon,” Alex says, nodding his chin toward the kitchen. “Lunch is on the table, getting cold. If you can even eat normal food?”

Henry’s lips curve upward, just a hair. “I can,” he says. “Half of me is still human enough to crave a decent sandwich.”

It’s early morning when they arrive at the small private airstrip. Henry steps onto the tarmac with a duffel slung over his shoulder, the wind ruffling his hair.

Behind him, Alex and June grapple with their luggage, exchanging low remarks that drift over the idle hum of the private jet’s engines. A wisp of cloud peels across the sky, and Henry tilts his head, catching the tang of jet fuel on the breeze.

“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” June mutters, shifting her carry-on to her other hand. “I’ve already been to the Vatican Archives once, remember? Did a bunch of research for an article, and they sure didn’t let me poke around the ‘secret vampire diaries’ section. I saw nothing. ”

Henry glances over. “You had standard academic access,” he reminds her gently. “They don’t exactly hand over Templar scrolls to every scholar who visits.”

She eyes the waiting jet, then tosses a narrow stare at Henry. “You’re telling me now we just stroll in and ask for… forbidden manuscripts ?”

“Essentially.” Henry shrugs. “It’s not as casual as you imagine, but my family’s connections can open doors normal passes can’t.”

Alex pipes up from behind them, dragging his suitcase so it rattles on the concrete. “That’s still… insane. You can’t just wave your ID badge at the Vatican’s staff and look around thousand-year-old documents.”

“Maybe not quite that easy,” Henry says. “But the Church grants certain exceptions—especially to pureblood families who’ve… negotiated over time.”

“Ugh,” June mutters, though a spark of intrigue betrays her frustration. “So we’re, like, letting ourselves get escorted to the secret basement room? Because that’s definitely not how it went down when I visited. They didn’t even let me see documents from the 18th century without a fight.”

Henry climbs the plane’s short steps first, pausing at the top to answer. “Seventy-five years is standard. Some require a hundred, others indefinite. But the Templar files lie behind deeper locks— we have access for those.” He tries for a reassuring smile. “When your ancestors live for centuries, you collect favors and pacts the way mortals collect… souvenirs.”

With that, he ducks inside, the cabin swallowing the outside wind. Polished fixtures, plush seats, it’s all too familiar to Henry, but he senses Alex and June’s awe, even if they refuse to show it. They stow their bags and settle in.

Within minutes, a flight attendant emerges from the forward galley, posture immaculate. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Fox. Mr. and Ms. Diaz. May I get you anything?”

Henry glances at Alex, who shrugs and murmurs, “Water, thanks.”

“Water as well,” Henry says.

June, having parked herself on the seat across the aisle, rattles off, “Mmm, coffee? Actually, do you have espresso? Wait, maybe a chai latte—no, you know what? Let’s do a triple espresso shot with a splash of cream.”

The attendant scribbles down everything. “Absolutely, Ms. Diaz,” she says and disappears After ten minutes, she returns with their drinks, setting down two bottles of water by Henry and Alex, and a tray of assorted beverages for June—milk tea, iced tea, hot chocolate—somehow all at once.

June’s in the midst of sipping her newly minted iced tea, eyebrows hitting her hairline. “Please enlighten us. How does your family have such an inside track with the Vatican?”

Henry locks his fingers together in his lap. “My line descends from  Sir Aelric de Vere, one of the Templar Grand Masters. What you’d consider a covert sect that tried an experimental approach to survive. The Holy Pact. They believed they were forging a divine solution to turn the tide of war, but it was more advanced blood alchemy. Not actual magic. Anyway, the Templar purge under King Philip IV of France was brutal. But a few managed to escape, carrying their condition with them.”

He taps his fingers on the armrest, gaze growing distant. “My great-great-grandfather traveled under different names for decades. Over time, he and others formed the early pureblood families. They used their centuries of life to amass wealth, negotiate pacts. Some ended up in Spain. My family line eventually settled in the UK.”

June’s lips part, coffee momentarily forgotten. “So that’s… how many families?”

“At least twelve. My grandmother’s lineage is one of the oldest still recognized, which is why we have a foot in the door at the Vatican. The Church might not have liked us, but powerful cardinals recognized our potential influence. We’re not adored by the Vatican, but they tolerate us.”

Alex pushes a sigh through his nostrils. “Wow…”

Henry’s mouth quirks at the corner. “You’d be surprised how many secret deals exist. Pureblood families do business with popes, kings, prime ministers… whoever holds the reins at the time.”

A short silence. The jet engines rev higher, prompting them to settle in for takeoff. Through the window, farmland shrinks away, replaced by open sky. The hum of cabin pressurization hums in Henry’s ears. He notices June staring at him, half-fascinated, half-disbelieving.

“All right,” Alex says once the seatbelt sign dings off. “So we scrounge up these Templar diaries or codices, hoping to find a lead on Odessa. But what if the place is empty-handed? We fly home with zip?”

This is the part he’d rather not discuss, but there’s no sense hiding it. He braces an arm on the seat rest. “Then I have one last resort: waking my great-grandfather. He was alive during Odessa’s prime.”

That rips a startled sound out of both Alex and June. Alex’s voice comes first. “Waking… Sorry, who is asleep?”

Henry glances between them. “Pureblood elders can enter long periods of hibernation. My great-great-grandfather has been asleep for… oh, about three hundred years.”

June’s mouth drops open. “Three hundred? He was around for the Napoleonic wars?”

“Precisely,” Henry murmurs. “He sealed himself away after a catastrophic clan conflict. If it’s absolutely necessary, we can attempt to awaken him. But that’s risky. Elders can be… volatile upon waking.”

Alex simply nods. “So let’s hope the Archives have something we can use.”

A shaky laugh bubbles from June. “Sure. Let’s bet on secret books in the Vatican basement rather than Grandpa Nosferatu. Great plan.” She picks at a thread on her jeans. “No big deal.”

Hours later…

Henry’s neck is stiff, and he suspects Alex and June aren’t faring much better. They land at Ciampino Airport in Rome late in the afternoon. Henry steps off the private jet first, and warm Mediterranean air greets him, carrying notes of late-day sun. He takes a moment to steady his duffel on one shoulder, then glances back to see Alex and June exiting behind him.

A dark sedan awaits them—sleek, black paintwork glinting in the waning light. A driver in a conservative suit greets them with a bow, collects their luggage, and gestures them inside.

Henry notices how Alex keeps his gaze pinned on the passing scenery, as if searching for a distraction. June taps her phone, likely checking messages or a map.

Traffic converges into a slow crawl near the city center. By the time they reach the hotel—a refined, understated building not far from the Tiber’s winding banks—the sky has deepened to a pale lavender. A doorman helps unload their luggage, and within minutes, they’re gliding through the lavish lobby the hotel.

“Tomorrow morning,” Henry tells them in a low tone, “we’ll head to the Vatican. The cardinal should be expecting us around ten.”

Alex just lifts his chin before they all retreat to find some rest.

The depart for Vatican just after breakfast, the same black sedan idling at the curb. A mid-morning glow warms the roads, and June’s burgundy coat looks more vibrant in the daylight, while Alex’s belted trench holds a crisp shape. Henry’s own navy overcoat shields him from the mild August chill. The driver weaves toward Vatican City, navigating roundabouts and tight streets.

They pull up to an entrance for authorized personnel and an official meets them, guiding them down a walkway. Alex glances around at the marble underfoot, while June’s gaze flits to intricately painted ceiling details in the covered corridors. They reach an entrance into one of the Vatican’s administrative wings.

Inside stands a man in his mid-sixties wearing a black cassock with scarlet piping along the edges, a magenta sash at his waist. A simple gold cross dangles from his neck. His face is thin and square-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Fox,” the man says in Italian accent, offering a formal dip of his head. “I am Cardinal Lucio Bianchi, Secretary of State for the Holy See. We last met, I believe, at a charity function in Florence, though that must be years ago now. How is Lady Mary faring these days?”

“Your Eminence, it’s an honor to see you again. My grandmother is in good health, thank you. She sends her warmest regards.” Then, with a slight gesture, he indicates Alex and June. “These are my companions, Ms. June Diaz and Mr. Alex Diaz.”

Cardinal Bianchi offers them a cordial nod. “Welcome to the Vatican, Ms. Diaz, Mr. Diaz.”

Bianchi steps back, gesturing for them to follow. They walk through a modest hallway lined with antique paintings—some of popes, others depicting biblical narratives in baroque style.

Henry notes how Alex’s eyes roam the corridor in silent fascination. When they enter a small parlor-like space, cardinal Bianchi turns to them. “Shall we get to the matter at hand, then? I understand from your communication we’re looking into some old records that has something to do with a figure named Odessa.”

“Yes,” Henry says, “in addition, we seek references to Leandro Ruiz, or any mention of his extended lineage.”

The cardinal’s brow creases faintly. “Stories from the fourteenth century speak of a powerful rogue entity. As for Leandro—details about him can be scant.” He adjusts his glasses, scanning Henry’s face with keen curiosity.

“We appreciate the Church granting this courtesy. My grandmother is concerned about… an escalating threat. The Diaz family is personally involved.” Henry glances quickly at Alex and June. “With your permission, we’d like to examine whatever relevant documents you deem permissible.”

“We have some Templar-era transcripts, fragments of trial records. Possibly diaries that survived the reorganization. Our staff can guide you. But do keep in mind—some volumes remain incomplete, or in archaic scripts. You may require paleography experts.”

“That’s fine,” Alex says. “We’ll take whatever we can get.”

Cardinal Bianchi leads them deeper into corridors with domed ceilings and marble statues. At intervals, passing priests or officials greet the cardinal with respect.  They arrive at a door that is guarded by a pair of Swiss Guards in plain black uniforms. Cardinal Bianchi murmurs some words in Italian, and the guards allow them through into a narrower passage. The smell of parchment and dust merges with the lingering incense from the halls.

Bianchi gestures with an open palm. “May God’s guidance help you find what you seek.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” Henry says.

Alex doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to stepping through centuries of Vatican history like it’s NBD, but here he is, following Henry and June. Somewhere behind them, a Swiss Guard in a black uniform is giving them a look like he can’t decide if they’re the weirdest researchers he’s ever seen or just more foreigners who took a wrong turn on the museum tour.

Meanwhile, Alex is half expecting Dan Brown to jump out from behind a statue, scribbling notes on how to turn this into another best-selling thriller.

Ahead, Dr. Natasha Moretti leads the way, her black hair swept back from a face that belongs on some modeling brochure. Everything about her is elegant, from the heels clicking on the floor to the tasteful blue dress that cinches at her waist.

They arrive at a double door that looks like it belongs in some medieval fairytale, except the key card panel to the side kind of kills the magic.  Rows of shelves line the walls, stacked with books so old Alex expects them to crumble if he so much as breathes on them wrong. A couple of archivists in white cotton gloves glance up, and go back to gingerly flipping ancient pages under bright reading lamps.

“I understand we’re looking for manuscripts predating 1315,” Dr. Moretti says, turning to face them. She has that museum-docent smile that probably wins over the stingiest donors.

“We’d also appreciate anything that mentions a potential scripts linked to Odessa,” Henry adds, voice subdued. “Even brief mentions or marginal notes.”

Dr. Moretti nods. “Understood. Let’s start with some relevant indices. I can arrange for an assistant to pull original texts once we cross-reference the call numbers.” She gestures toward a row of robust wooden tables at the center of the room, each with a green-shaded reading lamp. “Please have a seat. We’ll bring you what we can.”

June lowers herself into one of the chairs,, laying her messenger bag at her feet. Alex can tell she’s practically buzzing with curiosity even though her face is set in typical reporter-mode cool. He sets his phone to vibrate and slides it into his pocket, just in case his mom tries to call demanding to know if they’ve thrown themselves headlong into more trouble. God, he really hopes that doesn’t happen.

Henry takes the seat across from him, flipping open a lined notepad in that neat, methodical way that always makes Alex feel kind of inadequate for never having properly learned cursive. Dr. Moretti steps away to confer with another archivist, leaving them in a hush so thick Alex can hear the scratch of pen on paper from the table behind them.

“Did you imagine your first time in the Vatican Archives would be more… Indiana Jones?” June says to him.

“I was hoping for torches and a giant rolling boulder,” Alex responds with a smirk.

Dr. Moretti returns with an armful of heavy binders, each labeled in gold letters. “Anything from 1300 to 1320 is flagged here. I’ll bring additional volumes if you find relevant call numbers.”

It doesn’t escape Alex’s notice that she asks no prying questions about why they want obscure documents that reference an undead antagonist. Maybe she’s gotten used to weirder requests from the Church’s more clandestine visitors. Still, her manners make him suspect she’s well aware this is not your standard medieval research project.

He soon discovers combing through centuries-old listings is exactly as thrilling as it sounds. Which is to say: not.

For the first hour, he systematically flips from one binder to the next, scanning spidery text that references everything from ‘Trial of the Knights Templar, 1307’ to random footnotes about relic shipments. Once in a while, he catches Henry making small exhalations of frustration, and he’s starting to think maybe they’ll never find anything but papal decrees.

At least June is flipping pages fast enough for all three of them, looking for that one elusive mention of Odessa or Leandro.

Time seems elastic. After the third hour, Alex’s butt goes numb, and he’s pretty sure the dryness in his eyes qualifies as a desert climate. Henry leaves briefly to consult with Dr. Moretti on some Latin references, returning with a stack of parchment scans that smell like an old library.

This is academic life at its purest: monotony, cross-referencing, a subtle existential dread that perhaps the answers you need might not exist at all.

When Alex glances at his phone again, it’s been seven hours—somewhere in that realm where you question whether the outside world still exists.

“Hey,” Alex says quietly, nudging Henry’s foot under the table, “You want a break? Maybe more coffee?”

Henry rubs his eyes, apparently just now realizing how tired he is. “Perhaps,” he starts. “But let me check one more—”

“Guys.” June’s whisper cuts across the table. She’s standing a few shelves away with a battered folio in both hands. “I think I found something. Seriously, get over here.”

Alex practically leaps out of his seat. Henry follows, notepad tucked under his arm. They cluster around June as she gently lowers the folio onto an open stand near the wall. The pages are smaller than some they’ve been sifting through, and the ink is so faded that Alex can barely make out the words without leaning in.

June points with a gloved fingertip. “Okay, so this one is compiled by a monk named Martin de Terranueva. Most of it’s about… hunts or excommunications. But this line—right here?” She taps a particular passage. “It mentions Odessa by name.”

Odessa’s name stands out like an ink blot, even though it’s in Latin. Henry looks at them for moment and starts translating the passage.

“In the Year of Our Lord 1315, in a fortress near the River Ebro, our company did come upon the creature called Odessa, she who vexes the faithful and drinks the blood of innocents…”

Henry glances at them, verifying they’re all following along. June nods silently, her gaze glued to the page. Alex keeps quiet, letting Henry continue.

“Many brethren fell under the dark arts of that fiend. By the grace of God and the valor of Sir Leandro Ruiz, we did smite her mortal shell…”

Leandro Ruiz. This is the dude who, apparently, started their entire bloodline’s brush with the undead. Henry goes on. “ She was wounded through the heart, and drenched in sanctified blood. Thus was Odessa laid low.”

Henry turns the page as delicately as possible. The corner tears a bit, and Alex is worried they just destroyed crucial knowledge. But it’s only a tiny flake of parchment. Henry bites his lower lip and keeps going.

“Odessa cannot be wholly destroyed; she sleeps in cursed earth until awakened anew. Should her loyal servants spill the blood of her conqueror’s lineage, her spirit shall rise once more to wreak vengeance upon Christendom…”

Alex glances reflexively at June and sees her eyebrows scrunch together in fear. Henry takes a short breath, flipping to the next leaf. The words are smaller and spidery, as if the scribe wrote this part in hurried secrecy.

“Brother Martin de Terranueva attests: on no account should the blood of Leandro Ruiz’s line be surrendered. For if the spilled blood anoints her remains, Odessa shall be reborn, stronger than before.”

When Henry’s done, he slowly lifts his gaze. Alex catches the flash of something protective in Henry’s expression—like he’s seconds away from baring fangs of his own if it means keeping Odessa away from them. Somewhere in the reading room, a clock chimes softly. Seven hours of searching, and they finally have their clue.

Dr. Moretti’s assistant returns, interrupting them softly, “Is everything all right here?”

Alex gives a quick nod, gently passing the precious manuscript back onto the table. “Yes,” he says, voice straining. “We just…found exactly what we needed.”

He’s pretty sure they all would’ve preferred a giant rolling boulder.

Chapter Text

Alex stands at the foot of the Vatican steps, wanting to pinch himself. He’s staring out at the city that, up until this morning, belonged to a dream vacation on some future bucket list. Except now, it’s the scene of a real-life crisis—one in which centuries-old manuscripts are apparently telling him that a Vampire tyrant might want to resurrect herself using his family’s blood. And have her revenge.

Henry is a two steps away, phone close to his ear, talking to someone. He’s the half-vampire with powerful connections, Alex reminds himself. He knows how to handle this. But as Henry ends the call and turns back, Alex sees that whatever Henry’s planning, it’s happening now .

“We need to go,” Henry says. “Your family isn’t safe. Neither is your grandfather.”

He’s known it for hours—since reading that cursed manuscript—but hearing Henry say it out loud is different.

“Right,” Alex says. “So…what do we do?”

“I’ll send people. They’re trustworthy, experienced, for lack of a better term. I’d rather you not call or text first.”

June bristles at that. “So we just wait, while strangers swoop in to kidnap our parents and Abuelito and whisk them off to some undisclosed location ? That’s insane.”

“It is,” Henry says. “But it’s also safer. If those rogues are monitoring you—and believe me, they can—any alert might give them a direct line to your family.”

“Where do we go, then?” Alex asks.

“Not all in one place,” Henry answers.

Alex’s tension spikes again. “Wait, what do you mean not in one place?!”

“Keeping everyone together makes you an easy target. Odessa’s people only need one successful hit if you’re all in one spot. Look, your parents can stay under direct council protection—my mother’s allies will see to it in Monterrey. Your grandfather…he’d be better off somewhere away from the city, with a guard detail. You and June—” Henry pauses, letting that sink in. “I want you two with me.”

There’s this spark in Henry’s eyes, the same glint Alex caught during that fight in the woods—like he’s prepared to throw himself between Alex and any threat. It messes with Alex’s head.

June is still not backing down. “And where would we go with you, exactly?”

Henry then glances at the sedan. “The fastest option is my family estate in England”

“England,” Alex echoes, voice almost squeaking. “That’s a whole other country!”

He follows Henry’s line of sight, noticing the driver is no longer idling outside. “How about we have a discussion first?” June says, but Henry’s already opening the car’s door.

“Please,” Henry says, turning back to them, “just get in. We can talk on the way. The longer we stand out here, the more time we give Odessa’s people to prepare. I know it’s abrupt, but we need to move.”

They all know it. A part of Alex screams for a normal, rational solution—like calling 911, or the FBI to say, “ Hey, do you handle vampire threats?” But this is bigger than any human agency can solve, or so Henry keeps insisting. The thought is still wild to Alex, but he can’t deny everything they’ve already seen.

They pile in. June slams the door behind her in anger. Henry slides onto the seat next to Alex and gestures for the driver to go. There’s a low hum of the engine as they roll away from St. Peter’s Square.

“This is happening way too fast. I—I can’t just vanish to the UK without telling my parents. Or my grandfather.” The last thing he wants is for them to think he’s kidnapped or gone rogue.

Henry nods, as if he’s expecting that. “I understand. But I’d rather wait until my people confirm your parents’ safe extraction before we call. No sense alarming them prematurely.”

“Is that really necessary?” June asks. “We can’t even give them a heads-up?”

“Not if we want them to remain undiscovered,” Henry says. “The moment any of you text or call, you leave a trail. We’ll have a secure line installed once your parents are safe. Then you can talk as much as you’d like.”

They lapse into silence, the traffic outside thickening as they near the highway. Alex tries to focus on anything besides the hole in his chest that’s labeled This is nuts.

Henry looks at him.  “Do you trust me?”

The question floats in Alex’s mind. Can he trust Henry? who once compelled him to forget a vampire attack. Who nearly died saving them from those rogues. Who, apparently, runs in the highest circles of vampiric society yet found time to audition Alex for a film. He’s infinitely powerful in ways Alex doesn’t fully understand—and yet some part of him has always been drawn to him, even when he was furious.

And in this moment, Alex can’t deny the small faith he has in him. “I…I do,” he admits. “At least enough to get on a plane with you and hope you know what you’re doing.”

June glances between them. “Guess we’re on the same roller coaster,” she says, sinking back against the seat.

The car merges onto the exit for the Airport. Alex watches as the road signs blur past in Italian. He’s about to board a flight to London with a half-vampire who’s effectively kidnapping him in order to save his family from a prophecy.  

“We’ll be safe,” Henry says, interrupting Alex’s spiral of panic. “Once we’re at the estate, you’ll have full protection. We’ll figure out the next steps—and how to stop Odessa’s people for good. I promise you, I’m not letting anything happen to either of you.”

June is already too drained to argue. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Henry angles forward to speak with the driver, smoothing the lapel of his coat. In a flash of memory, Alex pictures Henry asleep on their couch back at the lake house, and how terrifying it felt to watch him half-dead.

That was the moment Alex realized he might never truly hate Henry, no matter how angry or betrayed he felt.  Because when push came to shove, Henry was there, pushing death away from Alex’s door.

He lifts his head just in time to see the private jet parked on the tarmac. The driver pulls the sedan to a smooth stop, and airport staff rush forward to open the doors. He takes one breath, tries to center himself, but his heart still rattles beneath his ribs.

June slams her door shut, swiping hair from her eyes. “We left all our stuff back at the hotel.”

Henry is already rounding the car, phone in hand. “My people picked it up,” he says, in that cool, matter-of-fact tone that suggests he’s used to orchestrating logistics with a single text message. “You’ll have everything by the time we land.”

He gestures them toward the stairs leading up into the jet’s open cabin door, and an attendant is waiting. He quick feels the pressurized hush of the cabin surround him once he steps inside.

“Hello,” the flight attendant greets them brightly. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be taking off shortly—can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”

June wastes no time rattling off everything she wants. “Coffee, if you have it. Strong. And maybe some real food, too.” Her voice buzzes with a restless energy Alex knows means she’s anxious. She steps into a seat by the aisle, fiddling with her seat belt.

“I’ll have water for now,” Alex says, taking his seat.

“Of course,” the attendant nods. She moves on to Henry, but he only shakes his head, declining. Then she disappears behind a partition, presumably to start assembling orders.

Alex slides into a seat across from Henry’s, the cabin is more like a living room than any plane he’s been on. He fastens his seat belt, something about the click feeling final .

The plane’s wheels finally hit the tarmac at Heathrow and Alex sees the London sky is all clouds and drizzling rain, a world away from the scorching summers of his childhood. It’s not exactly how he pictured his first time in England—no time for touristy photos or even a quick coffee in the terminal.

One moment, they’re off the plane; the next, they’re already into a car winding through the streets. “Where exactly are we going?” Alex asks and Henry glances up from whatever he’s texting.

“Highgrove House,” Henry says simply. “It’s been in my family for four centuries.”

“Four centuries?” June says then blow out a low whistle.

Alex can’t help the scoff that slips out. “Next you’ll tell me your ancestors partied there with King Henry VIII.”

Henry’s mouth twitches with a restrained smile. “You’ll be surprised.”

Trees zip by in blurred shades of green, the roads narrowing the farther they go. June eventually shifts, pulling out her phone to check messages she can’t send. Alex closes his eyes, and time slips into endless hedgerows and rain-spattered glass.

When Henry finally murmurs “We’re close,” they’ve been driving for what feels like two hours.

The rain has let up, leaving the sky pale and the roads glistening. A tall iron gate comes into view, flanked by stone pillars. The car slows, gliding through after a security check.

“Is that—?” June doesn’t finish. The house emerges ahead and it is grand enough that Alex’s first thought is: This looks like something out of a period drama.

Stone walls, symmetrical windows, a stately façade that practically screams old money . He doesn’t even want to guess how many rooms there are. He catches the shimmer of a fountain in the distance, the carefully lined walkways stretching into symmetrical patterns. Places like this actually existed outside of postcards.

He’s never felt more like a fish out of water. Growing up, the nicest place he ever in was the  Whitehouse during a school field trip, and even that had felt intimidating.

The car glides around a circular drive, coming to a stop in front of an entrance that has columns and carved archways. Henry adjusts his jacket and turns to them. “We’re here,” he says calmly, as if they’ve just rolled up to a friend’s weekend cabin.

A team of staff hastens forward. Two of them open the car doors in unison, allowing Henry out first. June nudges his elbow. “Dude,” she whispers, nodding at the house.

“I know,” he whispers back, just as stunned. There’s a delicate row of second-story windows that look out over the gardens. Ornate columns lead to an imposing front door, behind which God only knows how many corridors twist and turn.

Henry glances over his shoulder, catching their expressions with a trace of amusement—like he’s well aware how it must look to outsiders. He makes a small beckoning motion. “Come on. Someone will show you to your rooms, and then we can talk about next steps.”

Alex stands rooted for a beat, jaw uncomfortably slack. He snaps it shut, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. June moves past him, following Henry’s lead. With a last, wide-eyed glance at the topiaries lining the entrance, Alex shakes himself out of his stupor and moves forward.

He’s immediately greeted by the large entry hall and he glances up at a dramatic chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Beneath it, the wide marble floor gleams, and Alex catches his own reflection—disheveled hair and exhausted eyes.

June drifts in next to him, she looks around with open fascination. Every few steps, her gaze gets snagged by something new—a portrait, an arrangement of fresh-cut lilies on an ornate side table. It’s nine bedrooms, Henry said, but Alex suspects there must be more nooks and crannies to explore than any one person could see in a single day.

They pass a vast sitting room with tall windows,  velvet drapes pulled back to let the gray English light spill in. A tapestry older than the state of Texas covers one wall, depicting some medieval hunt scene. Henry slows, gestures to it, and explains, “That was commissioned a few generations ago—one of my ancestors rather liked the idea of immortality woven into thread. He got his wish, I suppose.”

The sheer magnitude of so much old money and older history is enough to make anyone’s head spin. In the next corridor, Henry indicates tall double doors leading to a library—Alex catches a glimpse of leather-bound volumes stretching to the ceiling. He really wants to nose around inside but he files that impulse away for later.

Henry leads them up a sweeping staircase—the banister carved with patterns. A wide corridor branches off at the landing, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. The house stands so still that the soft brush of Henry’s footsteps on the rug feels amplified.

“That way,” Henry says, pointing to corridors with doors, “are the guest quarters. You both can choose whichever room you like, but I’ve had staff prepare two of them near each other.”

They find June’s room first: a cream-and-gold space that overlooks part of the back gardens. She sets her bag on a chair, runs a hand over the embroidered duvet, and turns to Henry with raised brows—like she’s trying to say who are you and how is this your house? but is too stunned to utter the words.

Then comes Alex’s room, two doors down. He steps in and feels a jolt of awe. The place is easily thrice the size of his room, anchored by a large canopied bed draped in a pattern of dark green and silver. A tufted bench sits at its foot, and the massive windows open onto a sweep of lawn that seems to extend forever into the horizon.

He has this bizarre urge to check under the bed for actual ghosts, because the house is old enough to have them. The staff member who escorted them here dips out, leaving the two of them alone.

Alex eases the strap of his backpack off his shoulder, then sets it down on a trunk near the foot of the bed. “We’re… safe here, right?”

Henry exhales a tired breath. “As safe as we can manage. The estate is guarded around the clock. If the rogues are foolish enough to try anything, it won’t be easy for them.”

He shifts his weight, glancing at the heavy drapes. “And now what?”

“I need to speak with my grandmother first. She’s… well, the head of our family in many ways.“

“Right,” Alex says, grimacing. He glances around, letting his gaze stray over the antique dresser, the rugs, the subtle patterns in the wallpaper.

Henry fixes him with a more somber expression. “As I told you family’s been collecting allies, forging bargains, managing feuds. The High Council is part of that.”

“And you think they can stop her from resurrecting?” Alex can’t help but ask.

“It’s what they’re meant to do,” Henry says, posture poised. “With luck, once they see the evidence we brought from the Vatican, they’ll move quickly.”

“Great.” The dryness in Alex’s mouth says not so great , but he forces a shaky smile.

Henry studies him for a moment, then takes a step forward. “I know this is overwhelming— everything has happened so fast. I wish I could promise it’ll be simple from here on out, but you deserve the truth: it won’t be. But I can promise to keep you and your sister safe. As long as you’re here, nobody lays a hand on you.”

He senses the raw sincerity behind Henry’s eyes. “Get some rest. I’ll find you once dinner is ready.” Then, with a brief tip of his head, Henry slips out into the hallway, leaving Alex alone in a bedroom that feels like it belongs to another century.

For five minutes, Alex just stands there in the middle before choosing to kicks off his shoes, throwing himself onto the soft mattress. He breathes in, breathes out, then mutters to the silent walls, “Welcome to England.”

Alex startles awake at the sound of a knock. He blinks at the ornate wallpaper and the glow of a single wall sconce, realizing the sky outside has gone dusky.

He sits up, and calls out, “Uh—come in?”

Then Henry stands there, one hand braced on the frame. “Dinner’s ready,” he says. “I thought you might want to join us.”

“Sure.” He pushes to his feet. “Let me just…” He glances at himself in the mirror, deciding he at least looks presentable enough for dinner. “All set.”

Henry leads him downstairs. The expansive windows along the corridor now reveal a twilight sky stretching over the gardens. They continue straight past a sitting area then to an open archway that reveals a long dining hall.

In the center of the room stands a lavish rectangular table, large enough to seat at least twelve guests. Intricate silver candlesticks line the center, and overhead, a chandelier of brass and crystal bathes everything in golden glow.

June is already seated to one side, eyes full of relief when she sees Alex. “Thank goodness. I was about to start gnawing on the napkins,” she jokes as she spots the covered platters steaming at the far end.

Henry heads for the chair at the head of the table and takes a seat. A staff member in a black and whitr uniform stands nearby, ready to remove the lids from the dishes. “No need to worry,” Henry assures them both. “I’ve asked the chef to prepare whatever you might prefer. Just tell him if you have any cravings, allergies… anything at all.”

June gives a quick, eager nod. “I’m starving,” she says. Alex claims the chair to her right, gaze sliding across multiple silver serving dishes.

As two maids begin placing plates on the table, Alex musters the nerve to ask the question that’s been clawing at him since he woke up. “Any updates on our parents? My abuelo?”

Henry inclines his head. “They’re safe—my men arrived this afternoon to escort them to a secure location.” He pauses, noticing the anxious lines on Alex’s forehead and the way June’s fork hovers over her plate. “I’ll have more concrete details by tomorrow morning, but truly, there’s no need to fear. Right now, the best thing you can do is focus on yourselves. I promise I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything else.”

Alex picks up a fork, but finds his eyes drifting toward Henry again—Henry cuts into his food and lifts a precise bite to his mouth. Henry seems to sense Alex’s gaze, pausing mid-chew.

“Is something wrong?” Henry asks, he looks from Alex’s plate to Alex himself. “If you don’t like any of this, my chef can whip up something else.”

Caught off guard, Alex quickly shakes his head. “No—no, it’s fine. I promise,” he says. “Thank you, by the way.” He gives June’s leg a light kick under the table.

June stops halfway through shoveling green beans into her mouth, she sets her fork down with a huff of sheepishness. “Thank you, Henry. Really.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” Henry reaches for the wine bottle placed by his elbow and pours a glass of deep red. After a gentle swirl, he takes a sip. “I wanted to let you know that my grandmother is coming here. She’s bringing two of the Council elders with her. They should arrive soon.”

Alex, in the middle of biting into a piece of steak, stops cold. His stomach clenches unexpectedly. “Your… grandmother.”  He pictures some fearsome, centuries-old figure in a dark cape. His imagination starts to run wild.

Henry reads his alarm easily. “She’s not as terrifying as you might assume,” he says.

“Um,” Alex manages. “H-how old is she, exactly?”

“She’ll be turning six hundred next January fourth.”

Alex chokes on his own spit, coughing violently. June scrambles to pat his back while Henry rises halfway from his seat, reaching for a glass of water.

“You okay?” Henry asks, eyes full of worry.

Alex waves a hand, face reddening, and finally regains enough composure to wheeze, “She’s been alive since… that… that King—”

“Henry VIII?” Henry supplies, mouth tilting in a tiny grin.

“That one!” Alex’s eyes go wide as saucers. “She was alive while he was out there offing his wives?”

Henry eases back into his chair with a dry chuckle. “If it makes you feel better, she was more involved in the British Monarchy much earlier . She actually advised King Henry VIII’s grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, to form an alliance with Queen Elizabeth Woodville against King Richard III. Their children’s marriage eventually produced Henry VIII and shaped the Tudor line.”

June sets down her fork, looking at Henry in disbelief. “It was a turbulent period,” Henry says, swirling the wine in his glass. “But, as you can see, my grandmother thrives in turbulent times. She’s rather experienced in these matters.”

Alex just stares then shoves a morsel of food into his mouth instead. They eat in relative silence for a while, letting the shock subside. Henry calmly works through the meal, occasionally glancing at June and Alex with a fleeting stares of compassion. Eventually, the plates empty and staffs quickly clearing the table.

Alex is taking his last sip of water while June dabs at her mouth with a napkin when Shaan steps into the dining hall. “Sir,” he addresses Henry with a short nod. “Lady Mary, Lord Alastair, and Lady Merivale have arrived.”

Alex gulps at the mention of them and Henry probably sees panic in Alex’s eyes when he says, “Don’t worry.” He pushes back his chair back. “I’m with you.”

He follows Henry outside the dining area and feels like he’s about to walk onstage for a debate he’s never prepared for. They soon enter a receiving room with lots of dark wood paneling, an old-fashioned fireplace, and the scent of antiques clinging to the air.

It’s cozy, but not in a normal, living-room kind of way. More like in a centuries-of-secret-council-deals sort of way. Alex can already feel the goose bumps crawling up his arms. He’s sandwiched between June and Henry, which is helpful because he is currently fighting an unholy urge to yank at his collar and bolt.

Shaan steps in next who seems like he prepared an entire speech in his head but is also ready to bail them out of any meltdown at a moment’s notice. And then Alex sees three imposing figures waiting in the center of the room, the small huddle they form practically radiating authority. He feels like the temperature drops three degrees when they glance up.

The silver-haired woman is first. She has an elegant, refined face that could probably send the stock market into free fall with one aimed frown. She wears a black tailored jacket with minimal adornment aside from a handful of tiny, glimmering studs at the collar—like she decided to be fancy but not too fancy, because she might have to verbally dismantle someone before dessert.

Beside her stands a second woman, blonde hair loosely swept back. Her white blouse falls perfectly across her frame as if it’s never once even considered wrinkling. On her left, a dark tall man with a trimmed beard and broad shoulders is standing with his hands clasped behind his back, coolly surveying the new arrivals. Each of them looks like they’ve witnessed, and possibly orchestrated, a hundred conspiracies.

“Grandmother,” Henry says, inclining his head toward the silver-haired woman. Then at the other two. “And Lord Alastair, Lady Merivale—allow me to present Alex and his sister, June.”

June slides half in front of him like she might shield him from the laser-eyes of judgment bearing down on them both. Henry’s grandmother’s gaze pins Alex, then to June. “Yes, well.” She pronounces each word with efficiency, as if punctuation marks are physically popping out of her mouth. “I’ve heard something about this from Shaan, but I’d prefer clarification from you directly.” Her gaze slides to Henry. “I hope you have more to tell me.”

June’s fingers dig into Alex’s sleeve—she’s clearly fighting the urge to retort with something not at all polite. Meanwhile, Alex is busy convincing himself not to hyperventilate. He’s never been so aware of a small drip in the corner of a fireplace before, as if the entire room is on mute, listening for Henry’s words.

Henry has his shoulders level, chin up, tension humming through every muscle. Shaan places a worn-looking book onto the low table between the three Elders and the rest of them. Lady Merivale glances down at it, interest crossing her features.

“So,” Henry begins, “we have certain documents from the Vatican archives.” His voice hovers in that posh zone that makes Alex want to either swoon or laugh, depending on how anxious he is. (Right now, he’s leaning heavily on anxious.)

Henry continues, “It seems Odessa Cortez’s old followers are attempting to resurrect her. The texts we found point to a specific bloodline needed to complete her ritual. That bloodline… belongs to Alex’s family.” Out of the corner of Alex’s eye, he sees June’s hand twitching near her side.

“Odessa,” Lord Alastair says with a stare that would probably make the average person confess to petty larceny. “Many of our people still carry generational scars from her last reign. If she indeed has a path back, that’s… complicated.”

Lady Merivale, the blonde, arches a perfect eyebrow at Henry. “Acknowledging this threat in an official capacity is equally dangerous. If the Council invests resources in the protection of one mortal family, we could be seen as prioritizing them above legitimate threats to vampire clans. That would invite a wave of panic—and anger. The last thing we need is factions demanding equal attention or launching retaliations.”

“Retaliations?” June’s voice comes out sharper. She glares at them, looking outraged enough to spontaneously combust. “Are you saying you won’t help because you’re worried about your popularity?”

“We’re worried about the stability of our entire society, young lady,” Lady Mary says. “We must maintain order, or more innocent lives could be threatened—not just yours.”

“We do have proof.” Henry nods to Shaan, who silently opens the book to a page full of Latin text.

Lady Mary’s silver bob barely moves when she merely nod her head. “Henry, dear, the Council can only do so much with partial evidence. Odessa’s reemergence, should it happen, will be handled. But to safeguard the mortal relatives of one possible bloodline—”

Lord Alastair speaks again. “We can at least consider it. If the danger is truly imminent—”

“No,” Lady Merivale cuts in. “We risk fracturing the neutrality we’ve cultivated. Our society is delicate right now; we can’t just fling around our resources on one family’s rumor of crisis. Especially humans.”

June looks about two seconds from leaping to her feet, but Henry moves before she can speak. He walks closer to the table, hands pressed flat on the surface. Alex sees tremor of anger behind his eyes.

“I’ve seen these rogues firsthand,” Henry murmurs, “They attacked Alex’s grandfather’s home. They nearly tore all of us apart. I won’t stand by and watch them succeed.”

Lady Mary casts him a look that might wilt lesser men on the spot. “Henry, dear, I’m sure you feel strongly about this. But the Council can’t possibly be expected to shift its entire focus to shielding one family.”

“Unless,” Henry says, “you do it because they’re your family too.”

“That would suggest—what, exactly?” Lady Mary stresses the last two words.

“That I have a vested interest in their well-being, that it directly concerns the Council. Because,” Henry says, “they are going to be my family.” And then Henry is reaching for Alex’s hand, clasping it in front of everyone.

Alex’s mind goes blank for one terrifying second as Henry says, “I, Henry George Edward James Hanover-Stuart-Fox chose Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz as my blood-mate.”

There is an absolute silence that even the crackle in the fireplace hushes. Did Henry just… did he just say—?

June is definitely crushing a handful of Alex’s sleeve now. Shaan, near the door, looks like he might attempt the world’s most graceful faint at any moment. Lady Mary is standing stock-still, staring as if Henry has spontaneously announced a plan to swim across the Atlantic.

All the while, Alex can’t decide if he should release Henry’s hand or hold it tighter. He wonders if they just triggered a bigger avalanche than any of them can handle.

Henry stays absolutely still, meeting every stunned, disbelieving gaze head-on. “So,” he says at last, “I’d suggest we revisit the matter of protecting my future family. Because if anything happens to them, especially to Alex. That would be a very public problem for all of us, wouldn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Alex has precisely four functioning brain cells left, and all of them are chasing their own tails.

One of them is shrieking, Blood-mate?!

Another is rerunning Henry’s voice on a loop— I choose Alex—as if that fixes everything.

The third is busy checking escape routes (window, fireplace, maybe fake a fainting spell).

The fourth has resigned itself to death by etiquette violation.

Henry’s hand is warm and terrifyingly steady around his. Alex can feel every thud of his own pulse reverberating through that grip.

“What the hell was that? ” he whispers only to Henry.

Henry’s lashes flick down, then up. His mouth—still so calm it makes Alex want to scream—tilts the tiniest degree toward reassurance.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just trust me.”

Trust? Alex wants to wring his neck.

“Blood-mate?” Merivale repeats, then scoffs, “Henry, you cannot possibly—”

Lady Mary goes cold. “This is not a debutante ball,” she says. “You do not fling around the most binding vow our people possess because your human pets are frightened.”

“Grandmother,” Henry answers, “Alex is not a pet.”

Alastair  lifts both hands. “Let’s breathe, all of us. We came here to discuss Odessa’s threat. Not to spill family blood on the carpet.”

June steps up beside Alex. “With respect, ma’am,” she says to Mary, “my brother isn’t bargaining chip or pet. He didn’t ask for any of this. Your rogue vampires did.”

Mary’s gaze goes to June then slides back to Henry. “You disappoint me,” she says. “You led around by sentiment until kingdoms burn.”

Alex sees the muscle jump under Henry’s flawless skin. “Sentiment is what makes kingdoms worth saving,” Henry said.

Merivale snorts, delicate and vicious. “And what happens when your sentiment compromises the Council’s neutrality? When every House demands protection for its favorite mortal lover?”

“Then we protect them,” Henry says, simple as breathing. “What good is a Council that only defends itself?”

Alastair sighs, turns to Alex with something like pity. “Do you even know what you’re agreeing to, son?”

Before Alex can answer, Henry steps sideways— between Alex and Alastair—one palm subtly grazing Alex’s hip. Alastair’s brows raise, but he keeps talking.

“A blood-mate bond,” he explains, eyes pinned to Alex, “is older than written law. Mystic and biological. An Alpha pledges life to an Omega and the Omega’s blood answers. After the formal rite there is no divorce, no annulment.. Your lifespans tangle. When one hurts, the other bleeds. When one dies…”He lets the sentence hang.

Alex hears June suck in a breath.

“So,” Alastair finishes gently, “are you prepared to live tethered to a half-immortal? To watch everyone you know age and fade while you stay young on his blood? Because that is what you’re standing in.”

Words scramble for purchase. He looks up at Henry who is somehow both terrified and sure.“I… don’t know everything,” Alex says, “but I know Henry saved my family. Twice. And if this keeps Odessa from using my blood like battery acid, I’ll figure the rest out.”

Henry’s his fingers tighten on Alex’s hand. “He won’t be alone,” Henry says. “Every step, I’ll be there.”

“Sweet,” Merivale mutters, “and catastrophically naïve.”

Mary turns sharply toward Shaan. “Summon the rest of the Council. Tomorrow.” Then to Henry, “If you insist on this madness, you’ll do it properly—under covenant witness, with full assumption of risk.” Her eyes narrow into slits at Henry. “And you relinquish any claim to Council leadership for the next century. We will not have conflicts of interest on the council.”

Silence drills into Alex’s eardrums. Then Henry simply nods. “Accepted.”

“Sir—” Shaan starts, aghast.

“It’s done,” Henry says.

Alastair’s shoulders sag, but he nods. “Very well. We call a conclave at dawn. Until then, the Diaz siblings remain under Hanover-Stuart protection.”

Merivale’s eyes cut like broken crystal, but she inclines her head. Mary gives Henry one last, iron disappointment look then sweeps for the door. Alastair follows; Merivale’s perfume trails frost behind her.

At the threshold Mary pauses, not turning back. “You are truly your mother’s son,” she says, doors shutting.

Henry lets go of Alex’s hand only to brush knuckles over Alex’s wrist, grounding him. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll smooth what I can.”

“Smooth?” Alex echoes.

“Relative term.” Henry squeezes Alex’s fingers. “Stay with June. I’ll be quick.” Then he strides after his grandmother.

Shaan clears his throat, the knot of his tie imperfect for once. “Mr. Diaz, Ms. Diaz—anything you need?”

Alex’s knees threaten to fold. “I’m good,” he croaks, which is ridiculous because nothing is good. He stumbles to a tufted sofa and flops back. Shaan nods, gives a small, sympathetic bow, and retreats.

June sinks beside him, crossing her legs pretzel-tight. “So. Blood-mate.”

Alex barks an incredulous laugh. “Apparently.”

“Are you—” she searches his face—“ okay ?”

“I don’t… Five hours ago I was worried about finishing my policy paper. Now I’m apparently engaged in mystical vampire matrimony.”

June’s mouth quirks in grimace. “Mom always said you’d marry into money.”

Alex cringes. “Not immortal aristocracy money.”

She sobers, lays a hand over his forearm. “Do you actually want this?”

Images whirl: Henry dragging him out of a pool of blood and rain, Henry’s voice in the dark promising safety, Henry’s fingers trembling when they laced with his a moment ago.

“I want our family alive. I want Odessa gone. And I… trust Henry. I don’t know if that’s enough, but it’s what I’ve got.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. I mean, think of the wedding hashtags.”

He groans, drops his head on her shoulder. After a while Alex straightens, watching flames gutter in the hearth. “You think I’m in over my head?”

She slaps a hand on his thigh. “Lex, you were born kicking underwater. At least this time someone’s diving down to breathe with you.”

Alex turns toward the door, heart rattling again. Whatever storms wait on the other side, he’ll face them. For better or for catastrophic supernatural worse.

Alex spends the next quarter-hour trapped on the sofa like a museum piece nobody has remembered to dust. June taps anxiously at her phone—even though there’s no signal inside this stone fortress of a house—and, when that fails, stuffs one of the tufted pillows into her lap and starts methodically plucking at its embroidered tassels. A grandfather clock down the hall announces every suffocating minute with a self-important click… click… click.

He tries to focus on harmless details: the way the fire keeps snapping against centuries-old slate, the scent of lemon oil on the paneling, the little crease between June’s brows that only shows up when she’s five seconds from biting someone. But every thought circles back to Henry volunteering his own political future like it’s loose change, Henry disappearing down a corridor full of vampires old enough to remember the Black Plague.

“Did he look scared to you?” Alex blurts.

June glances over. “Honestly? He looked like a man who’s made up his mind and is gonna bulldoze anyone in the way.” She yanks another tassel free. “I’m more worried about you.”

“I’m peachy,” Alex lies, scrubbing his face up and down. “Just waiting for my mail-order immortality kit to arrive.”

June looks at him with pity. “Right. Because nothing says ‘healthy coping’ like jokes about eternal life.”

The double doors glide open again, and Henry strides in. His jacket is gone, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looks like a man who’s just been through a blender labeled FAMILY DRAMA and survived by sheer obstinacy.

Alex bolts upright. “Well? Am I about to have a vampire mother-in-law or what?”

Henry’s laugh is one part relief, two parts exhaustion. He crosses the rug and sinks onto the sofa beside Alex. “No vows were exchanged in the last fifteen minutes, promise.”

“Good.” Alex folds his arms, then immediately unfolds them because sitting still feels impossible. “Because I’m still processing the first impromptu engagement.”

June raised her hand. “Seconded.”

Henry tips his head back, eyes on the ornate ceiling then back to Alex and June. “All right. Short version: declaring you my prospective blood-mate forces the Council to treat any threat to you as a direct threat to me—and by extension to the Hanover-Stuart house. It was the most expedient way to guarantee their protection without a fifty-year debate.”

“‘Prospective,’” Alex echoes, catching the qualifier.

Henry turns, blue eyes earnest. “It doesn’t bind you. Not until the rite is completed.” His lips flick upward. “Which it will not be. I only needed the idea of the bond to leverage Council resources.”

“So we’re fake fiancés,” Alex says, voice squeaking on the last syllable. “Vampire edition.”

“Essentially,” says Henry.

June raises a hand again like she’s in Civics 101. “And the conclave at dawn?”

“They’ll review the manuscript you found, weigh the Odessa risk, and formalize protective measures for every living Diaz.” Henry rubs at the tension in his neck. “It helps that Grandmother would rather swallow sunlight than let Odessa resurrect on her watch.”

“But she’s furious with you,” Alex points out. “You lied to her face.”

“She’ll recover,” Henry tells him with sureness in his tone. “My family survives by adapting; they’ve just forgotten that means actually adapting.”

Alex exhales. “Okay—but what if they expect us to, you know, seal the deal later? Am I supposed to start drinking blood smoothies? Sprout fangs at the Christmas party?”

Horror flashes across Henry’s face. “No. No turning, no blood rites. You stay gloriously human.” Henry brushes the knuckles of his own hand—still scraped from the previous fight. “If the Council captures Odessa, the pretext dissolves and you walk away free and mortal.”

Alex stares at those knuckles, at the pale arcs of healing skin. “And you?”

“I’ll deal with the fallout,” Henry says. “That was always the bargain.”

June clears her throat. “I hate to break up the heart-to-heart, but isn’t there a non-zero chance your grandma calls your bluff tomorrow?”

“She might,” Henry admits. “But I’ve given her a public narrative she can’t easily undo without looking reckless with Council security. She values reputation more than revenge.”

Alex wants to believe him. He really does. But the image of Lady Mary’s stare keeps replaying behind his eyeballs like a horror-movie jump scare. “You sure she won’t just… stake me for spite?”

That earns a soft huff of amusement. “Stakes are for the dramatists. Grandmother prefers legal daggers.” He nudges Alex’s knee. “And she’d gain nothing from hurting you—only confirm my accusations of Council negligence.”

June’s phone buzzes—no signal, but her lock screen still shows the time: 11:42 p.m. She heaves herself off the sofa. “I’m gonna raid your kitchen. Pretty sure stress burns five hundred calories per hour.”

“Help yourself,” Henry says. “Second pantry on the left has biscuits.”

She salutes on her way out, mouthing use protection at Alex when Henry isn’t looking. Alex flips her off, cheeks blazing. The door clicks closed. 

“Truth,” Alex says once they’re alone. “Were you scared?”

Henry’s answer is a breath, barely sound. “Terrified. Not of them. Of losing you before I had a chance to…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Alex’s pulse spikes. “You can’t dangle an ellipsis like that and walk away.”

Henry’s smile is a tired curve. “Finish the war first. Then we’ll see what words are left.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he says.

“Good.”

Alex’s legs are cramped, his heart finally settling into something slower than a stampede when Henry murmurs, “You look wrung-out. D’you want sleep? I can show you back to your room.”

Sleep sounds like a rumor he read once on the internet. “Pretty sure my adrenal glands are doing tequila slammers,” he says. “If I lie down now, I’ll just have existential crises instead of sheep.”

“Fair point.” Henry stands, offering him a hand. “Walk with me, then. Highgrove is prettier in moonlight than daylight politics.”

Alex lets himself be hauled up and—after a second of palms clasped maybe longer than Alex intended to.

The grounds are silvered under a three-quarter moon, hedges throwing long lances of shadow across grass still jeweled with rain. A chill slices through Alex’s T-shirt; Henry, apparently immune to weather like some walking Patagonia ad, only rolls his shirtsleeves back down and gestures toward an avenue of limes.

Henry sets an unhurried pace, hands in pockets, as if he knows Alex’s synapses need a soft runway.

“Highgrove looks smaller from outside,” he says.

“Perspective is a peculiar thing,” Henry notes.

They wander beneath an espalier of bare apple branches and beyond a stand of yews that funnel them toward the lawn’s edge, where the estate drops away into a shallow valley. A thin mist hangs over it, creeping between trees.

It takes Alex a full minute to realize there’s nobody else out here. “Earlier,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “your grandmother showed up the elders. Who actually lives here when the drama caravan leaves?”

“Only me,” Henry answers. “Staff clear out by nine unless I beg. It’s quieter that way. Overnight it’s just an old caretaker in the gatehouse and a couple of PPOs you’ll never spot unless something goes wrong.”

Alex halts beside a wooden bench, surprised. “That’s… a lot of square footage for one person.”

Henry drifts a shoes through dew-wet grass, kicking up silver spray. “Philip’s in a Kensington suite. Bea happily sublets a studio in Notting Hill with a litter of foster cats. My mother chooses Switzerland these days..” A dry laugh. “That leaves Highgrove to the family hermit.”

“So it’s you and twenty bedrooms and a battalion of ghosts.”

“And foxes,” Henry adds, lips twitching.

They skirt a reflecting pool, surface black as a legal pad. Moonlight halos Henry’s hair; for one unscientific second Alex understands why medieval poets kept losing their minds over angels.

“Wasn’t it lonely?” His curiosity got the best of him.

Henry’s silence is the loudest thing in the garden. “Lonely is tricky,” Henry says at last. “When time stretches the way it does for me, you learn to call solitude something else. Breathing room, perhaps.”

“Breathing room that lasts centuries,” Alex says, aching a little. “Doesn’t it scare you? Watching everyone age while you have… I don’t know—an endless calendar?”

Henry tries on a half-smile that doesn’t quite fit. “Oh, I’ve got a plan. Once I turned eighty, I’ll find a nice underground crypt and sleep it off for a century or three.”

“You have a retirement plan that involves medieval coffins.” Alex huffs out air that clouds between them. “That’s either metal as hell or clinically depressing.”

“I prefer ‘practical.’” Henry shrugs one shoulder. “The Council calls it Renewal. I call it shutting the world off when the ache gets too loud.”

Alex twists to face him fully. “Does it help? The… ache?”

“I don’t know yet,” Henry admits, his eyes turning solemn. “I haven’t tried.”

A moth butts its head against the lamp above them. Inside Alex feels an empathy pendulum swinging hard east.

“I keep thinking about birthdays,” he hears himself say. “My twenty-second is in March. You’ll still look twenty-five when I’m eighty. That freaks me out, and I’m just the hypothetical fiancé.” The side of his chest suddenly stings. “Who sits vigil when you’re sleeping?”

“Council custodians.” Henry shrugs. “A few human keepers under contract.” Beat. “Shaan volunteered for the last cycle. His family served my ancestor—Sir Aelric de Vere—during the Great War. They’re stewards of secrets. The Srivastavas keep the ledgers and we keep their children in scholarships and offshore trusts.”

They reach a stone terrace where wrought-iron chairs stare out over the valley. Henry sinks into one, long legs folding like careful origami;

He blurts the question before courage evaporates. “Who actually knows what you are?”

“The Council, obviously. Shaan. A scattering of prime ministers, The Pope and the Vatican secretary, billionaires.” Henry counts on elegant fingers. “And forty-three American presidents.”

Alex’s mouth shapes a perfect ‘O’

“Lincoln wasn’t one of them, before you ask.” Henry gave him sly look.

He drops back against the bench next to henry, knees bouncing. “Okay, but now you have to explain. Why not Lincoln?”

“Lincoln was approached, but he refused. Said if God wanted him to fear death, He wouldn’t have granted man a soul capable of defying it.”

“You’re telling me Lincoln said no to the vampire mafia on theological grounds.”

“Essentially,” Henry says, that infuriating English understatement sharpening every syllable. “Though I believe he phrased it somewhat more colorfully.”

Alex lets his head loll back, staring up at the night sky. “God. He really was that bitch.”

“Indeed. Not all presidents declined, though. FDR knew. JFK too. They valued alternate loyalties when the world turned uncertain.”

Alex tips his head toward Henry, proudly patting his chest. “And now me.”

Henry glances at him sidelong, his smile turns a little fond. “Now you. Come on. I’ll show you something no council elder has cared to look at in decades.”

Henry leads back inside, through a library so enormous Alex’s brain auto-plays Beauty and the Beast background music. At the far end, Henry kneels, pries up a parquet square Alex would have sworn was nailed to physics. A trapdoor yawns.

“Watch your head,” Henry says, and disappears.

“I am definitely getting murdered,” Alex murmurs, but climbs down after Henry.

The staircase spirals tight, stone slick with condensation. Thirty feet down, the air turns cellar-cold. When his sneakers thump onto the ground, Henry strikes an ancient brass switch and soft bulbs bloom behind wire grids. Alex has to swallow a swear word.

The vault is maybe forty feet long, arched and ribbed like the belly of a cathedral, walls lined with limestone blocks the color of candle wax. Victorian air-bricks dot the ceiling, exhaling a draft that smells of chalk and history. Everything else is shelving—oak cases, lead-lined coffers, temperature-controlled cabinets humming steadily.

“Private archive,” Henry says. “Aelric built the shell in 1887, but the collection’s older than that. Older than almost anything.”

Alex drifts to the first case. An unrolled papyrus cradled in glass, ink sepia and delicately spidery.

“Scroll from Alexandria,” Henry says. “Third-century copy of Euclid’s treatise on light—includes diagrams of how lenses bend rays. If history hadn’t burned, humanity might’ve had telescopes a millennium earlier.”

He wants to smash every modern textbook and start over.

On a central plinth rests a chipped ceramic tube stoppered with wax. Henry cracks it open, revealing ochre parchment. “Pliny the Elder’s letter to his nephew—another version of the Vesuvius account. He mentions a ‘black rain like ink’ no scholar’s ever quoted.”

Alex blows out a breath that fogs the glass. “The Smithsonian would riot.”

“They’d have to find it first.” Henry’s grin is quicksilver.

Farther in, a chest of lead. Henry flips clasps; inside rests a circlet of hammered iron veined with gold threads, dents and gouges like battlefield freckles.

“Crown of Charlemagne, original alloy. Swapped for a gilt replica when bishops wanted something shinier for coronations.”

Alex exhales a single syllable that might be a curse or prayer, he’s not sure.

They stop at a velvet-lined drawer. A Roman gladius rests inside, rust spidering across the blade. The hilt is plain wood darkened by sweat older than printing presses.

“Peter cut a centurion’s ear with that,” Henry says. “My ancestor smuggled it out of Jerusalem after the siege.”

Alex drags a palm down his face, laughing because it’s that or hyperventilate. “You’re sitting on enough lost artifacts to rewrite every Western Civ textbook.”

“That’s the point,” Henry says quietly. “Some histories are safer hidden.”

Alex pivots in slow circles, cataloguing everything he’s not allowed to photograph. There’s a Babylonian cylinder seal, an ebony chess king with Charlemagne’s monogram, a bundle of quills that belonged to Shakespeare—each cradled like a sleeping child.

He can’t help but blurts, “Can I take a picture? Just one. I swear it stays on my phone till the day I die, gets passed down to my grandkids in a secret USB.”

Henry studies him, weighing a dozen protocol violations, then nods nevertheless. “Go.”

Alex chooses the wall of bookcases, framing Henry at their edge, lamp glow painting him in Rembrandt gold. The shutter clicks.

“You’re hoarding lost civilization like my abuela hoards milagros in a tin box.”

This wins a true laugh from Henry, bright and reckless. “Speaking of boxes,” he says, turning to a modest iron coffer on a side table. “There’s one more thing.”

When he lowers the phone, Henry’s standing beside a low iron-bound coffer no bigger than a hatbox.

“This is supposed to be yours,” Henry says and Alex is totally confused.

He watches Henry nudges the lid open. Inside lies a small blue cotton blanket, worn thin, embroidered with a looping letter A. 

He reaches in with both hands, thumb sliding the weave he hasn’t felt since second grade. “This—How do you— I lost this at my grandfather’s lake house when I was seven.”

“You wrapped a shivering fox in it and carried him inside,” Henry says, then shyly adds, “I… may have kept it.”

Understanding detonates in Alex’s brain. Theme memory of a russet kit, terrified eyes, a cut on its flank. The summer he swore animals could talk if you listened hard enough. All of it rushes back to him.

His knees threaten collapse. “That was you,” he says. “Holy hell, that was you!”

Henry’s smile is broken-open and boyish. “Took me this long to find the courage.”

Alex presses the blanket to his sternum. Something hot pricks his eyelids; he pretends it’s the cold air. “You saved it all this time?”

“Carried it through boarding school. I kept it because—” Henry swallows. “Because it reminded me not all humans are terrible. Just like my dad.”

Alex’s fingers keep worrying the frayed satin. The cotton is soft the way several washes turn things soft, velvety where it used to be plush, and the pale-blue dye has long since drifted toward dawn-gray. The tiny “A” at the corner glints back at him in silver thread, the cross-stroke crooked because Abuela stitched it after two cafés con leche and one telenovela cliff-hanger.

He remembers her tongue pinched inside her teeth, the needle flashing, eastern light slanting across the kitchen. He was maybe three, pudgy wrists propped on her lap, and she told him the blanket would guard against mal de ojo.

Alex then looks back at the blanket, then at Henry, then down again. The memory of the kit clicks fully into place: red fur sticky with blood, frantic little chest pumping under child-sized hands; Alex, dragging Abuelito’s spare quilt from the bunk bed because Mom said warm bodies need blankets; him sleeping next to the kit. And in the morning the kit was gone, leaving only muddy pawprints.

He’d believed that the fox left to find its mama. For fifteen years he told the story at Thanksgiving and on first dates and once, embarrassingly, in a freshman comp essay about compassion. And now the fox is standing in front of him wearing a perfectly tailored and expensive blue cardigan.

His laugh escapes on a wobble. “You— got home safe?”

Henry’s gaze snaps to him; the relief in it is almost painful. “Because of you.”

That does it. The laugh buckles into a sob so abrupt it jerks his shoulders. He claps a hand over his mouth, blanket crushed to his chest, but the next sob is bigger and then he’s crying in hot tears. Somewhere behind the wall of noise in his ears he hears Henry whisper “Oh, God,” half-desperate, and then careful hands hover—touch his elbows—withdraw—return.

“Alex—Alex, please—tell me what you need.”

He shakes his head, keeps shaking, tries to smear the tears away with the heel of his palm and ends up poking himself in the eye. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” he gasps, “just—processing the part where my childhood woodland-critter rescue turns out to be an aristocratic vampire with a private Antiquities R Us in his basement.”

“Half-vampire. And technically only twenty-four,” Henry quips, though his eyes are wet too.

He scrubs at his cheeks until the tears slow to a trickle, until he can breathe without hiccupping.

“There’s one thing,” Alex says once he trusts his voice not to skid. “You have to promise me.”

“Anything.”

“No mind-wipe. No compulsion. No blank spaces where tonight should be.” The words crowd out on top of each other, earnest and terrified. “Promise me that when all this ends—when Odessa’s gone, when you don’t have to fake blood-pacts to protect me—you won’t erase my memories.”

“Alex—”

“I mean it,” Alex says, and there’s a ragged edge under the words now, a desperation he can’t sand down. “I don’t care if it’s protocol or if it’s safer for you, or whatever other vampire council bullshit they cook up. I want to remember this. All of it. You.”

Henry draws in a slow breath that seems to pull lantern glow into his eyes. “I swore to protect you. I will never touch your memories without your permission. I give you my word.”

Something unwinds under Alex’s breastbone. He nods. “Good. Because if you tried I’d—I’d sue the entire Council for psychic malpractice.”

Henry winks. “Noted.”

“Hey,” Alex says, eyes stinging again but in a gentler way, “thank you for staying alive long enough to return my favorite security blanket. Not everybody goes to that kind of trouble.”

“Thank you for wrapping a useless fox in it first,” Henry says and Alex chuckles through the tears.

And then Henry’s arms are around him—slowly, giving Alex every millimeter to refuse, which of course he doesn’t. He steps in, slots himself against the broad, steady line of Henry’s body, tucks his face into the slope where neck meets shoulder. The hug is awkward at first (Henry’s elbow bangs a display case, Alex nearly smothers them both in blanket), but then it settles. Turns quiet and huge.

Alex can feel Henry’s heartbeat under the layers of his cardigan— thump-thump, thump-thump —fast. He closes his eyes and lets it tether him, north star sure. For the first time in twenty-four insane hours, the roar in his head goes still.

“If you ever crawl into that crypt for your century-long nap,” he bargains, “I get visitation rights, understood?” He didn’t know why the idea brings him more tears.

Henry cups the back of Alex’s skull, fingers threading through his hair. “Only if you promise to wake me with fresh blankets—monogrammed, of course.”

Minutes later—five? ten? they separate.

“We should probably,” Alex begins, gestures at the stairs, “let the priceless relics get back to beauty sleep. Council at dawn and all.”

“Yes, dawn,” Henry echoes, but he doesn’t move. “Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to know you were my miracle first.”

Alex’s breath snags. “That’s—Jesus, Henrietta, that’s not fair!”

“I’m rarely fair,” Henry says. “But I’m honest.”

“Okay, miracle boy. Let’s get out of this Bat-cave before I accidentally sneeze on Charlemagne.”

Henry snorts, threads their fingers, and they climb the spiral toward thin slivers of morning light. Alex keeps the blanket clutched in his free hand. Some protections, it turns out, last longer than curses, long enough to lead a lost fox home and still be here to wrap around two reckless men.

He thinks his Abuela would approve.

Chapter Text

Highgrove is already humming when Alex bolts awake. The bedside clock insists it’s 4:58 a.m. His heart insists it’s five minutes to judgment.

Conclave morning.

He rolls out of a bed the size of a parking spot, pads to the window, and breathes fog onto twelve panes of leaded glass. Beyond the lawn the countryside waits under a pewter sky. Three days ago he was in his grandfather’s lake house, arguing with June whether vampires are real; now he’s about to pitch himself to a board of near-immortal aristocrats. The whiplash could snap vertebrae.

Behind him, a knock.

When he opens the door Henry is there, immaculate in a suit so midnight-blue it could pass for black unless you happened to be standing within kissing distance. Alex, un-caffeinated, does not need to be that close to see the color. Henry’s shoulders are set, but the rest of him—​the shadows under his eyes, the way his ringless hand tunnels through his hair twice in ten seconds—​looks like a man playing defense against panic.

“Sleep?” Henry asks. Somewhere in the house, staff hurry past with trays, pretending not to spy on them.

“I had a torrid affair with insomnia,” Alex says, tugging the belt tighter on the dressing gown he stole from the ensuite.

“The tailor sent your suit,” Henry says. “Left wardrobe, second hanger.”

Alex nods. “You okay?”

“Yes,” says Henry. “Dress. I’ll wait.”

Thirty minutes later Alex steps back into the corridor, trussed in charcoal wool. The cut is perfect, tailored last night while Alex was too wired to notice.

Henry’s gaze skims—​lapels, tie knot, shoes—​then trace Alex’s mouth exactly one beat too long. “Ready,” he says, and means for anything .

They descend by service stairs when there are elevators. Alex suspects Henry wants to dodge early-bird Elders. Henry angles left, toward a set of doors Alex hasn’t seen open yet.  Two guards that Alex knows for sure are vampires melt from shadow, then ease the doors apart.

The Conclave chamber used to be a ballroom, according to Henry; now everything frivolous has been stripped away. Chandeliers dimmed to a courtroom glow, parquet floor waxed mirror-bright, and Twelve chairs. Seven already occupied.

Seven pure-blood council seats curve in a crescent—each one dressed in a different crest: twin gryphons, a stag breaking spears, an Egyptian ankh wreathed in flame. His first reaction is irrational shame that he has sweaty palms in front of century-old upholstery.

Four Core Elders who can override almost anything, six Allied Elders who balance the vote, one rotating Cultural Liaison who’s technically “noncombatant but scary on principle.”

Lady Mary Hanover-Stuart occupies center throne like still water occupies a well—you get the sense no one knows how deep she goes. She wears uncompromising rich black velvet lace dress down to her heels and a collar of pearls that have probably witnessed more coups than most governments. Her eyes settle on Alex with the slow consideration of someone grading him for neat penmanship.

To her right lounges Lord Alastair. He flicks a curt nod at Henry; Alex receives the visual equivalent of an iron bar slid across a door. Mary’s other flank belongs to Lady Merivale Lancaster. Her hair is Versailles-ash blonde today, cascading over a smoking-white couture suit that drinks every light. Alex wonders if she dyes the curls to match her mood or if her mood adjusts to match whichever lethal shade she’s decided on.

Shaan clears his throat— the diplomatic cough that means show-time—and they steps forward. Alex counts another beat of heartbeat silence, then Lady Mary stands.

Henry’s hand releases him only when protocol demands each party stand alone inside the crescent of elders. Alex feels the loss like an unzipped Kevlar vest.

He tries to remember every cram session Henry forced on him hours before the Conclave. Rule one: do not bow; mortals do not bow to the Council. Rule two: meet every gaze exactly long enough to register respect, never submission. Rule three: speak only when spoken to unless someone’s about to implode the room, in which case you are already late.

“Council,” Henry says, bowing his head. “I thank you for answering my summons.” He then raises his head and look on every eye of the elders. “You have read my petition.”

On cue, Shaan produces a slender wooden box and presents it. Mary opens the lid; the declaration inside glows faintly, the wax seal still warm from Henry’s blood.

“I, Henry George Edward James Fox Hanover-Stuart,” Henry declares, “do claim provisional blood-mate bond with Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz, mortal descendant of Leandro Ruiz, and invoke the Right of Protection on his behalf.”

Mary’s gaze lands hard on Alex. “Mister Diaz,” she begins, and manages to lace all three syllables with disdain. “Are you prepared to state, for the record, that your human will remains uncompelled?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gulps. “Clear as day.”

“Clarify why you consent to be named blood-mate in a conflict you scarcely comprehend,” Marivale cuts in.

Before Alex can open his mouth, Henry slides half a step forward, palms loose at his sides. “Lady Merivale, Alex comprehends more than some lifers in this chamber. He translated and retrieved the Odessa grimoire while three of Vatican archivists were still arguing about the catalog number.”

That’s a lie—June located the book, Henry handled the translation part—but he lets Henry spin the narrative.

A rustle of brocade draws Alex’s attention left: Lady Soraya Dragomir lounging back, fingertip idly tracing condensation off a goblet of chardonnay. She looks carved from frost: skin so pale it tints blue at temple and wrist, hair blacker than fur at midnight. When she smiles the temperature dips a full degree. “Flattery wins few votes, young Hanover-Stuart. Evidence, however…”

Alastair breaks in. “Evidence, aye.” He flicks two fingers and his son Cicillian—lean, hawk-eyed, long silver hair flowing on his back—steps forward with a leather folio.

The folio hits the side table. “Security review,” Cicillian says, Mediterranean sunlight trapped in syllables. “Site markers confirm Odessa’s residue on the Díaz bloodline. If she resurrects, Mr. Claremont-Diaz remains Priority Target Omega.”

Alex’s gut twists. Nothing like hearing you’re an Alpha Snack for a homicidal ancient to boost confidence.

Nyasha Makhet, lounging behind Soraya, raises a perfectly trimmed dark brow. Under the pink-lavender halo of her foxtail stole she’s all easy swagger—dark skin luminous as burnished teak, braids pulled back. She taps a long purple polished nail against her cheek. “Priority Target Omega with no bond is an unsecured nuclear code. The Hanover-Stuart proposal solves that.”

That makes the side of Lady Merivale’s mouth twists ugly.

Henry smiles, grateful.

Alastair lifts the ring between forefinger and thumb. “If Odessa stirs,” he says, tone granite-flat, “the council must decide on war powers. But you presume much, Henry. Protection for a human is precedent-shattering.”

Nyasha sips her crimson drink. “Let’s not pretend the status quo can handle what’s coming. The boy’s safer bound than loose.”

“Exactly my petition,” Henry says, sliding seamlessly back in. “I invoke Prerogative Twelve. I declare Bond with Alex, effective upon council assent.”

Fianna Stirling clears her throat delicately. “Whether it solves anything depends on intent. A vow under false sentiment fractures old law.” Her red hair spills over her body-fitting burgundy latex dress; Alex wants to track the accent but the stakes in the words make his pulse climb.

He thinks of rule three—speak if apocalypse is imminent—and decides yes, the room is tilting that way.

“If it helps,” he says, stepping fully beside Henry, “my intent tonight is pretty straightforward: I plan to keep breathing, ideally with Henry still beside me. Odessa wants the opposite.”

A beat of stunned quiet. Then, maddeningly, Lord Adrien Vexcourt lets out a baritone chuckle. Adrien’s every bit the medieval painting that inspired goth Instagram: snow-white hair cascading over a white suit, cheekbones you could shelve books on. “Spoken like a man raised outside court,” he drawls. “I find the honesty refreshing.”

Merivale rolls her eyes; Mary’s lightning flash of disapproval could crack marble.

Somewhere in the barrage Shaan slips Alex a crystal tumbler of water. Alex downs half, heart slamming like sneakers in a dryer. Henry’s eyes flick question—okay?—and Alex breathes back— trying.

Then Lady Mary waves all sidebar talk to heel. “The Council will deliberate bond legitimacy. Hanover-Stuart heir, state your oath.”

It’s Henry’s cue to walk into the dragon’s mouth. He squeezes Alex’s wrist once, steps into the center circle, and begins.

“I could recite the covenants,” Henry says, voice carrying, “but everyone here has them carved behind the eyes already. So let me offer a simpler truth. When I first met Alex, he didn’t know who I was, or what I was. He found me broken and bleeding, and without hesitation, he chose to save me. No questions, no fear. Just kindness. I owe my life to his hands long before either of us knew what we would become to each other. He is reckless, kind, and—” Henry’s gaze lands on Alex like sunrise “—astonishingly brave. I stand here not because tradition demands it, but because my future recalibrated the moment he saved me. If invoking an ancient bond grants him even one more heartbeat of safety, I would do it again, without titles, without hesitation.”

Alex swallows around the grenade in his throat. The hall is suddenly too small for the amount of feelings Henry just detonated in public.

Mary’s eyes narrow at her grandson. Cicillian’s mouth quirks; Nyasha offers an appreciative whistle no human ear could catch.

Interrogation pivots then to Alex. Soraya glides forward until the chill of her presence prickles Alex’s neck hair. “Human, do you understand the neurological consequences of extended hematophagic exchange?”

He exhales. “Yes.”

“Do you anticipate regrets when your friends wither?” she pushes.

Alex thinks of June, of Nora’s snark, of his parents refusing to slow-dance with time. It’s a gut punch, but there’s only one answer. “The alternative is them mourning me. I’ll take the pain of watching if it means they live long enough to grow old complaining at me.”

Soraya’s head tilts, then she retreats.

Hours leak by—at least Alex thinks they’re hours; time in the council chamber warps like taffy when every elder can quote the Thirty Years’ War from memory.

Arguments loop: Mary demands derivatives, Henry parries, Adrien calculates risk. Nyasha counters with market-data percentages about vampire mortal alliances in sub-Saharan enclaves.

His attention snagged earlier on Nyasha’s earrings—slender spears of platinum that sway when she speaks. Now they move as she lists precedent: “Twelve mixed bonds ratified in the last century, zero council collapses. Fear is poor governance.”

Merivale huffs, turns to Mary. “Your grandson’s romance endangers Hanover-Stuart neutrality.”

Henry’s voice, silk over steel. “Neutrality that condones Odessa’s rise is already compromised.”

Mary’s jaw clenches. The chandelier suddenly shakes—Alex isn’t sure if it’s a draft or raw psychic tension. At the six-hour mark (by Alex’s internal panic clock) Mary signals final vote. Each elder touches a sigil embedded in the arm of their chair. Sigils flare cold blue or warm gold—oppose or support. Alex’s stomach tries to rappel out his shoes.

He counts: Mary—cold. Merivale—cold. Soraya—cold, unsurprisingly. Fianna—warm. Nayasha—warm. Elders weigh differently; Mary and Merivale counts double. 

Alastair hesitates, thumb poised over the crest. His onyx eyes lift to Henry, then to Alex. He presses. Warm. That counts as two.

They need two more or it fails.

But Cicillian and the heirs don’t vote.

All eyes shift to the far right, where an empty seat now waits.

He could’ve sworn—no, he’s sure —that chair wasn’t empty before. The high one carved from black alder, crowned with a bleeding rose and the sigil of the House Vexcourt. Earlier, when they first stepped into the chamber, Lord Adrien Vexcourt had been seated there.

So where the hell is he now?

He inches close to Henry. “Vexcourt?”

Henry doesn’t look at him, only murmurs without thoroughly moving his lips. “Gone.”

“Gone gone?”

“Yes.”

“Is that normal?”

Henry’s mouth twitches like it wants to smile, but doesn’t make it there. “Nothing about Elders is normal.”

Elder. That word. Alex hadn’t realized that Adrien Vexcourt was one of the four elders.

The man had looked only a few winters older than Henry. Nothing about him had screamed centuries. 

Henry meets his eyes for the barest instant. “He’s my grandmother’s younger half-brother.”

A low buzz, then a shimmering projection ignites above the vacant throne: translucent parchment scroll swirling into the Council crest. A late vote routing in. The crest blazes gold.

Alex releases the breath he’s been strangling. Henry’s shoulders sag half an inch.

Mary’s lips set like mortar. “Majority approves. The bond proceeds under provisional charter. Conclave adjourns for dawn ritual.”

Chairs scrape. Alex’s knees go weak and Henry is at his side instantly, holding him by the waist, steering him out of the pressure cooker and into a side corridor.

Alex leans into the wall. “Did we just—? That felt like—? I need nouns.”

“We survived. You were magnificent.” Henry’s gaze is soft enough to melt tungsten.

Alex tries a grin. It sticks. “Who cast the ghost vote?”

“Adrien,” Henry says. “He never misses an opportunity to irritate Grandmother.”

“Bless that petty king.” Alex’s lungs finally cooperate.

Footsteps approach—Cicillian’s long stride. He stops a polite distance away. Up close his eyes are deep-water green. “I voted warm in my heart, if not on the board.”

“Thanks, man,” Alex says.

Cicillian’s smile is kind which Alex didn’t expect. “Guard each other. History is rarely kind.” He disappears down the hall.

He clutches his right chest and exhales then turns back to Henry. “Breakfast burritos in twelve minutes?”

“Done.”

Henry’s mobile rings before he manages the first bite of his hard-won burrito.

Philip.

The caller-ID alone brings the burrito halfway back up his throat. He wipes salsa from a knuckle, crosses to the library’s tall window, and answers.

“Philip.”

There is no greeting in return—just the slow, razor slide of his brother’s inhale. Then: “What have you done?”

The words are ice-shaved; Henry can almost feel frost building on the earpiece. He keeps his voice level. “Clarify. I’ve done quite a lot lately.”

“Don’t.” Philip’s temper rarely flares—he prefers the low, punishing freeze—but today it cracks through. “You have dragged our House into mud. A blood-mate claim? With a mortal? Do you understand the precedent you set?”

“The Conclave approved. The bond is provisional. Precedent exists.”

“Precedent from fringe Houses—families already diluted past pureblood. We are Hanover-Stuarts. Mother’s line is the oldest extant!” Philip’s voice spikes, then lashes back flat. “Grandmother rang me at three-thirty. Three-thirty, Henry. She asked whether I endorsed your… spectacle. I told her I’d not been consulted.”

“I didn’t consult anyone,” Henry says, softer, deadlier. “Odessa’s cult didn’t send a courtesy note, either.”

“You risked the Council’s neutrality for a boy you met less than a year ago.”

“That boy saved me more than you did.” Henry’s fingers whiten around the phone. “What have your bulwarks of purity done lately?”

“You mistake self-indulgence for principle,” Philip snaps. “And the Council mistakes fear for strategy.”

Henry lets a measured beat pass. “Then take it up with the Council. I’ll stand by the ruling.”

Silence, long enough for both of them to feel the cut. At last Philip speaks. “I’m on the next flight. Secure your human. We will finish this, Henry. One way or the other.”

Henry’s answer is steady. “Your key still works—try not to chip the stonework when you slam doors.”

Philip severs the call.

Henry stares at the dead screen then forces his hand open.

“Right,” he mutters, “excellent start.”

He wakes to chaos later in the evening. Shaan’s voice booms somewhere beyond the door—“Sir Philip, let him rest, He fought half the council—” and then hinges shriek.

A winter draft bursts through as the door flies inward. Philip fills the threshold. Frost steams off his shoulders; tiny crystals drift from his hair, as though he has walked through a snow-squall no one else can see.

“Hello, brother.” Henry plants bare feet on the floor, pushing hair off his face. “Did you murder every doorknob between Heathrow and here or am I special?”

Philip’s stare could flash-freeze mercury. “Get dressed. We’re leaving. We’ll annul this farce before the ink dries.”

Henry yawns deliberately. “No annulment. No vote. Council law is older than Father’s share portfolio.”

A lace of frost rockets across the floorboards and locks around Henry’s ankles, anchoring him mid-stride. Pain knives up his calves. Philip steps inside, shutting what’s left of the door.

“You always did need demonstrations.” He flicks a hand; spears of ice materialise mid-air and launch. Henry dives sideways. One shard grazes his shoulder, drawing a hot line of blood.

Instinct answers with thunder. Electricity arcs from Henry’s palms, shatters the restraints, scorches panel. Sheets whip off the bed like frightened gulls.

Philip smiles—white, flawless, predator. He drives a fist into Henry’s ribs, other hand latching Henry’s throat. The impact cracks plaster; Henry’s spine dents the wall. A pulse of cold spread across his clavicle; skin tries to blister and freeze simultaneously.

Then Philip hurls him through the door. Wood disintegrates. Henry rolls, palms to the floor, current crackling into lethal focus. “Couldn’t wait for brunch, could you?”

Pain clarifies everything. Lightning tingles at his wrists, eager.

Philip strides over shattered timber. “I told Mother your softness would kill us. I was wrong. Apparently it’ll kill every—“

Thunder cracks from Henry’s clenched fist. A cobalt filament lances forward; Philip twists, letting it scorch only his coat sleeve. Vapor hisses from the ice across the corridor.

Bedroom doors along the hallway fling open. June appears first, hair a riot, Alex half a second behind in rumpled sweats.

June’s gasp knifes through the melee. “Henry—God, you’re bleeding.” His shirt clings red at the shoulder where wood has bitten deep.

Alex steps—but a glacier erupts, centimeter-thick, across the corridor floor. A wall of translucent blue spikes up between him and Henry.

Philip’s breath fogs. “Stay back, little mortal. This family matter predates your species’ literacy.”

Alex plants both hands on the ice, eyes murderous. “I’m part of that family now, Frosty, or were you busy chiseling your ego to hear?”

Philip’s lip curls. “You choose spirited pets, brother. Pity you can’t protect them.”

Henry’s blood sings. He rolls to a crouch, lightning crawling over every nerve. “Let him speak for himself. He has more courage than your entire cavalry of yes-men.”

Philip’s eyes flash polar silver. “And you—brother dear—have always needed rescuing.”

The corridor explodes.

Ice spears shoot like javelins; Henry ducks, feeling one nick his ear, firebright pain. He answers with a volley of electric arcs, forked current that shatters the first rank of icicles into kaleidoscope shards.

Alex scoops a decorative spear from a wall stand—Henry’s great-great-grandfather’s Zulu war trophy—and hurls it. Philip flicks contempt; the shaft freezes mid-flight, clatters harmless.

“You pick fragile allies,” he calls. “Did the Council’s pity feel nice?”

“They backed me because you’d rather tax spreadsheets than hunt rogues.”

“Rogues are background noise. You’re detonating dynastic deterrence for a bedtime crush.”

“Funny, coming from the man who bedded the Amsterdam envoy to nudge tariffs.”

That definitely hits a nerve. Philip launches in a blur of fury. Henry meets him halfway. They collide like planets. Ice blossoms, lightning fractures it, super-heated vapour screams down the hall. The blast flings Henry backward; he sails through a door, lands hard on mosaic tile—guest bathroom—shatters a marble vanity.

Philip stalks through plaster dust, forming a longsword of translucent frost. “Last chance. Walk away from the mortal and I forget this.”

Henry staggers as he stands, lightning rolling across knuckles. “Pass.”

He merely snap his fingers. The bathroom’s copper pipes answer—conduction channel—sending thirty thousand volts up Philip’s icy blade, through coat, into skeleton. The lights die again. Philip convulses, drops to one knee, steam boiling off his shoulders.

Henry advances, ribs screaming, cheek split. “Yield.”

Philip snarls, drives a reverse punch into Henry’s abdomen—ice-knuckled. Breath whooshes; Henry staggers. Philip follows with an uppercut; Henry ducks, sweeps his older brother’s legs with a crack of thunder that flips Philip into the corridor.

Floorboards ignite where Philip lands. He rolls, extinguishes flames with a pulse of absolute zero that frosts the staircase balustrade to glassy fragility.

Henry leaps after, kicks Philip’s wrist—ice-sword skids away. He drops, pins Philip by the throat, lightning gathering for the finishing surge.

Philip spits a laugh, blood on teeth. “Go on, little brother. Prove them right—emotion over empire.”

“Enough!”

The corridor shimmers. Paintings drip into ribbons of color; walls elongate like wet canvas. An aurora of impossible hues threads the corridor, swallowing shapeless ice and molten lightning.

Beatrice steps from nowhere. She gestures; the distorted hallway stills into gentle twilight, colors returning where she allows.

“Boys,” she says, mild as tea, “Mum is so tired of replacing ceilings.”

Both men freeze, panting. Henry’s thunder gutters; Philip’s frost retreats.

Bea crosses the boarded-up ice wall as though it were an archway. With a shrug the illusion converts it to ordinary air; Alex almost falls forward. Bea catches him, envelops him in a hug that steals the panic from his lungs.

“Alex, finally! I’ve been stalking Henry’s voicemail for months. Ignore the Alpha testosterone—welcome to the madhouse.”

Alex blinks, blushes, nods. June lowers the spear, mouth hanging open.

Bea turns to Philip, drops her illusion. The corridor is wreckage again. “Apologise before someone films this.”

Philip wipes blood from his lip. “I’m against this.”

Henry—still crouched, palm over Philip’s sternum—viciously says, “The Conclave voted. Alex is under our banner. Protect him or crawl back to Zürich.”

Frost crackles across the floor, lightning along the ceiling. The siblings’ powers swell again, illusion threads straining.

Shaan barrels from the staircase, phone glued to ear. “Stop!” His shout slices the tension; everyone pauses. He listens another second, nods, ends the call. Looks up, voice flat. “His holiness is dead”

Silence. Even the smoking wires stop sparking.

No.

Gone?

Just six months ago, Pope Adrian IX had clapped Henry on the shoulder after a private audience with his mother and joked, “Tell your grandmother I still pray for the sins of your bloodline—though I suspect she enjoys them too much to repent.” He’d laughed at his own gall, poured himself espresso, and mentioned he still clocked ten kilometers before sunrise.

June automatically crosses herself. Alex whispers a Spanish prayer he hasn’t used since grade school.

Philip surges to his feet; Henry lets him.

“Cause?”

“Heart attack,” Shaan answers. “Medical team found him unresponsive in his study. The Cardinal Dean invoked Sede Vacante.”

With the Pope’s death, all papal bulls are suspended. Every clandestine concordat with the Throne of Peter—vampire treaties, safe-harbor indulgences, exsanguination temperaments—hangs in legal limbo until a new pontiff chooses to ratify or revoke them.

“Who stands papabile?” Henry hurriedly asks.

“The prefertiti list hasn’t leaked,” Shaan says, “but Cardinal Santoro is already whispered as forerunner.”

Philip swears. “Not that wretched man.”

Henry’s stomach bottoms out. Santoro as Pope would shred half the protections shielding their bloodline. Rogue factions would smell weakness, strike during conclave deadlock.

Philip’s gaze spears him. “If Santoro ascends, every treaty voids at his signature. And you bound our House to this liability hours before the Vatican detonated.”

Henry forces calm. “Then we ensure Santoro never sits the Chair of Peter.”

Philip barks a heartless laugh. “We? The Council barely ratified your stunt.”

“We have allies.” Henry’s mind races: the sympathetic Nyasha, Fianna in Dublin, perhaps even Adrien if properly courted. “The conclave will need two-thirds plus one. Influence can pivot.”

Philip’s eyes narrow—calculating, not conceding. “If you gamble wrong, brother, famine will look kind compared with what Odessa will harvest from your soft little Texan.”

“I can do another round, Pip.” Henry steps between his brother and Alex, lightning stirring again from his palm. “Dare to touch him and you’ll beg famine.”

“Peace, both of you,” Bea says. “We have larger fires now.”

Shaan pockets the silent phone, eyes pinched. “Lady Bea is correct. Rome will call the College within ten days. Every Pureblood House must decide whether to intervene or entrench.”

Henry glances back at Alex—barefoot, hair tangled, face blotched with worry but eyes bright, unafraid. “We intervene,” he says. “We fight for every line the old treaties promised. And for new ones.”

June folds her arms. “Fine, but could we maybe do it after showers and actual clothes? Some of us are in pajamas.”

Philip exhales a plume of frosted air. The ice recedes from his cuffs. “Clean yourselves. We convene in an hour.”

He strides away, oxford shoes crunching over meltwater. The corridor falls quiet save for three staffs scrambling to repair carnage.

Alex steps to Henry. “You all right?”

His shoulder bleeds sluggishly where door splinters have burrowed. “Stings less than politics.”

Beatrice touches his arm, healing warmth tracing. “Get patched. I’ll keep tempers braided.”

He covers her hand with his. “Thank you, Bea.”

She kisses his cheek, then drifts after Philip, weaving subtle calm into the air like jasmine.

June sighs, surveying ruin. “So dinner?”

“Add coffee,” Alex says. “The apocalypse is easier after caffeine.”

Henry snorts. “Doctor’s orders.”