CHAPTER 8
JULIAN
There is a photograph waiting for me when I arrive at work—in my private office. The one most of my staff don’t even have access to. Slipped under the door, which means someone bypassed three security checkpoints and a biometric lock.
Someone who knows how to move without being seen.
The image is grainy—security camera footage, probably. Poppy and me at the restaurant tonight. My hand covering hers. Her head tilted toward mine. Intimate. Incriminating.
On the back, in handwriting I’d recognize after fifty years of trying to forget it:
Still collecting humans, I see.
Haven’t you learned?
—D
I stand very still.
The building around me hums with silence—the late-night quiet of empty offices and sleeping servers. The Los Angeles skyline glitters beyond my windows, oblivious to the fact that something ancient and dangerous has just announced itself.
Damien.
I should have known. The background checks Marcus flagged. The pattern he recognized. I should have known it was personal. Damien doesn’t care about my business empire. He cares about watching me suffer.
I make three calls.
The first to Marcus: “I need the security footage from tonight. All of it. Every angle.”
“Done. Looking for anything specific?”
“Someone who shouldn’t be there. Someone moving through our systems like they belong.”
“Julian.” Marcus’s voice carries concern I rarely hear. “What’s happening?”
“Damien’s in Los Angeles.”
Silence. Marcus recognizes the name. Everyone who’s worked for me long enough knows the name.
“I’ll double the security detail. And I’ll have eyes on Miss Gable within the hour.”
“Discrete. She can’t know.”
“Understood,” Marcus pauses. “What about the Bahamas? You want me on site?”
“Not yet. I can’t explain your presence to Poppy—she thinks you’re my driver, not my head of security.” I move to the window. “But I need you to coordinate with our security team at the resort. Use them as your ground assets while you run surveillance from LA.
“Full tactical suite? Facial recognition, threat assessment?”
“Everything. Patch into the resort’s security feeds the moment we land. If Damien shows his face anywhere on that property, I want to know before he takes his second step.”
“And if he makes a move?”
“Our team there is trained for situations like this, but be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.
“Understood.”
The second call to Celeste: “You said you’d get me information.”
“It’s not ready yet. These things take time—”
“He’s here. He’s been watching me. Photographing me.”
A pause before a deep breath. “Where?”
“Restaurant in Los Feliz. He knew exactly where I’d be.”
“He has been watching. Longer than we thought.” Rustling in the background—Celeste moving, gathering things. “I’ll have everything by morning. Damien’s holdings, his aliases, anyone he’s been in contact with. But Julian—”
“What?”
“If he’s making himself known, it means he’s ready. Whatever he’s planning, he’s confident you can’t stop it.”
“Then I need to change the equation.”
“How?”
I look at the photograph. At Poppy’s profile, soft in the candlelight. At my own expression—unguarded, vulnerable.
Weak.
“I don’t know yet.”
The third call is the hardest.
“Council headquarters. State your name and authorization code.”
“Julian Blackthorne. Sigma-seven-seven-alpha.”
“One moment.”
The hold music is Bach. A few of the Council knew Bach personally. They said he was just as insufferable as his music suggests.
“Mr. Blackthorne.” The voice that comes on is different—older, more formal. Someone high up. “This is Aldric. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I need to file a formal complaint. Against Damien Ashworth.”
Silence. The kind that carries weight.
“Damien Ashworth,” Aldric repeats. “The Council ruled on Prague, Mr. Blackthorne. The matter was considered closed.”
“Damien doesn’t agree. He’s in Los Angeles. He’s been surveilling me.”
“Surveillance isn’t a violation.”
“He’s threatening someone under my protection.”
“A human?”
“Yes.”
“Humans aren’t protected under Council law unless—” He stops. “Is this human a potential Turning candidate?”
“No.”
“A thrall?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing the Council can do.
Damien has the right to observe. To communicate.
To remind you of past grievances.” Aldric’s voice carries the particular satisfaction of bureaucrats everywhere.
“As long as he takes no direct action against you or your formally registered dependents, he’s within his rights. ”
“His rights end where my peace begins.”
“No, Mr. Blackthorne. They do not.” A pause. “Is there anything else?”
I hang up without answering.
The photograph sits on my desk. Poppy’s smile. My hand on hers. The evidence of everything Damien wants to destroy.
I don’t sleep. I never sleep, but tonight the hours feel longer than usual.
At 4 AM, I sit at my desk reviewing everything Celeste has sent—Damien’s known aliases, his property holdings, his movement patterns.
He’s been careful. Patient. The last confirmed sighting before Los Angeles was S?o Paulo twelve years ago, but there are gaps.
Years-long gaps where he could have been anywhere, doing anything.
Building something.
Planning something.
At 5 AM, Marcus sends the security footage. I watch myself move through my own building, checking timestamps, looking for anomalies. Nothing. Whoever delivered the photograph knew exactly how to avoid the cameras.
At 6 AM, my phone buzzes.
POPPY: Can’t sleep again. Nervous about the flight.
I stare at the message. She’s awake, thinking about me, completely unaware that somewhere in this city, something old and malevolent is thinking about her, too.
ME: Nervous about flying?
POPPY: Nervous about all of it. The wedding. My family. Four days of pretending.
POPPY: Is it still pretending? For you?
I close my eyes. This is the moment—the fork in the road. I could end this now. Tell her the arrangement is off, refund her money, disappear back into the shadows I’ve inhabited for two centuries.
Protect her by leaving.
It’s what I should do. What any responsible immortal would do when an enemy from their past surfaces with violent intentions.
ME: No. It’s not pretending anymore.
POPPY: Same.
POPPY: That’s terrifying, right? It should be terrifying.
ME: It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve done in a very long time.
POPPY: How long? What’s a “very long time” for you?
I almost tell her. Almost type out the truth—two hundred and fifty years, give or take. Almost explain that the last time I felt this way, it ended with a woman turning to ash in my arms.
ME: Long enough that I’d forgotten what it felt like.
POPPY: And now?
ME: Now I’m remembering.
She sends an emoji—a single heart. Simple. Human. Devastating.
POPPY: Seven more days. Then we don’t have to pretend anymore.
ME: Seven more days.
POPPY: Get some sleep, Julian. You’re always awake when I text you.
ME: I told you. I don’t sleep much.
POPPY: Everyone sleeps.
ME: Not everyone.
POPPY: See, you say things like that, and I add them to my list of suspicious observations.
ME: You have a list?
POPPY: I have several lists. I’m a very organized person.
Despite everything—the photograph, the threat, the enemy circling closer—I smile.
ME: What’s on these lists?
POPPY: Nice try. You’ll see them when you come clean about all the things you’re hiding.
ME: That might take a while.
POPPY: I’m patient.
ME: Are you?
POPPY: For you? Yes.
My hand tightens on the phone. In two hundred and fifty-seven years, no one has ever said that to me. No one has ever promised patience, offered understanding, stood in front of the mystery I present and chosen to stay anyway.
ME: Sleep well, Poppy.
POPPY: Sleep well, Julian. If you sleep.
POPPY: Heart
A green heart. The color of the dress I sent her.
I smile.
At 8 AM, another message arrives. Not from Poppy.
Unknown number. European country code—the kind the Council uses for untraceable communications.
UNKNOWN: The girl is lovely. You always did have good taste.
UNKNOWN: Walk away, Julian. While you still can. —D
I stare at the screen.
He isn’t threatening Poppy directly. He’s threatening me. Promising to do what he did in Prague—stand back and watch while everything I love burns.
I type a response.
ME: If you touch her, I’ll end you.
His reply comes in seconds.
DAMIEN: Touch her? I don’t need to touch her. I just need to show her what you are. What you’ve done. The bodies in your past. The centuries of feeding and hiding and pretending to be human. I just need to tell her the truth, Julian. And then I’ll watch her run.
DAMIEN: That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to hurt her.
DAMIEN: You already did.
I set down the phone. My hand is shaking—an old response, a human response, the kind I shouldn’t still have after this long.
He’s right.
That’s the worst part. He’s absolutely right.
I could kill him. I have the strength, the resources, the ruthlessness when necessary. I’ve destroyed enemies before—the Council looks the other way for self-defense, and Damien is clearly a threat.
But he’s not threatening to kill her. He’s threatening to tell her.
And if she learns the truth before I’m ready—if she finds out what I am from him, framed in the worst possible light—she’ll never look at me the same way.
She’ll run.
They always run.
I spend the morning making arrangements.
Security for Poppy—discrete, invisible, the kind that follows at a distance and never makes itself known.
Blackthorne Security has operatives positioned throughout the city, each one vetted and trained for exactly these situations.
They’re not all human—some have been with me long enough that “human” no longer applies—but they know how to blend in. How to watch without being seen.
Run a background check on every guest at Violet’s wedding—names, histories, connections. If Damien plans to appear there, I’ll know before he arrives.
Contingency plans. Exit strategies. Ways to get Poppy out if everything falls apart.
By noon, I’m as prepared as I can be.
By noon, I’m also exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with sleep.
At least the venue is handled. That decision, made weeks ago when I first agreed to Poppy's arrangement, now looks less like paranoia and more like providence.
Marcus appears in my doorway. “The surveillance team is in place.”
“Good.”
“Julian.” He steps inside, closes the door. “You know this is a risk. Getting this attached.”
“I know.”
“Prague was different. Anya was different. She knew what you were from the beginning.”
“I know.”
“This girl—Poppy—she has no idea what she’s walking into.”
“I know.” My voice is sharper than I intend. “I know all of this, Marcus. I’ve been calculating the risks since the moment I read her request.”
“Then why do it?”
I look out the specially tinted window. Los Angeles stretches toward the horizon—millions of people living their brief lives, unaware of the things that walk among them. Unaware of the centuries of history moving beneath the surface.
“Because she makes me feel human,” I say. “And I haven’t felt human in a very long time.”
Marcus is quiet. Then: “Celeste called. She has the full dossier on Damien. Shall I have it sent to your secure server?”
“Yes.”
“And Julian?”
“What?”
“Whatever happens—whatever he does—don’t let him win by taking away the thing you just found.” Marcus moves to the door. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
“Even when the fight might destroy them?”
“Especially then.”
He leaves.
I turn back to the window, to the city, to the four days stretching ahead.
Seven days to the wedding.
Seven days before Poppy learns the truth—from me or from Damien.
Seven days to decide what kind of monster I’m going to be.
That evening, I call her.
“Julian.” Her voice is warm. Happy to hear from me. “This is new. You usually text.”
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
“That’s...” She laughs. “That’s really romantic. Are you okay? You sound serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“More serious than usual. What’s wrong?”
I could tell her about Damien. About the threat. About the centuries of history about to collide with her perfectly curated life.
Instead, I say: “I just wanted you to know that whatever happens this week—whatever you learn about me—what I feel for you is real.”
Silence. When she speaks, her voice is softer.
“Julian. You’re scaring me a little.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you’re saying goodbye. It sounds like goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye.” I grip the phone. “It’s a promise. That when things get complicated—and they will get complicated—the feelings underneath are true.”
“What things? What complications?”
“I can’t explain yet. But I will. After the wedding. I’ll tell you everything.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
Silence. I can hear her breathing—slow, steady, alive.
“Okay,” she says finally. “After the wedding. But Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is—whatever you’re hiding—it’s not going to scare me off. I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know you are.”
“And I’m choosing this. Choosing you. Even with all the mystery and the weirdness and the things you won’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because you see me.” Her voice cracks slightly. “The real me. Not the Glowstagram version. Not the performance. You see the mess underneath, and you choose to stay anyway.”
“Poppy—”
“That’s rare, Julian. That’s worth fighting for.”
I close my eyes. Feel the weight of two hundred and fifty-seven years pressing down.
“You’re worth fighting for, too,” I say. “More than you know.”
“Then fight for me. Whatever’s coming—fight for us.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She exhales. “Okay. Good. Now tell me something normal. Tell me about your day. Make me feel like this isn’t the prologue to a disaster movie.”
So I do. I tell her about the meetings I attended (boring), the coffee I didn’t drink (also boring), the book I’ve been reading (she laughs at my taste in literature—“Who reads nineteenth-century Russian novels for fun?”).
We talk for two hours.
By the end, she’s laughing again. Relaxed. The worry in her voice has faded.
I haven’t fixed anything. Damien is still out there. The truth is still waiting to detonate.
But for two hours, I got to pretend.
And pretending, I’m learning, is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.