30. Callum
CALLUM
T he last few days have blurred into a cycle of stolen sleep and long hours around Briar’s fathers’ meeting table.
We’ve been piecing through every detail with the FBI contact they’re working with from the human realm.
Every scrap of intel Dante, Elias, and I could hand over was laid bare.
It’s real progress toward bringing Terrance down, but each step forward tightens the knot in my stomach.
All of this ends with us going back to the compound. Back to the place where my uncle carved Briar’s screams into my memory and where I stood by with my hands tied and called it survival.
I need to redeem myself. Not for anyone else, but for me. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to live with the weight of what I allowed.
Somehow amidst all the planning and talking, I haven’t seen her once.
Briar’s absence has stalked me through every waking hour.
Her face slips into my thoughts when I least expect it, and I find myself wondering how she’s holding together.
I made the mistake of asking Elias once and he got cagey in that way that sets my teeth on edge.
He knows something and he’s keeping it close to his chest.
Which only makes me think of her more and whatever she’s enduring that could keep my own brother from telling me her truth.
I wander through the castle’s endless halls, our permissions loosened now that her fathers have stopped seeing us as their direct enemy for the time being. The corridors stretch out, filled with paintings and so many endless doors, until a thread of music cuts through the stillness.
I slow, head cocking to see if I heard correctly.
It’s faint but distinct, the low, pulsing thrum of bass, the ache of a man’s voice singing words I know. The Death of Peace of Mind. Bad Omens. Human music.
A strange sound to hear echoing through the stone walls of a vampire castle. Perhaps music really does transcend everything, bringing us all together in a way that only it can.
Curiosity tugs at me and before I know it, my boots carry me toward it, deeper into the wing. I stop in the doorway, half hiding behind the door that’s only partially open as the music vibrates through the room.
Sunlight spills through the wall of glass windows, casting everything in a wash of soft gold and pinks as the sun begins to set.
My eyes land on the figure curled up against the side wall, sketchbook balanced in her lap as her pencil moves in steady strokes.
Her face is soft with singular-focus, so different from the grit and sass I’ve come to know.
I’m thrilled to see her, but now that I’ve found her, it feels like I’m intruding on a safe haven.
The room itself looks like a collision of art and music. Canvases propped in uneven stacks. Charcoal dust smudging the tables. In the corner, a guitar leans against a case and a piano is tucked along one wall like it’s been forgotten here for centuries, collecting dust.
She’s curled into herself, leggings covering her bent legs and an oversized shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders. It’s crumpled with creases, like she pulled it on without caring how it looked. Stray threads of hair tumble from the messy bun on her head to frame her face, half-shadowing it.
The sight wrecks me, because almost every memory I have of her is of her in pain…as a captive. Metal cuffs, blood, and her voice breaking against stone walls. Seeing her like this bathed in sunlight, finding pieces of who she was before all of that haunts me in a way I can’t name.
My stomach twists. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t watch her like this, not when she finally looks untouched by everything we’ve been a part of.
I hover in the doorway for a moment before turning, and the sole of my boot squeaks against the stone floor. Her head whips toward me, eyes flashing wide with surprise. The sketchbook dips in her lap as she stiffens.
I freeze like a kid caught sneaking into rooms to find presents, my shoulders hunching a little under her gaze. Heat creeps up my neck and I can feel the sheepish look tugging at my face before I can stop it.
“Uh, hey.” My hand lifts in a weak half-wave. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Her eyes narrow at first, sharp as ever, but then to my shock, they ease. The tension in her shoulders unwinds just a little and she blinks at me like she’s weighing a thought before lowering her gaze back to the sketchbook.
When she looks up again, it’s with soft curiosity.
“How have you been these past few days?” she asks, her voice far more casual than anything I anticipated.
For a second, I just stare at her with a parted mouth. Of all the things I expected from her–sassy words, cold silence, or maybe a cutting remark–casual conversation wasn’t even on the list.
My lips twitch into a half-smile, the kind of grin I used to toss around without thinking, easy and practiced as my default mechanism to not let anyone in. “Oh, I can’t complain. Each day I seem to freak out less about a vampire popping out to kill me. So, that’s progress?”
The words come out smooth, but inside they taste bitter. This isn’t the night we met at NYU anymore, when I could just smirk and pretend the world wasn’t already crumbling. Back then, I thought I could flirt and charm my way into knowing her.
Now? Now I know what she’s endured. I know her strength and the love for those she deems worthy in her heart. I know just how far she’s been knocked down, just to get back up and fight again.
Standing here and seeing her now, I feel the truth of it down to my bones–Briar Van Helsing is so far out of my league and I don’t have the slightest clue how to talk to her anymore. Beneath that false bravado, nerves tangle my stomach and mind into a jumbled mess.
I will never deserve her, and yet here I am, desperate just to stay in the room with her.
Briar tilts her head, giving me a puzzled look as a soft hum slips from her as if she can’t decide whether to roll her eyes or simply ignore me. She turns her focus back to her sketchbook, pencil scratching faintly against paper, and for a moment I stand there useless in the doorway.
The fake smirk fades off my face, leaving only the truth sitting heavy in my chest.
I let out a sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just a defensive mechanism I slip into, to make light of everything.” My voice dips. “The truth is, I’ve been spiraling with my own thoughts.”
My gaze falls to the instruments in the corner. “Usually when I get stuck in my head like this, I create music. It helps me decipher my feelings and get it out.”
That makes her pause. Her pencil stills and slowly she lifts her eyes to me again.
“Yeah,” she admits quietly, glancing down at her sketch, fingers brushing the edge of the page. “That’s how it is for me with drawing.”
The music continues to hum low around us, and in the warmth of the setting sun, her hazel eyes catch the light in a way that makes the green and gold appear to spark.
For the first time, I’m not looking at her bloodied or burning with rage–I’m just looking at her .
It’s a beautiful sight.
She flicks her gaze toward the instruments scattered across the room, then back to me. “Have at it then,” she says softly. “I can give you a piece of paper and a pencil if you want to write down lyrics.”
The offer stuns me and my chest tightens, because this–her inviting me in, giving me space in a sanctuary that clearly belongs to her–feels like more grace than I deserve.
I blink, fumbling for words. “I, uh.” My hand drags through my hair, nerves sparking as I finally force myself to step inside the room fully. Every movement feels too loud, too heavy, like I’m breaking the peaceful bubble she’s built.
“I should’ve clarified.” I gesture toward the guitar propped against the wall, my throat dry. “I only write the music. Elias is the one who writes the lyrics.”
She sets her sketchbook aside long enough to reach for a small remote, clicking the volume down until the thrum of the Sleep Token song Damocles softens to a background hum.
Then her gaze cuts back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, tilting her head, lips curving in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“I think perhaps my advanced hearing is failing me. Did you say Elias–the man least in tune with emotions I have ever met–writes song lyrics?”
The sass in her tone is unmistakable, but so is the good-natured humor glinting in her eyes.
For the first time in over a month, I feel the ghost of a real grin tug at my mouth.
I can’t help the laugh that slips out, low and sheepish as I cross the room.
“I know, I know,” I admit, shaking my head as I lower myself to the ground on the opposite wall from her and pull the guitar into my lap.
The wood is cool under my arms, the familiar weight settling against my lap.
“But it’s true. Part of our submission to NYU was an original song written and composed by us together. ”
Her brows lift, like she’s still trying to wrap her head around Elias stringing words together in a way that isn’t clipped or scathing.
My voice slips into something quieter, more honest, because I can’t mask what playing and composing has meant for me.
“It’s one of the only ways we’ve been able to sort through our grief,” I continue, tuning the guitar as my fingers brush softly against the strings.
“We’ve never been great at blatantly talking about our feelings together.
Since our mom died and we found our way to music later on, that’s been our outlet to connect. ”
My fingers find the strings on their own, coaxing out the melody that’s lived under my skin for years now. The sound spills low and steady into the air, threading with the fading light of the sun as I lose myself in the rhythm.
I can feel her watching.