He pauses, his single eye distant, as if lost in the memories of that fateful day. "She rose like a vengeful goddess, a maelstrom of shadow and darkness that consumed all in its path. She attempted to use her power against Moretemis, channeling every ounce of darkness and nightmare she possessed. But that sadistic bastard..." His voice falters, divine authority cracking under the strain of remembered horror. "He turned her own power against her, ripped it from her very soul. The process destroyed her immortal form, tearing her essence apart until nothing was left but scattered fragments of what she once was. The Soul Stone, born of her sacrifice, became his prize, even as her immortal body crumbled to dust."
"And her power?" The words come out as more of a growl.
"Absorbed. Corrupted." Odin's eye gleams with a mixture of sorrow and anger. "Moretemis twisted her abilities into something perverse. Something never meant to exist. He reversed her gift for transforming nightmares into dreams, creating a weapon of pure terror and darkness."
Well, isn't that just fucking perfect. Not only did this asshole kill my mother, but he's also running around with her stolen powers, using them to terrorize the realms. The rage inside me burns hotter, threatening to consume everything in its path.
I'm going to find him. And when I do, I'm going to make him pay for every single fucking thing he's done. That's a promise.
Erik
7
From my position at the kitchen counter, I hear Lucian's voice echoing from the basement."Chill out, baby vamp! You'll be fine down here!" A pause, followed by his characteristic irreverence. "I'll bring you some O-negative happy meals. Premium stuff, none of that bargain basement blood!"
The fledgling's sobs reverberate through the floor. While confining Dani's brother is far from ideal—and would undoubtedly earn us her considerable wrath—current circumstances leave us with no alternative. His safety, and that of others, must take precedence until we can properly address his transformation.
I maintain my rigid posture as Lucian storms back into the kitchen, his usual sardonic demeanor twisted with rage. "Well, isn't this just a fucking party favor wrapped in barbed wire?" He yanks at his golden hair, pacing like a caged animal. "Our psycho mommy dearest decides to crash back into our lives after playing hide and seek for centuries? Should we send her a welcome back fruit basket? Maybe some artisanal blood truffles?"
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose at his theatrical display, though I understand the sentiment behind it. My brother's ability to transform every crisis into a one-man Broadway production never ceases to amaze me.
We've retreated to the mansion to formulate a strategy—I recall the aftermath of our recent disaster with practiced detachment. Alaric and Vivienne departed an hour ago, their expressions grim as they headed back to the UK. Our powerful allies need to be informed of this catastrophic shift in power—Lilith's return poses a threat that extends far beyond our immediate circle. Political chess pieces need to be moved, alliances reinforced.
Brandon's return to New York presents its own complications. With Azrael's death, the wolf packs have lost their primary blood supplier. Years of drinking vampire blood have turned them into addicts—a strategic disaster waiting to explode. The wolves' dependency on vampire blood was always a tactical vulnerability, but now, with Lilith controlling the game board, their desperation could make them dangerous wild cards.
"Brother," I state, my voice carrying the weight of decades of dealing with his dramatic bullshit, "you must compose yourself. This situation requires tactical precision, not your usual chaos and prayer approach."
"Compose myself?" Lucian whirls on me, his face inches from mine. "Our batshit crazy Maker has Dani, and you want me to keep my cool?" He resumes his relentless pacing, brushing off Seraphina's attempts to calm him. The angel's honey-colored eyes follow his movement with growing concern.
I observe his mounting distress, remembering the fragments of horror he's shared about his time under Lilith's control. His current anguish is more than justified if his experiences mirror my own torments.
"The evidence suggests a Hawthorne witch still walks among us," I declare, my mind returning to that fateful day when Rhyland and I sealed Lilith away with the help of their ancient magic. "Only one of their bloodline could have broken the enchantment binding her."
Lucian freezes mid-stride, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. "Come again? In my ears this time."
I fight the urge to snap back at Lucian's biting remarks."Rhyland and I decided to entomb Lilith to protect anyone else from further torment," I explain. "We believed it was in your best interest not to burden you with knowing her fate. By telling you she left, we hoped this would help you."
That day is seared in my brain.
London, England 1866
Wind lashes against my face as I stand beside Rhyland in the ancient cavern. Grave Warden, firmly in my grip. The Hawthorne witch, Elizabeth, chants behind us, her voice echoing off the cave walls.
"Brother," Rhyland's commanding voice cuts through the howling wind that whips through the entrance, his ocean-blue eyes blazing with determination. "Any fucking second now."
The very air trembles as Lilith approaches. Her green eyes glow with otherworldly malice, porcelain features twisted into a cruel smile.
I watch as she stalks through the cavern entrance, her white dress stained crimson with evidence of her latest atrocity. The memory of St. Catherine's Orphanage threatens to crack my careful control—twenty-three small bodies, arranged like broken dolls in their beds. Her "tribute to innocence," as she called such displays.
In all my years of existence, I have witnessed mankind's capacity for cruelty, yet Lilith's systematic targeting of children—her perverse obsession with their "pure souls"—represents a darkness that exceeds even my considerable experience with horror.
My grip tightens on Grave Warden's hilt, centuries of disciplined restraint warring with the urge to separate her head from her shoulders. But we must maintain our positions. The witch's spell requires precise timing.
This ends tonight. It must.
"Well, well... if it isn't my two favorite disappointments," she sneers, with aristocratic disdain. "Summoning me here to beg forgiveness for your atrocious manners? Or are you here about that pathetic waste of immortality you call a brother?"
The memory of Lucian's suffering grinds my teeth—decades of psychological torture that drove him to press a stake against his own heart, demanding his freedom. Even now, the scars of her "motherly affection" haven't fully healed.
