Prologue #3
“No cursing in the church,” Father Claremore blurted before he could stop himself. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Manlius turned on him instantly, fixing him with a hard glare.
“Manlius,” Boaz warned.
The sorcerer exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Fuck, sorry,” he muttered, then immediately grimaced again. “Sorry, Father. I’m just… a little on edge.”
“We all are,” Boaz sighed. “The war didn’t go the way we imagined it would. But we survived.”
“I know,” Manlius said, staring at the chained coffin once more. “Fuck… I know. I really hope your plan works.”
“Me too,” Boaz said as he lifted the knife to his palm. He sucked in a breath as he dragged it across his palm. Almost immediately, blood welled up from the cut, gathering in thick drops.
Without hesitation, he reached down and hooked his fingers beneath the small iron trapdoor set into the coffin lid. The hinges groaned as he pulled it open.
A heavy stillness settled in the room as Boaz held his bleeding hand over the vampire’s pale, unmoving lips.
The first drop of blood fell. It landed on the vampire’s mouth, spreading slowly across the pale skin.
Another drop followed. And another.
But most of the blood missed its mark, sliding down the vampire’s cheek in ruby trails before disappearing into the tangled strands of his dark hair.
“We need to find a better way to feed him,” Boaz muttered after a moment. He wiped his bleeding palm against his tunic before turning toward Father Claremore. “I’ll send a vial of my blood every month. Make sure he’s fed.”
Father Claremore swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
“I—I’ll do that,” he stammered.
Boaz gave a single nod. Then he turned toward Manlius. Without another word, the werewolf and the other supernatural beings began filing out of the monastery, their footsteps fading slowly as they disappeared into the waiting night.
The cellar fell silent again.
Father Claremore stood there for a long moment, staring at the iron coffin in the center of the room. And only then did a terrible realization settle into his mind.
No one had told him how long it would take for the vampire to heal himself.
***
2026
Claremore Monastery
“There’s no need to feed it,” Father Daniels retorted as he descended the narrow steps into the cellar.
A place he avoided as though it housed the gates of Hell itself.
If Brother Lacus hadn’t pestered him relentlessly, he would have gone on pretending the cellar didn’t exist. In fact, that had been his intention from the very moment he inherited the monastery from Father Emanuel.
He had pushed aside the old priest’s dying warning about ‘the creature in the coffin’, dismissed the command to feed it once a month as the babbling of a man slipping into madness.
The vial of blood that arrived last month he had thrown out without a second thought, eager to erase every trace of Father Emanuel’s ‘burden’.
Until now.
Father Daniels shot Brother Lacus a murderous look over his shoulder as he stomped down the remaining steps.
Cobwebs brushed across his face, making him jerk back with a rasping cough.
He swatted at the air in front of him, before stumbling onto the stone floor.
His gaze settled on the iron coffin in the center of the room and his lip curled in revulsion.
“I’ve been told it’s only wise,” Brother Lacus said softly, lingering halfway down the steps.
“By who?”
“Father Emanuel… before he died. He left instructions. I’m sure he told you about it.”
No. The word leapt into Father Daniels’ mouth. He was ready to deny any knowledge of the damn thing, but the truth burned at the back of his throat like acid.
He wanted nothing to do with the abomination entombed beneath his church. He was a holy man. They should have let the creature rot in eternal darkness, not nourish it like an unwanted guest.
“Leave it,” he commanded. “I’m sure it will slowly perish.”
“Father Daniels, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s been a month since Father Emanuel passed. Nearly two months since it was fed. I don’t think…”
“Don’t think, Lacus. Do as I say.” Father Daniels spun on his heel, his shoes clicking together. “This madness ends now. We will not harbor a creature of evil within consecrated walls. Leave it to rot. Tomorrow, after afternoon prayers, we burn the thing.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Now come. We have a sermon to prepare.”
“Of course, Father,” Brother Lacus said, hurrying after him, casting one last anxious glance at the coffin.
***
Alexander Blanc the 3rd, King of Vampires
The moon called to him. He lifted his face toward it, eyes slipping shut as he drew in a slow breath. His skin prickled as though the soft gray light were stroking across his flesh. And it felt… so good.
Suddenly, everything changed.
The darkness faded into a wide, open meadow. Wildflowers covered the ground, and far ahead, he could see the start of a forest. Something inside him pushed him to go there.
But before he could move, a scent reached him.
It curled into his lungs, freezing him mid-step. He turned, trying to find the source, staggering forward as if the scent was pulling him along.
Then he saw her.
She sat up among the flowers. The setting sun lit up her brown hair, making it glow. Small flowers were woven into it, giving her a soft, almost magical look. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real.
A sudden taste hit Alexander’s tongue like nothing he’d ever tasted before.
He tried to chase it with his tongue, but it faded fast. Still, it stayed in his mind… and so did she. Her scent. Her face. The warmth she brought with her. She pushed the darkness away and left him wanting more. Needing more. Needing her.
Then it all vanished.
The meadow broke apart and the darkness rushed back, swallowing him whole. The instinct to survive kicked in, demanding the same thing over and over.
Feed. Survive.
He tried to sit up. Pain exploded across his chest, robbing him of breath.
Something sharp pressed deep into his heart, pinning him flat against cold iron.
Alexander’s eyes snapped open. Then, he squeezed them shut as blinding light hit him.
After a moment, he forced them open again, blinking hard against the glare.
Slowly, painfully, his vision focused on a small square opening above him.
Did they seriously put me in a display coffin?
The coffin was cramped and suffocating, its metal walls pressing tightly against his body, trapping his arms uselessly at his sides.
He pushed harder against the coffin walls, straining with what little strength remained in his body. A thin curl of smoke passed slowly in front of his face.
Alexander froze.
Movement stirred outside the coffin, and the metal beneath him began to heat. Someone was setting the coffin on fire. They were burning him alive.
Alexander thrashed, anger boiling inside him as the iron prison held him tight. He couldn’t even lift his damn hands.
Fuck. He wasn’t dying like this. He refused.
He bucked and twisted, forcing his body to move even a few precious inches until the whole coffin tipped off whatever platform it had been resting on. It crashed hard against the ground, the lid snapping open on impact.
Alexander shot upright and ripped the wooden stake from his chest, flinging it across the courtyard.
“Fuck!” He screamed as pain tore through him, but he pushed past it. In a blink he was on his feet, following the thick, scent of human blood nearby. Hunger twisted through him, driving him mad.
A scream tore through the field.
Alexander savored it. The fear rolling off the human hit him like a rush. He lunged and bit down, but the moment the human’s blood hit his tongue, Alexander gagged. He shoved the human away so hard the body slammed against the ground with a sickening thud.
“What the fuck…” Alexander cringed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The human’s blood tasted rotten. Wrong. But the human wasn’t diseased. He would’ve smelled it.
It just tasted bad. Really, really bad.
“Die, you abomination!” someone yelled behind him.
Alexander spun just as a burning piece of wood came swinging toward his head. He caught it easily, wrenching it from the priest’s hands and tossed it aside.
In the next breath he was on the priest, fingers closing around the man’s collar. He sank his fangs into the priest’s neck and nearly choked again. Disgust rolled through him, but he forced himself to swallow. He had to. Starvation would kill him faster than bad blood.
When he finished, the priest’s limp body dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
Yet he was still starving. Still unsatisfied.
His gaze snapped toward the first human, the one he’d tossed aside. The man was still alive, scrambling backward on shaking hands and knees, robes tangled around his legs as he whimpered and tried to edge away.
Alexander stalked toward him.
When he reached him, Alexander grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him clean off the ground.
“Please… please… don’t kill me,” the man choked out, kicking weakly. “I told him to feed you. He refused! He threw this away, but I…I got it back. Here… please…” His shaking hand thrust forward a small vial of blood.
Alexander froze.
The glass glinted in the afternoon light, the thick red liquid catching his eye. The scent hit him a second later, rich and intoxicating.
His mouth watered.
Alexander dropped the human without a thought and snatched the vial from his hands. With a single motion he tore off the lid and tilted it over his mouth.
The first drop of blood hit Alexander’s tongue and he groaned, his knees nearly buckling. Pure pleasure shot through his body, cooling the worst of the hunger. He tipped the vial, shaking it, trying to coax out the last precious drops. But he’d drank it all.
And he wanted more. Gods, he wanted more.
“Where…” He swallowed, his voice scraping out of him, raw and unused. “Where did you get this?”