CHAPTER 20
JULIAN
He was dying when I found him. Consumption. A slow drowning in his own lungs. We’d been friends since I was human, before the darkness found me. When it became clear he wouldn’t survive the winter, I offered him a choice.
He chose immortality.
For twenty-six years after that, we were inseparable. Closer than brothers. I taught him to hunt, to hide, to navigate the centuries stretching before us. He learned fast. My progeny, my responsibility, my closest friend.
Then Damien met Katya.
She was a violinist in the Vienna Philharmonic, one of the few women to break through. Fierce and brilliant and unafraid when Damien told her what he was. She loved him anyway. I’d never seen him so happy.
I understood. I had Margaret.
We’d built lives in Vienna. Real lives, as real as creatures like us can have. Separate dwellings in the same building. We’d eat dinners together—which was really our women eating while Damien and I enjoyed their company. Theatre and concerts and long walks through the Stadtpark at midnight.
For a few years, I let myself believe we could have it all.
The hunters found us on a September evening.
They’d been tracking us for months, we learned later. Mapping our routines. Identifying our weaknesses. When they moved, they moved with precision.
I was returning from a meeting with a solicitor when I heard the screaming.
Two screams. From opposite directions.
Margaret’s voice came from the west—our apartment, where she’d been waiting for me. Katya’s from the east—the concert hall where she’d been rehearsing.
I ran toward Margaret. Instinct. The woman I loved. The woman I’d sworn to protect.
The hunters had her pinned in the drawing room. Three of them, silver chains around her wrists, a fourth pressing a blessed blade to her throat. She saw me in the doorway.
“Julian—”
I killed them. All four. It took eleven seconds.
Eleven seconds I didn’t have.
By the time I reached the concert hall, it was burning. Damien knelt in the street outside, cradling something gray and still. Something that had been Katya twenty minutes ago.
He looked up when I approached. His face was wet. Empty.
“I couldn’t reach her in time,” he said. “I was across the city. I couldn’t—”
Damien’s eyes found mine. Found the blood on my hands. Margaret’s scent on my coat.
His voice went flat. “You were close enough to save her, weren’t you?”
“Damien—”
“You chose her.” He stood. Katya’s ashes fell through his fingers. “You chose Margaret over Katya.”
“I didn’t know—”
“Is Margaret alive?”
“Yes. There wasn’t time—”
“There was time for you to save one of them.” He stepped back. “And you chose yours.”
“I’m sorry.” The words tasted like ash. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond. He just looked at me—his sire, his friend, the man who taught him what immortality meant—and I watched the last of the Damien I knew disappear.
“Damien, please—”
“Don’t.” He turned away. “Don’t say anything else.”
He walked into the burning night.
I didn’t hear from him again until he left me the note with Anya’s body.
I wake gasping.
The resort bedroom is dark. The ocean whispers through the window. Poppy sleeps beside me, her breathing steady.
I ease out of bed. Pull on clothes. Leave without waking her.
The beach is empty at dawn. Just me, the ocean, and what I did in 1878.
Damien sits on a piece of driftwood fifty meters down the shore. Far enough that a human wouldn’t notice him.
I leap over the balcony and walk toward him.
“Julian.” He stands. “I was beginning to think you’d make me wait another fifty years.”
“What do you want?”
“Direct. You were always direct.” He gestures to the water. “Beautiful morning. Not like Vienna. Do you remember the light in Vienna? The way it came through the concert hall windows before the fire ate them?”
“Every night.”
“Do you?” He studies me. “I wonder. You saved her, you know. Margaret. I tracked her afterward. Watched her age while you didn’t.”
“Damien—”
“The asylum, Julian. Did you think that fire was an accident?” His voice stays level. “Nineteen years I waited. Let you love her. Let you build something. And then I took it back.”
“You killed her.”
“I corrected an imbalance.” He steps closer. “You chose Margaret over Katya. So I gave you the same time with her as I had with my love. Twenty-six years from the night you turned me to the night she died. Poetic, I thought.”
The mathematics of revenge. The patience of centuries.
“And Corinne?” My voice is hoarse. “In Prague?”
“She saw you feeding. Ran into the street. I found her before you did.” His grins. “I didn’t have to do much. Just told her what you were. What you’d done. What happened to the last woman who loved you. She walked into the river herself.”
For forty-three years, I’d blamed myself for Corinne’s death. Thought my monstrousness had broken her.
It wasn’t me. It was him.
“And Anya—”
“Anya I killed myself. Left her on your bed like a gift.” His expression flickers—the first real emotion I’ve seen. “I wanted you to know, by then. Wanted you to understand that every time you reached for happiness, I would be there. Waiting.”
“Why didn’t you just kill me?”
“Because death is quick.” His voice drops. “Loneliness is forever. I wanted you to feel what I felt when you chose her. The knowledge that someone you trusted made a choice. And you weren’t enough.”
Waves crash. Somewhere in the resort, humans are waking up. Making coffee. Planning their day.
“I turned you,” I say. “I gave you immortality.”
“You gave me a curse.” His eyes are cold. “And then you proved what it was worth. Less than one human woman’s life.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“It was exactly like that.” He steps closer. “You had time. Time enough to save one of them. And you chose. You always choose, Julian. You choose who lives and who dies. You chose Margaret over Katya. You chose your happiness over mine.”
“You would have done the same!”
“Are you so sure of that? And how much time did you waste comforting Margaret before you even thought of Katya?” The words land hard. “You just saved what mattered most to you. And I’ve spent a hundred and fifty years making sure you understand the cost.”
The sun rises over his shoulder.
“And now?” I ask. “Poppy?”
“Now you choose again.” He tilts his head toward the resort. “Walk away tonight. No contact. No explanation. Let her think you used her. Let her spend the rest of her life wondering what she did wrong.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll show her what you are.” He says it like he’s discussing dinner plans. “I’ll arrange a situation where she sees you feed. Sees the monster behind those suits. And after she’s done screaming, I’ll make sure she never forgets.”
“She already knows.” The words escape before I can stop them. “I told her. Last night.”
Damien goes still.
“She knows what I am,” I continue. “What I’ve done. The centuries of feeding and hiding. All of it.”
“And she stayed?”
“She stayed.”
Uncertainty crosses his face. The first crack in his centuries-long plan.
“She’ll run,” he says. “They always run.”
“Maybe. But that’s her choice. Not yours.”
“You think telling her changes anything?” His voice hardens. “You think one night of honesty erases the past hundred and fifty years?”
“I think you’ve been nursing this grudge so long you’ve forgotten what it was for.
” I meet his eyes—still carrying the echo of the friend I’d loved before Vienna burned.
“I’m sorry about Katya. I will be sorry about it for the rest of my existence.
But destroying everyone I love won’t bring her back. ”
“No.” His smile returns. Sharp. Final. “But it will make you feel what I felt. And that’s enough.”
He turns. Walks down the beach.
“You have until the wedding,” he calls back. “Two days. After that, I stop waiting.”
He disappears into the joggers and tourists.
I stand there until the sun climbs high. Until my phone buzzes twice.
Then I decide.
Not to run. Not to hide.
If my progeny wanted war, I’d give him one.
The suite is quiet when I return. Poppy still sleeps, curled on her side, one hand under her pillow.
I think about waking her to tell her what I learned—that the man from the cocktail party killed Margaret, drove Corinne to the river, murdered Anya. That I created him. How everything he’s become is my fault.
But right now, I need to stop Damien from repeating history. I step onto the balcony, pull out my phone, and call Geneva.
“Julian.” Matthew LaChance’s voice carries centuries of experience. “I heard rumors you were in the Bahamas. Something about a wedding?”
“I need help. Damien Ashworth.”
Silence. Then: “Your progeny? From Vienna?”
“He’s been hunting me for a hundred and fifty years. Killing everyone I love. I just found out.”
“The Council has already ruled. Damien has no authority to—”
“He’s not acting with authority. He’s targeting humans under my protection to hurt me.”
“Hmm, that is an interesting predicament you’re in.” Matthew observes. “If he’s violating the Prague Accords by targeting civilians to harm another vampire, you have grounds for defensive action. I’ll make inquiries.”
“Thank you.”
“Julian.” His voice softens. “You created him. That bond carries weight. Whatever you’re planning—be certain.”
“I am.”
Inside, Poppy stirs. Her eyes open.
“Julian?” Sleep roughens her voice. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
She sits up. Sees my face. “What happened?”
“I spotted Damien on the beach and confronted him,” I say. “I learned some things.”
“Bad things?”
“Worse than I thought.” I cross to the bed. Take her hand. “He killed Margaret. He drove Corinne to her death. Anya. All of them. For a hundred and fifty years, he’s been destroying everyone I let myself love.”
Her grip tightens on mine. “Why?”
“Because I turned him. I made him what he is. And then I chose to save someone I loved when his love was dying.” I close my eyes. “He’s my progeny, Poppy. I created the monster who’s hunting you.”
She goes silent. I wait for the horror. The realization that she’s bound herself to someone whose choices created this.
“You didn’t make him do those things,” she says. “He chose to become this. That’s not your fault.”
“I chose Margaret over Katya. That’s—”
“That’s an impossible choice no one should have to make.” She cups my face. Makes me look at her. “You saved someone you loved. He turned that into a hundred and fifty years of murder. Those are different things.”
“Poppy—”
“Whatever you’re planning,” she says, “I want to help. I told you last night—I’m not the person you protect. I’m your partner.”
I pull her close. Hold her.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too.” Then she pulls back. “Now tell me everything.”
So I do.
I tell her about Matthew and the Council. About Celeste’s dossier. About Sofia and her grudge. I tell her about the bond between sire and progeny, and what killing Damien might cost me.
She listens. Asks questions. Takes notes in her phone like she’s planning a content calendar instead of a vampire confrontation.
By the time I’m done, the sun is up and we have a plan.
Two days until the wedding.
Two days until Damien makes his move.
Two days to end a hundred and fifty years of grief.
My phone buzzes. An email from an unknown sender. One line:
The girl is lovely when she sleeps. I hope you said goodbye.
I delete it.
Then I go back to the woman I love and the war I created.