Epilogue #2
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to see a security alert, perimeter camera, eastern boundary.
I pull up the footage, to see a figure moving like liquid death through the frame, all tactical gear and controlled violence.
She’s taking down another rogue vampire, this one I don’t recognize, her movements economical and devastatingly effective.
Blade work that speaks of decades of training.
Gun handling that suggests muscle memory so deep it’s become instinct.
Then she turns.
Just for a second, looking directly at the camera like she knows exactly where it is—like she wants to be seen.
The face that looks back stops my breath.
Female. Mid-twenties in appearance, though with dhampir that means nothing. She could be fifty, could be two hundred. Dark hair pulled back severe, tactical makeup doing nothing to hide the fact that she’s beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful.
Dangerous.
Sharp.
Built for a purpose.
But it’s her eyes that nail me in place.
Even through camera footage, even at this distance, I can see them.
I can read them.
Hunter’s eyes.
Killer’s eyes.
Eyes that have seen too much and decided to become the thing that makes it stop.
She holds the camera’s gaze for exactly three seconds, long enough to let me see her clearly, then, in the blink of an eye, she’s gone.
Disappearing into the forest with the kind of skill that makes me reassess everything I thought I knew about current hunter capabilities.
Professional doesn’t begin to cover it.
I’m already moving, phone to my ear before I’ve consciously decided to make the call. Raze picks up on the second ring, his voice rough with recent sex and comfortable satisfaction. “This better be important, Scar. We’re busy.”
“We’ve got a hunter in our territory,” I growl, eyes still locked on the frozen frame of her face on my phone screen. “And she’s good.”
Silence on the other end, the kind of silence that means Raze is transitioning from sated dragon to calculating President in the space between heartbeats. “How good?”
I look at the photograph of Konstantine, at the precise placement of the blade, at the way she moved through our security like it didn’t exist.
“Good enough to be a problem,” I say quietly. “And she knows I’m here. I caught her scent, so she will have caught mine.”
“Bring the evidence to my office. We brief the brothers in an hour.” His voice has gone cold, tactical. “And Scar? Nobody moves on this hunter without my say. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I end the call, but I don’t move immediately. Instead, I stand in the darkness, photograph in one hand, silver blade in the other, and stare at the space where she disappeared.
Five hundred years old.
I’ve survived wars, plagues, the rise and fall of empires. I’ve loved and lost and learned to exist in the empty spaces where feeling used to live. I’ve built walls so thick around what’s left of my humanity that I barely remember what it felt like to want something beyond survival.
But standing here, holding evidence of her skill, remembering the way her eyes met the camera with absolute confidence—something stirs.
Interest. Curiosity. The faintest whisper of something that might be anticipation if I still allowed myself to feel such things.
A hunter in Kings’ territory.
A dhampir who moves like death and kills our problems while leaving evidence of her competence like breadcrumbs.
No note.
No explanation.
Just the work, the weapon, and the clear message…
I’m here. I’m capable. And I’m not afraid of you.
In the distance, I hear Rhett and Bennett still arguing through the open clubhouse windows, their voices carrying on the night air. Hear laughter from somewhere inside. Hear the sounds of my family, my brothers, my life.
And for the first time in five centuries, I feel something other than the weight of what I’ve lost.
I feel the possibility of what might be coming, of a fight coming my way.
“Well, then,” I murmur to the empty forest, to the night, to wherever she is. “Let’s see what you’re made of, hunter.”
The blade gleams silver in my hand as I turn back toward the clubhouse.
This should be interesting.
THE END