CHAPTER 25
WHEN I WAKE, I instinctively reach for weapons that aren’t there, having forgotten where I am for a disorienting moment. Reality comes crashing back as my gaze sweeps the unfamiliar room—my new cage, however comfortable it might be.
A knock at the door startles me fully awake.
I sit up, pulling the blanket around me defensively. “Yes?”
The door opens to reveal Irene, her expression carefully neutral as she enters carrying a tray. She sets it on the desk without looking at me, her movements stiff.
“Breakfast,” she says, already turning to leave.
“Irene,” I call after her, the name catching in my throat. “I’m sorry about Hanae.”
She pauses, her back still to me. “No, you’re not,” she says quietly. “You are sorry you’re trapped here. Sorry about the consequences. But you are not sorry she’s dead.”
The truth of her words stings, though I wasn’t lying either. “I didn’t know her,” I admit, “but I regret taking her from those who did.”
Irene turns, her eyes hard as flint. “Regret doesn’t bring her back. It doesn’t fill the hole you left in our hearts.” She moves toward the door, then stops, hand on the knob. “Ace may have decided to spare you, but don’t mistake that for forgiveness. The rest of us aren’t so pragmatic.”
With that, she’s gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
I sink back against the edge of the bed, guilt twisting through me, a heavy, relentless knot that I can’t tell is for Hanae, for the chaos I left behind, or for myself.
Every rational thought scrambles under the weight of what-ifs and might-have-beens, and all I can do is sit in the quiet ache of shame and responsibility, feeling smaller and more fragile than I ever have before.
I trudge over to the desk, lifting the cover from the tray.
The meal is sparse—porridge, an apple, water—but hot and nourishing.
As I eat, I try to process Irene’s words, the pain behind them.
I’ve spent so long seeing these vampires as monsters that I’d forgotten they could love, grieve, and form bonds that transcend mere survival.
More so, I understand her pain, because it’s the type of pain I have been bearing for years.
After breakfast, the rest of the morning is spent exploring my new quarters more thoroughly.
The bookshelf holds a modest collection of novels and histories, nothing particularly revealing about my captors or their intentions.
The desk drawer contains paper, ink, and quills, but no scissors or letter openers that might serve as weapons.
Everything has been carefully curated to provide comfort without opportunity for escape or violence.
Around midday, another knock sounds at my door.
This time, it’s Saul who enters, carrying a deck of playing cards in his hand, worn at the edges from frequent use.
“Thought you might be bored,” he says by way of greeting, beginning to shuffle the deck.
“Remember how we used to play for hours when it rained?”
The memory of us huddled by the fireplace in our childhood home surfaces, dealing cards on the threadbare rug while rain lashed the windows. Dad would be sharpening his knives in the corner, occasionally glancing over to ensure we weren’t cheating.
“You always lost,” I snort, a grateful smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
“Because you cheated,” Saul protests, the familiar indignation in his voice an echo from the past.
“I was seven. I didn’t know how to cheat.”
“Exactly why it was so infuriating.” He sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed. “Care for a rematch?”
“Bring it on,” I challenge, settling on the opposite end with my legs folded beneath me, mirroring him without thinking. I give him a look. “What are the stakes? More secrets?”
“How about simple bragging rights?” He deals the cards between us. “Winner gets to lord it over the other for the rest of eternity.”
“Deal.”
We play in comfortable silence for a while, the familiar rhythm of the game easing some of the tension between us.
I win the first hand, Saul the second. By the third, we’re both leaning forward, fully engaged in the competition.
He hesitates just a beat too long before placing his card, and I pounce, sliding down a perfect counter from my hand.
His eyes narrow as he realizes he walked straight into it.
I lift an eyebrow, smug. “Looks like I’ve still got it.”
Saul groans, tossing his remaining cards down. “Unbelievable.”
I gather the scattered cards with a satisfied smirk, stacking them into a neat pile before giving them a thorough shuffle. Saul watches me with narrowed eyes, clearly plotting his comeback.
“Best of five?” I ask, already dealing.
“You’re on,” he says, cracking his knuckles like we’re about to duel instead of play cards.
The first few fall between us, crisp and deliberate. The game resets, but the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth doesn’t fade.
“Try not to hesitate this time,” I tease, sliding the last card his way.
He rolls his eyes and picks it up, arranging the cards in his hand.
“Apparently this was Mother’s favorite game,” he says, his tone light and casual, but his eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction. “She had this uncanny ability to know exactly what card you were holding. You must have inherited her mind reading powers.”
The mention of our mother makes my fingers still over my cards. Saul rarely brings her up, and certainly not without purpose.
“I guess I did,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the sudden quickening of my pulse.
“I’ve learned some things since joining the Ravens.” He places his first card down. “Did you know she was one of them?” He keeps his focus on his cards, but I can see the building tension in his shoulders. “She wasn’t just any Raven either. She founded them.”
I nearly drop my hand. “What?”
My mother—the mysterious woman who vanished when I was a child, leaving behind nothing but fragments of memory and a hollow ache that never quite healed—created the very organization I’ve been fighting against?
My mind reels with this revelation. “You’re lying,” I whisper, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“Ask Ace,” he simply says. “Turns out she was like a mentor to him. Taught him a lot about purpose, how to lead without being controlled, freedom, and choosing your own chains, or breaking them altogether. He knew her in ways we never did.”
“How did they meet? What was she like?”
He finally meets my gaze. “It’s not my place to tell.”
I grab his wrist, stopping his movements. “Please.”
“Some things should come from those who knew her best, Sister.” He gently extracts his wrist from my grip, a conflict playing across his features. “Be on your best behavior for dinner tonight, you might learn more than I could ever tell you.”
“I’m allowed dinner outside this cell?”
“Under watch. Show him you can be reasonable.” Saul deals the last hand. “He respects directness, just not when it’s wrapped in hostility.”
I stare at my cards without really seeing them.
My father’s killer knew my mother better than I, her own daughter, ever did.
Ace, with his unreadable eyes and silver tongue. Ace, who shattered everything the night he took my father from me. He knew her. Sat with her. Learned from her. Trusted her. And she trusted him.
Did she know what he would become? What he would do?
Did she see something in him I can’t—or refuse to?
A sour taste creeps up the back of my throat.
What did she tell him? What pieces of herself did she give him, while I was left with only lullabies I barely remember and grainy photographs that stared back like strangers?
I clench the cards tighter, the edges digging into my palm.
Maybe Saul is right. Maybe I will learn more tonight. But I’m not sure I want to hear it. Not if it comes from the mouth of the man who stole everything from me. Not if it forces me to admit that I’ve been playing the wrong side of the board this entire time.
“Fine,” I concede reluctantly. “I’ll be civil.” Because I want answers.
“That’s all I ask.” He plays his next card. “He was Subject W-1, you know?”
I blink, trying to force the memory into focus. I was too young to understand the full scope of the world I was born into, yet I remember the fear in my chest, the way everyone seemed to hold its breath.
Subject W-1… Whiteshade… a wild vampire almost impervious to the injuries that so easily harmed other vampires.
It was a scientific breakthrough both terrifying and fascinating in equal measure.
Every scrap of knowledge had to have come from brutal procedures that tested the limits of his body, leaving scars no one could ever see.
From the day he escaped, the name Whiteshade came to define every vampire of his kind, whispering of inexplicable power.
“I didn’t.” And I shouldn’t care.
We continue our game, but my mind is elsewhere, turning over the things I just learned and how to slip it into conversation later without tipping my hand. Tonight, I’ll face Ace not as an enemy, but as someone seeking truth. Whether I’ll like what I discover remains to be seen.
As Saul gathers the scattered cards from our final hand, he stands to leave. “I’ll come for you at six and bring something nice to wear.”
Left alone again, I pace the confines of the room, mind churning with questions I’ve carried since childhood.
My mother, the founder of the Ravens? The person who created this network of vampires that now holds me captive?
Worked with this leader who is powerful enough to challenge both humans and other vampire clans?
I remember fragments of gentle hands braiding my hair and a soft voice singing me to sleep. I struggle to make sense of it all.
I stop in front of the cracked mirror, studying my reflection, barely recognizing myself. The woman staring back at me looks haunted and uncertain. For the first time, I wonder if I’ve been running from more than just vampires all these years.
Maybe I’ve been running from myself.
Above the basin, I find a small cabinet cluttered with a few modest toiletries—a porcelain hand mirror, a small tin of face powder, a pot of dark red lip salve, and a delicate hairbrush.
I lift the brush and comb the mess that’s my hair in a futile attempt to tame it, smoothing the wild strands as best I can.
Then, with measured strokes, I lightly dust my face with powder, softening the weariness etched into my skin.
Lastly, I apply the lip salve, its deep hue anchoring me to the woman I’m steeling myself to be.
When Saul returns hours later—dressed in formal black, his long coat sharply tailored, and masked—I’ve worked myself into a state of anxious anticipation.
He brings clean attire and the same mask I wore before.
I change quickly, the fabric clinging just enough to feel like a second skin, whispering against my legs as I move. It’s an elegant black dress of soft velvet, fitted at the waist and flaring slightly at the hem, with subtle rhinestone embroidery along its square neckline and tight sleeves.
“Mother’s dress,” he explains when I twirl. “Thought it might bring you some comfort.”
I stop, then smile, putting on my mask and stepping into a pair of simple black stilettos that are surprisingly comfortable.
While I carefully arrange my hair, securing the front strands at the back with a diamond hair brooch the shape of a feather, Saul watches me with something like nostalgia in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“You look like her sometimes,” he says. “When you’re thinking too hard about something.”
The comparison sends a strange pang through my chest. “I wish I could remember her better.”
“Maybe after tonight, you will.” He offers his arm. “Ready?”
I fill my lungs and nod, linking my arm through his as we move into the halls.