Chapter Text
The Lockwood Estate was dressed to impress, but then again, it always was.
Golden chandeliers bathed the grand hall in warm light, catching on the crystal flutes of champagne and the gilded masks of Mystic Falls’ finest. The laughter was bright, the music even brighter, and the air smelled of wealth—freshly polished mahogany, expensive perfume, and the faint trace of overindulgence.
It was the sort of event designed to make anyone feel out of place unless they’d been born into it, and Rhiannon Vale had not.
She exhaled slowly, adjusting the press badge tucked discreetly into her bag, and gave Andie Star a sideways glance.
“Remind me again why we agreed to this?”
Andie, effortlessly poised in a deep red gown that screamed network presenter, took a deliberate sip of her champagne before smirking. “Because Mayor Lockwood insisted we cover the ball for the station, and we both enjoy receiving a paycheck at the end of the month?”
Rhiannon huffed, leaning against the bar as she flicked through her notes. “Aye, well. I’m still deciding if it’s worth the agony of listening to another speech about ‘upholding the legacy of Mystic Falls.’”
Andie laughed, eyes scanning the room as she twirled her glass by the stem. “Oh, come on. This is the biggest event of the season. The gowns, the gossip, the flowing champagne—it’s practically begging for a scandal.”
“Then let’s hope one of these fine, upstanding citizens trips on their own ego and face-plants into the punch bowl,” Rhiannon muttered, flipping a page in her notebook.
“You’re in a right mood tonight.”
“Andie, love, I’d rather be home in my dressing gown with a cuppa and a good book. Instead, I’m standing in a room full of posh people who are pretending they’ve done something meaningful with their wealth besides hosting extravagant piss-ups.”
Andie grinned over the rim of her glass. “That’s what I love about you, Ri. Always the optimist.”
Rhiannon let out a quiet chuckle despite herself.
Still, the evening had started on the wrong foot.
Jenna should have been here. She’d been looking forward to it—or at least, she’d said so with that dry, put-upon humour of hers. But then, out of nowhere, an accident.
Rhiannon hadn’t been able to shake the unease since getting the call.
“Oh, by the way, I somehow ran into my own kitchen knife last night. Nothing serious, just a little hospital visit.”
A little hospital visit. Jenna had tried to laugh it off, but Rhiannon could hear the strangeness in her voice. It wasn’t like her to be clumsy. And it definitely wasn’t like her to sound shaken.
Andie must have caught the shift in Rhiannon’s expression because she nudged her with an elbow. “Stop thinking about it. Jenna’s fine.”
“No one is that clumsy,” Rhiannon muttered.
“Maybe she was having a bad day?”
Rhiannon gave her a look. “Aye, well. That bad day nearly got her stitches.”
Andie sighed but didn’t press the matter.
As if on cue, Sheriff Forbes passed by, offering them a brief nod before scanning the room with sharp, assessing eyes. Always working.
Andie glanced after her. “Think she’ll actually enjoy herself at one of these things, or is she just here to make sure no one gets murdered?”
“With Mystic Falls’ luck? Likely both,” Rhiannon mused, then smirked. “Though I doubt she’s keen on us lot. Not when my brother’s still a pain in her arse down at the station.”
Andie chuckled. “Ryan’s still giving her grief?”
“Less grief, more helpfully pointing out every mistake the department makes,” Rhiannon said dryly. “A real favourite, that one.”
The night dragged on, and as expected, it was much the same as any other Founding Family event—polite smiles, murmured pleasantries, thinly veiled self-importance. Carol Lockwood had made her rounds, graciously thanking them for covering the ball, and the champagne continued to flow as Mystic Falls’ elite entertained themselves with idle gossip.
By the time Rhiannon felt the walls closing in, she was more than ready for a moment’s peace.
She let Andie handle the next interview and stepped away from the crowd, weaving through the throng of masked figures until she found herself in a quieter alcove near the edge of the ballroom.
And that was when the shift came.
The music, soft and elegant, faded into something else. She caught it mid-note—a waltz, distinctly older, distinctly out of place.
She blinked, turning her head slightly, and then she saw him.
A man stood by the balcony doors, poised like he’d been there the entire time. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, crisp and elegant, with an old-world charm that didn’t belong in a room full of modern wealth.
And he was looking directly at her.
A smirk curled his lips. “Ah. Finally. I was beginning to think you’d never notice me.”
Rhiannon tensed instinctively, though she didn’t let it show.
“Funny,” she said, voice even. “I’m usually quite good at spotting arrogant men at parties.”
His smirk widened slightly. “And yet, it took you all evening.”
She tilted her head, gaze flicking over him. “Maybe I’ve got better taste.”
He chuckled, stepping closer, his movement too smooth, too measured—as if he weren’t quite tethered to the ground.
“Ah, you are interesting,” he mused. “More than I expected, cariad.”
Cariad.
Rhiannon barely reacted—but barely was enough.
It was there, the flicker of awareness, the way her fingers flexed against the fabric of her dress. The barest tell.
Welsh.
It was a Welsh word. And a deliberate choice, she knew that much instantly. Because no one in Mystic Falls—no one she had ever met outside her own family—spoke Welsh.
Hell, even the poor lad who delivered the morning paper needed a translation guide just to get through her grandmother’s morning grumblings when he turned up two minutes late.
But this man…his accent was decidedly not Welsh. Not even remotely. It was clipped, aristocratic, vaguely old-world European, and yet he had just casually dropped a word that no one in this town should know.
Her suspicion was instant.
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s a Welsh word.”
His smirk grew. “Is it?”
“Aye.” She tilted her head. “Where’d you pick that up, then?”
“Oh, here and there,” he said smoothly, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as if this was a normal conversation. “I do like to travel.”
“That so?” Her voice was even, but her mind was already racing. He was lying. Or at the very least, he was not telling the full story.
“Mmm,” he hummed, clearly amused. “I’ve always had a fondness for languages. Picked up a few things along the way.”
“Odd choice, that,” she remarked, pretending to be unfazed. “Not exactly one of the more useful languages for a traveller.”
He arched a brow, smirking as if she’d walked into a trap she couldn’t yet see. “Depends who you’re talking to, doesn’t it?”
Rhiannon’s frown deepened slightly. Something about him felt… wrong. Not in the way that set off alarm bells, but in the way that made her skin itch. Like she was missing something.
And he knew it.
“So,” she said, folding her arms, “what else have you picked up on your travels then, boyo?”
He laughed at that—low, rich, genuinely entertained. “Oh, I like that. Boyo. Now you’re making me feel like a local.”
“You don’t sound like one.”
“Oh, but you do.” His gaze flicked over her, sharp and knowing. “You hide it well, but it’s there. The lilt, the way you roll your r’s just slightly more than the others here.”
She fought the urge to tense.
He tilted his head, watching her, all lazy amusement. “Let me guess—you don’t get many people here who’d know the difference?”
“Not unless they’re fluent in my grandmother’s morning rants about the state of modern America and the incompetence of newspaper boys,” she said flatly.
His grin widened. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”
“Aye, you’d get on like a house on fire,” Rhiannon muttered. “So long as you don’t mind the occasional lecture on how everything was so much better back in Wales.”
“Ah, well, mae'n debyg ei bod hi'n iawn.”
Rhiannon froze. The words had come too easily. Too naturally.
Perfect pronunciation. No hesitation.
Mae'n debyg ei bod hi'n iawn.
She’s probably right.
The sentence was so normal, so casual, but coming from him? A stranger with a non-Welsh accent?
No.
No, that wasn’t normal.
“You…” She trailed off, her heart beating just a little faster. “You speak Welsh.”
“Do I?” His smirk was pure devilry.
“Aye, you do.”
“Hmm.” He looked at her a little too intensely. “And how does that make you feel, cariad?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Like you’re taking the piss.”
“Oh, darling, I would never.”
“How many languages do you know, exactly?” she asked, watching him carefully.
He shrugged, all effortless charm. “Hard to say. One loses track after the first dozen.”
“Aye, I’m sure it’s terribly difficult keeping count.”
“It is, actually,” he said smoothly, smirking like she’d just handed him an opening. “Would you like me to start listing them? I could whisper something sweet in your ear in French. Or perhaps something scandalous in Italian. But then again, I do so enjoy Welsh—it’s got such a musical quality to it, don’t you think?”
Rhiannon stared at him, pulse thrumming.
He was doing this on purpose.
She didn’t know how he knew Welsh, but she knew he was enjoying every second of her trying to puzzle it out.
He took a step closer—just a fraction, just enough for her to feel the shift of space between them. His voice dipped, smooth as silk.
“Paid â chymryd gormod o amser yn ffiguro pethau allan, cariad.”
Rhiannon’s stomach dropped.
She knew what that meant.
Don’t take too long figuring things out, love.
Her breath caught. For the first time all evening, she had no reply. And then, suddenly, something tugged at her.
Not physically. Not quite.
It was subtle, barely a flicker, a strange little pull in her chest—like someone had taken an invisible thread and plucked it, just once.
There. Then gone.
She didn’t even have time to process it.
Because Andie’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.
“Who are you talking to?”
The spell broke. Rhiannon turned around to see Andie approaching, brow raised.
When she looked back, the man was gone.
The space he’d occupied was empty, nothing but candlelit air and the faint scent of old cologne lingering like a fading memory.
Andie frowned. “You alright, Ri?”
Rhiannon hesitated, pulse thrumming.
“There was a man,” she muttered. “Right here.”
Andie glanced around, unimpressed. “Don’t see anyone.”
Rhiannon inhaled, slow and steady, then exhaled. A trick of the light. It had to be.
She needed air.
“I’m stepping out for a minute,” she murmured.
As she pushed through the terrace doors into the cool March air, the unease didn’t leave her.
Something had just changed.
And she had no idea what.
The cool night air was a relief against her skin as Rhiannon stepped out onto the terrace, inhaling deeply, letting the noise of the ball fade into the background. Inside, Mystic Falls’ finest continued their revelry, champagne flowing as freely as the thinly veiled egos. Out here, it was quiet, still, the occasional murmur of laughter drifting from the estate’s open doors.
She reached for her phone, pulling it out of her clutch as it vibrated against her palm.
Ryan .
Ryan: How’s the ball? Full of posh arseholes yet?
She smirked, thumbs flying over the screen.
Rhiannon: Oh, absolutely. Peak Mystic Falls wankery.
A second later, another vibration.
Ryan: Bet Andie’s loving it.
Rhiannon: She’s having the time of her life watching me suffer.
Ryan: That’s what you get for going in the first place. Should’ve stayed home.
Rhiannon: Aye, well, SOME of us have jobs to do.
She lingered for a moment, staring at the screen, considering heading back in, but the thought made her stomach churn. She needed a proper breather before throwing herself back into that sea of masked pretension.
Her fingers moved instinctively.
Rhiannon: Anyway, I’m stepping out for air. Think I’ll head home soon.
She sent the message, her phone screen glowing softly in the dim light.
And that’s when she saw her.
Elena Gilbert was walking across the parking lot, phone pressed to her ear.
For a split second, Rhiannon didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t unusual to see Elena at these events, tangled up in the Founders’ world, but then—something was wrong.
The first thing that caught her eye was the blood. A dark red stain smeared across the sleeve of Elena’s pink sweater.
Pink. Not black.
Rhiannon frowned. Hadn’t she seen Elena earlier, slipping through the crowd in a scandalously short black dress? She was sure of it. And yet here she was, dressed entirely differently, looking shaken, talking softly into her phone.
Her stomach twisted.
Had she gone home and changed? Why? And what happened to her arm?
Rhiannon took a step forward, straining to hear the conversation.
“I’m fine, Jer,” Elena was saying, her voice quiet but firm. “I just need to go home, alright?”
Jeremy. She was talking to her younger brother.
The way she spoke, the slight tremble in her tone—it wasn’t just tiredness. She was shaken.
Something had happened.
The movement came fast.
Too fast.
A shadow detached from the darkness behind Elena. A man, masked, creeping up silently, a cloth already in his hand.
Rhiannon barely had time to process before he grabbed her. The cloth was clamped over Elena’s nose and mouth, his other arm locking around her waist.
Elena jerked, her phone slipping from her grasp as she struggled, fingers clawing at his grip.
Rhiannon’s heart pounded, her body freezing for half a second too long. The way Elena suddenly slumped, boneless and limp, was unnatural.
Too quick. Too wrong.
Shit.
Her mind raced. She could run inside. She could scream. She could—
No.
By the time someone got out here, Elena would be gone.
Her stomach coiled with a horrible certainty. This wasn’t some drunken mistake. This was a kidnapping.
Jenna’s niece.
A seventeen-year-old girl.
And Rhiannon Vale wasn’t the sort to stand by and let something like that happen.
She moved. Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest thing—her clutch, heavy with her phone and notebook—and swung it.
The metal clasp cracked against the side of the man’s mask, opening and causing her phone to fall out and land on the pavement.
He stumbled, cursing. But barely.
Shit.
He was stronger than he should be. His head snapped towards her.
A second of stillness. Then—he lunged.
Rhiannon barely had time to react before his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was crushing, like steel, and the next thing she knew—
Pain.
Blinding, searing pain as her head slammed into the hood of a nearby car. Her vision fractured, the world tilting wildly. She staggered, her knees buckling.
She tried to hold on, tried to fight the pull of unconsciousness, but it was a losing battle. Her body was giving up. Her knees hit the ground.
The last thing she saw was Elena’s limp body being hoisted over the man’s shoulder. And suddenly, she wasn’t alone.
He was there. The stranger from the ball. But this time, he wasn’t smirking. His presence flickered, sharp and burning, like the air around him was charged. His eyes—cold, dark, furious.
Not at her. At the man. The man who had hurt her.
His lips moved. And this time, she heard it.
Not a whisper. Not a plea.
A snarl.
“Rhiannon!”
She had never told him her name. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but the sound was fading, distant.
She was slipping. Her vision darkened at the edges, closing in. And the last thing she saw—the raw fury on his face. Like he was seconds away from tearing the bastard apart. Like he would, if he could…but he couldn’t.
And she didn’t understand why before darkness swallowed her whole.
The music pulsed faintly through the thick walls of the Lockwood Estate, the steady hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of champagne glasses. The ball was still in full swing, guests laughing and twirling under golden chandeliers, oblivious to the passage of time.
Andie Star, however, was no longer paying attention to any of it.
She was leaning against the edge of the bar, a barely-touched glass of champagne in her hand, absentmindedly scanning the crowd. Rhiannon had said she was stepping out for some air—it must have been over half an hour ago now.
At first, Andie had thought nothing of it. Rhiannon had never been one for these high-society events, and after hours of dealing with pretentious Founder’s families and their self-important small talk, she’d probably just needed a few minutes to breathe.
But the longer the minutes stretched, the more Andie felt something was off.
She pushed off from the bar, standing straighter, her gaze sweeping the crowd with more purpose this time.
No sign of auburn hair. No familiar sharp wit cutting through the conversations.
Her frown deepened.
Rhiannon wouldn’t just leave without saying anything. Not without telling her.
Something was wrong.
The feeling only got worse when she started asking around. A waiter shook his head when she inquired. “Haven’t seen her in a while, miss.”
She flagged down one of the event coordinators, a woman with a clipboard and an earpiece. “Hey, have you seen my friend? About this tall, auburn hair, a face that says she’d rather be anywhere else?”
The woman smiled politely but shrugged. “I don’t think so. Is everything alright?”
Andie forced a smile back. “Yeah. Probably. Thanks.”
She turned on her heel, pushing down the unease clawing at her stomach.
Because no. No, everything was not alright.
Andie’s brows furrowed as she tried to piece together the last time she’d actually seen Rhiannon.
Then it hit her. Rhiannon had been acting strangely earlier. Not in an obvious way, but there had been a moment—a flicker of something off.
Andie had walked past one of the quieter alcoves in the ballroom, catching a glimpse of her best friend standing alone, slightly apart from the party. Except… she hadn’t been alone.
Or at least, she’d thought she wasn’t. She’d been looking at someone—speaking, even. But when Andie had approached, there had been no one there.
“Who are you talking to?” she had asked, laughing a little.
Rhiannon had blinked, as if she’d been pulled out of a trance. Then she’d scowled. “There was a man.” She’d turned back, eyes searching for someone. A second later, her frown deepened. “Right here.”
Andie had just shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t see anyone.”
At the time, she had brushed it off as a weird encounter.
But now…now, that moment sat uneasily in her memory. Now, Rhiannon was missing.
Andie inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening.
Time to check outside.
The night air hit her as she stepped onto the terrace, cool and crisp but not enough to shake the growing unease curling at the back of her neck.
The parking lot stretched beyond the estate’s garden, rows of expensive cars reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. Andie took a slow breath, glancing around.
If Ri had left, her car wouldn’t still be here.
But there it was. Still parked exactly where she remembered it. She stopped in her tracks.
That didn’t make sense.
She pulled out her phone, pressing Rhiannon’s contact without hesitation.
The line rang. And then, suddenly, faintly, barely audible, a ringtone echoed from the parking lot.
Andie’s breath caught in her throat.
She followed the sound, heels clicking against the pavement, her heartbeat speeding up with each step. The ringing grew louder.
And then it suddenly stopped. That’s when she saw it.
Rhiannon’s phone, face-up on the asphalt, screen shattered. A missed call notification glowing on the broken glass.
Andie’s stomach twisted. She bent down slowly, inspecting the broken display, but keeping herself from reaching out and touching it.
Then she looked up — and her blood ran cold.
There was blood. Dark smears on the hood of the car in front of her.
A sickening contrast against the pale paint. Her clutch nearly slipped from her grip as the realisation hit her all at once.
This wasn’t just a lost phone. This wasn’t Rhiannon dropping her phone.
This was—something had happened.
Andie’s pulse thundered in her ears as she straightened, looking around wildly.
The ball was still alive with chatter, laughter spilling from the open doors. People drinking, dancing, utterly oblivious to the fact that someone was missing.
Andie was the only one who knew something was wrong. Her fingers curled tightly around her clutch. She swallowed down the panic rising in her throat, forcing herself to think.
She needed to call someone. But who?
The police? No.
Not yet.
Rhiannon’s brother?
Yes.
Ryan Vale.
He’d know what to do. Andie turned on her heel, her heart pounding harder than it should have been, the bloodstains on the car burned into her vision.
This wasn’t just Rhiannon running off. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was wrong.
And someone needed to know—before it was too late.
The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the treadmill set a steady tempo, a grounding beat beneath the pulse of the music blasting through his in-ear headphones. The gym was practically empty at this hour, just a few other night owls lingering in the weight section or zoning out on the rowing machines. The air smelled of rubber mats and faintly of sweat, the cool hum of the air conditioning cutting through the otherwise quiet space.
Ryan adjusted the speed on the treadmill, increasing the incline slightly as he exhaled through his nose. It had been a long day at the station—nothing too dramatic, just the usual small-town rubbish. A stolen bike, a bar fight outside The Grill, a domestic dispute that ended with someone flinging a remote control at their spouse. Standard fare.
Still, there was something gnawing at him, something that had been bugging him for days now.
Mason Lockwood.
He had come back for his brother’s funeral after almost a year in Florida—said he was planning to stay. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone.
And this time, when Ryan called, there was no answer at all.
No voicemail. No gruff voice telling him that Mason had "no time for his little human friends anymore," like the last time he’d tried to check in on him, months before Mason had even returned to Mystic Falls. That was a separate incident entirely, one that had already left Ryan uneasy. But now…now, Mason had simply vanished.
Carol Lockwood swore up and down that Mason had gone back to Florida. But if that was true, why hadn’t Mason told him himself?
Ryan slowed his pace, staring blankly at the treadmill’s digital display as sweat trickled down his temple.
Something wasn’t right.
And then there was Damon Salvatore. Ryan had been watching him for a while now, and nothing about the bloke sat right with him. Too smooth. Too smug. That charming little grin of his hid something rotten underneath.
And Mason…Mason had been a good bloke. A bit of a free spirit, sure, but Ryan knew him—Mason didn’t just up and disappear.
And yet, Damon had been downright hostile to him at that barbecue Jenna Sommers had hosted a few weeks back. Not outwardly aggressive, no—just dig after dig, jabs disguised as humour, but with an unmistakable edge to them.
Those weird dog jokes.
Ryan hadn’t understood them at the time. Hell, he still didn’t. Mason had laughed them off, like he always did. But Damon’s eyes—they hadn’t been joking. Ryan’s gut had been screaming at him that night.
And now Mason was missing.
Ryan exhaled sharply, slowing the treadmill to a stop.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Did he believe in coincidences? Not bloody likely.
He grabbed his towel and water bottle, stepping away from the cardio section and heading toward the free weights. He needed to stop overthinking this. Mason was an adult. If he wanted to take off without a word, that was his choice.
Ryan had bigger things to worry about.
Like the absurdly high rate of “animal attacks” in this bloody town. Or how Sheriff Forbes was acting oddly secretive about certain cases.
Or how the Founding Families had always had their own strange way of keeping the town’s secrets locked down.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair before reaching for the dumbbells. His muscles tensed as he fell into his usual routine, pushing through the familiar burn, the ache grounding him back into something tangible. Something real.
And then, suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore.
It wasn’t obvious at first—just a flicker in his peripheral vision, a shadow where there shouldn’t be one.
Then, a movement.
A woman. Standing near the treadmills, watching him. Ryan stilled, lowering the dumbbell in his hand as he blinked at her.
She didn’t belong here. Not in the sense that he didn’t recognise her—Mystic Falls was a small town, and he knew most people by face if not by name. No, she didn’t belong here because she looked like she had walked straight out of a 1920s jazz club.
Blonde, blue-eyed, striking. But it wasn’t just her beauty that made him pause—it was the sheer contrast of her appearance. She was dressed in a shimmering flapper dress, complete with beaded details and a hem that danced just above her knees.
She didn’t look like someone who had stumbled in from the street, lost on her way from some themed party. No, she looked deliberate. Like she was meant to be here.
And she was looking at him like she knew him.
Ryan exhaled, setting down his weights before pulling out his headphones. He slung his towel over his shoulder, stepping closer.
“Hey,” he said, his voice measured, careful. “You need help with something?”
Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
“Finally, you noticed me. I was beginning to think you’d never look up from your little… weight-lifting session.”
Her accent was crisp, refined. Definitely not local.
Ryan raised a brow. “Riiight. Because everyone notices a woman in a flapper dress at the gym.”
“Oh, love, I do enjoy a man with good eyesight.” She stepped closer, studying him, her eyes dragging over him like she was assessing something unseen. “So serious. Always working, always trying to be the good little deputy, aren’t you?”
Ryan’s jaw tightened slightly. “How do you know I’m a cop?”
She let out a light, amused laugh, tilting her head as if the question itself was ridiculous.
“Have we met?” he pressed, suspicion edging into his tone.
“Not yet.” She smiled, eyes bright, playful. “But we will.”
The longer they spoke, the stranger it became. Her words, the way she moved, the way she looked at the gym equipment like it was alien technology.
She reached out, fingers ghosting along the metal frame of a weight rack.
“Such an odd place,” she mused. “So… metallic.”
Ryan stared. “You’ve never been to a gym before?”
She ignored the question, twirling slightly as if the hem of her dress should still be sweeping across the floor of a jazz club.
“What happened to proper boxing rings? To men proving their strength with their fists?”
Okay. That was it. She was drunk, high, or completely off her rocker.
Ryan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright, look—”
“Who the hell are you talking to, Vale?”
The voice came from across the room. Ryan turned sharply, blinking at one of the other gym regulars—a bloke named Jason, who he saw here often but never really spoke to beyond casual nods.
Ryan frowned. “What?”
Jason looked at him like he’d just lost his mind. “Dude. You’ve been standing there talking to yourself.”
Ryan’s stomach dropped. His eyes snapped back to the blonde—but she was gone.
Nothing.
No lingering presence, no trace of movement—just cold, dead air. His grandmother’s voice echoed in his head, full of Celtic nonsense and superstitions.
Bloody hell.
Either he was losing it, or she had finally managed to drug his tea.
And then, his phone rang, Andie’s name blinking up on the display.
How odd.
Ryan cleared his throat before picking up the call.
“Ryan—listen to me. I can’t find Rhiannon.”
The world narrowed at the sound of the news anchor’s frantic voice at the other end of the line. He couldn’t even begin to utter a greeting before she practically ambushed him.
“What do you mean you can’t find her?”
“I found her phone, Ryan. It’s smashed. There’s blood.”
Everything froze, even time itself.
“I’m on my way.”
The Lockwood Estate loomed in the distance, grand and ostentatious, glowing with warm, golden light from its many windows. The faint echo of music and laughter carried across the crisp night air, a stark contrast to the quiet tension settling deep in Ryan’s bones. He pulled into the parking lot, his tyres crunching against the gravel as he cut the engine and stepped out.
He felt wildly out of place, dressed in his gym clothes—sweat-dampened grey T-shirt, black joggers, trainers—while inside, Mystic Falls’ so-called elite pranced around in their expensive suits and ridiculous masks, sipping champagne like they were the cast of some television drama. The disconnect was jarring, but Ryan wasn’t here for a bloody ball.
He was here because his sister was missing.
Andie was already waiting near the edge of the lot, arms folded tightly over her chest. Even in the dim light, he could see the strain in her features, the way her lips were pressed into a tight line. Her red dress and matching mask made her blend in with the masquerade crowd, but there was no mistaking the tension rolling off her in waves.
The moment he stepped towards her, she let out a sharp breath.
“Christ, Ryan, took you long enough,” she muttered, uncrossing her arms. “I thought I was gonna have to march into the Sheriff’s office myself.”
“Traffic,” he said dryly, scanning the area as he approached.
Her eyes flickered to his sweat-soaked T-shirt, one brow arching. “You look like you just came from a street fight.”
“Gym,” he corrected, not in the mood for jokes. “Tell me everything.”
She exhaled and nodded, shifting on her heels. “She stepped outside for some air, and then—poof. Just gone.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
Andie continued, voice edged with unease. “The last time I saw her, she was talking to someone, but when I approached there was no one there.”
Ryan’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Bloody brilliant. That was the last thing he wanted to hear.
Andie shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare say it.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m just saying, I knew Gran’s tea was dodgy.”
She groaned. “Ryan.”
“Alright, alright,” he muttered. “Tell me what you found.”
Andie gestured towards a car parked further in the lot. “It’s over here.”
He followed her, his pulse kicking up a notch when he spotted the faint glint of broken glass against the pavement.
Rhiannon’s phone lay shattered near the front of the car, the screen fractured like a spiderweb. A faint smear of blood trailed across the hood, dark and drying under the artificial light of the nearby streetlamp.
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He crouched down, slipping a pair of gloves from his pocket before carefully picking up the phone.
“Did you touch anything?” he asked, glancing up at Andie.
She scoffed. “Do I look like I wanna mess up a crime scene?”
He gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to the phone. The screen was beyond repair, but that wasn’t what concerned him. If whoever took Rhiannon had touched the device, there might be fingerprints.
His stomach churned at the thought.
He pulled out a small plastic bag from his pocket, carefully slipping the broken phone inside before sealing it shut. Then, shifting his focus, he reached into his other pocket, pulling out a sterile swab.
The blood.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make his pulse hammer in his ears.
“Whose car is this?” he asked, pulling out his phone and snapping a quick picture of the number plate.
Andie shrugged. “No clue.”
Ryan made a mental note to check the registration later. For all he knew, the car had nothing to do with it. But this was his sister. He wasn’t going to take any bloody chances.
As he leaned down, carefully swiping the swab against the dried blood, he muttered, “Pray to whatever gods you believe in that this isn’t hers.”
Andie’s face darkened. “I already am.”
He was sealing the swab in another evidence bag when something caught his eye.
A faint glow. Just beneath the next car over.
His brows furrowed as he straightened, stepping towards it. The light flickered slightly, a dim blue hue against the asphalt. A phone.
Another one.
His pulse jumped as he crouched down, slipping his hand beneath the car to retrieve it.
Andie took a step closer, frowning. “What is it?”
Ryan flipped the phone over, pressing the side button. The screen lit up immediately, and his breath caught in his throat.
A familiar face stared back at him from the lock screen. A brunette girl, smiling, leaning into the shoulder of her boyfriend.
Elena Gilbert.
Ryan exhaled sharply.
“Jenna’s niece?” Andie asked, voice sharp with confusion.
He nodded. “Aye.”
Andie let out a low breath, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Ryan had no answer. Instead, he pocketed the second phone, adding it to the growing pile of evidence he now carried. The more he looked around, the more uneasy he became.
This wasn’t just an attack. It wasn’t a mugging or a drunken altercation.
This was deliberate.
He scanned the parking lot, searching for security cameras. If the Lockwoods were anything like the rest of the bloody Founding Families, they’d have them everywhere.
And sure enough—he spotted one, perched high near the edge of the estate, just overlooking the lot. If there was footage, it might tell him exactly what happened.
But Ryan wasn’t naive. He wasn’t a Founding Family member. He wasn’t someone with pull in this town. If he wanted access to that footage, he’d need Sheriff Forbes.
He just wasn’t sure he wanted to involve her yet.
Something still didn’t sit right. He stepped back, scanning the area again.
And then, suddenly, a pattern in the blood. Not just a stain.
A trail.
His chest went tight as he crouched again, his sharp eyes catching the faintest imprint on the pavement. A footprint.
Blood-smeared. Leading away from the car.
His heart pounded. Slowly, he followed the trail. The prints were faint—whoever had made them hadn’t been in a rush.
No signs of a struggle. No second set of prints.
One person.
A man.
Ryan swallowed hard. The prints led towards the far end of the lot, vanishing into darkness. His worst fear had just become reality.
She wasn’t just missing. She had been taken.
His grip on his phone tightened as he exhaled, slow and steady. He needed to think.
Should he turn this into an official police investigation? Should he involve Sheriff Forbes? If she got involved, things would move faster. She had authority over the Mayor—she could demand the footage.
But if this was something bigger than just an abduction—if this was something deeper, darker—then he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lose control of the case.
For now, he’d keep it close. But if he didn’t find her soon…he’d have no choice.
Ryan turned back to Andie, his voice grim.
“I need to find my sister.”
And pray that he wasn’t too late.