It was impossible not to hear it.
Blood had a sound when it was drawn from humans, usually a low, thrumming pull beneath the skin, like a note held too long. Any vampire can train themselves to ignore the intoxicating call.
But this—
This was everywhere.
The thrum rising from her wounds was a song so intense it made my canines ache with thirst. Light and darkness tangled within it, threaded through with something dangerously close to rapture. If I had tasted her blood last night, I would not have been able to keep my body from hers.
I watched as blood spilled from the bite at her neck and the gaping scratch across her chest — dark, gleaming, seeping slowly into the ground between us. It lingered, reluctant to leave her, as though it understood its value.
Each drop she took from my wrist was a twist of guilt, each pulse a reminder of the line I was about to cross — the gift I was forcing upon her, and the curse that would follow her for the rest of her existence.
I could still stop.
That knowledge was the cruellest part of all.
As Elena drank from me, I fought every instinct to groan — to take pleasure in something that should never feel like this. Feeding was intimate between vampires. With a human, it was something else entirely. When her tongue brushed my skin, the sensation shot through me, sharp and electrical, settling low in my body — a traitorous awareness stirring where there should have been none.
Fuck. Not now.
I forced my thoughts elsewhere, dragging them towards darker things.
How she would survive what came after, I didn't know. I had seen it in her eyes, pain and betrayal, when she realised what I was. Not her attacker, but still the same kind of monster.
Whoever had done this had an agenda. They hadn't tried to kill her. If they had, it would have been quick - arteries torn, blood taken, her body left to bleed out. Instead, they chose the jugular. Deliberately.
To torture her?
Or to do exactly what I was doing now?
Only a true sadist would attack her in this manner. This wasn't clean. This bastard wanted her terrified. Wanted her broken. They fed on her fear as much as her blood.
Now the question was why.
I looked down at Elena as she fed, a broken mess compared to the memory I had of her last night. Her eyes were closed now, lashes resting against her cheeks as her body slowly surrendered to unconsciousness.
Her blood would drain away, replaced by mine. I knew that much. What I didn't know was how long it would take, or how much of my blood it would cost me.
Shit. I needed Bastian.
I had left him in the loading bay, buried in inventory, when I saw the strangest thing materialise in front of me. A wolf.
Not flesh and bone — an apparition, as though it had been sketched into the air itself. I remember thinking I had finally lost my mind.
It stared at me with violet eyes that mirrored my own, then turned and walked away.
It paused. Looked back. Waiting.
I hesitated.
Then I followed.
It led me straight to the main dance floor, and the moment I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong. Shadows clung too thickly to the space, warped and unnatural, like a barrier meant to keep others out.
This wasn't one of Bastian's wards.
No. This was darker work.
The wolf ran straight through the wall of shadows. I didn't hesitate this time to follow it.
The smell hit me first. Then there was the low thrum. Blood. Too much of it.
Then the whimper.
A figure had someone pinned against the far wall, feeding openly, savagely. Even for a vampire, it was beastly.
Bastian is going to lose his mind.
I reached out without thinking. The force slammed into the bastard and tore them away from her.
"That's enough," I said, disgust curling my voice.
They screamed, so animalistic and feral, as they hit the wall behind me. I was already turning, ready to finish it, when I saw it.
A flash of red hair.
I froze.
She slid down the wall and collapsed.
Not her.
The thought of her being attacked, and of how much I cared, that was what terrified me.
A sharp tug at my wrist dragged me back to the present. Elena was still drinking from me.
Ironically, I could feel it now - the drain, the dull pressure building behind my eyes. The balance shifting. How was I meant to know when enough was enough? Turning a human into a veilbound wasn't encouraged. It was barely tolerated.
My father, Elder of the Blood Wolf clan, would have a field day. A public scandal wrapped in blood and sentiment, courtesy of his disappointing son. He would make me pay for this. Perhaps revoke our agreement. Drag me back to his gilded cage of a mansion and call it protection. I could already picture it: my music destroyed, instruments reduced to ash in some performative display of discipline as if I were a child still. He had always favoured punishment that cut deeper than pain.
So why was I risking my freedom for her?
The truth was… I didn't fucking know.
Guilt, maybe. She came looking for me because I had led her on the night before - all so I could feed. I told her pieces of the truth, things I had never told anyone else. Still, I thought I would drink, wipe her memory, and walk away.
Then her stupid vannator boyfriend ruined everything.
"What in the ever-living fuck are you doing, Daz?" A sharp voice rang out across the dance floor.
Ah. Bastian. Glad he finally showed up.
Angry (and rightly so). I had ditched him out back, and now he found me sitting in pool of blood, turning a human into a veilbound. Yeah. I deserved what was coming.
He strode towards me, hand already lifting to pull me away from her. Panic sliced through me.
"Don't, Bast!" I shouted.
He stopped. Stared. Electricity crackled in those cold blue eyes before fizzling out. A small reminder of the power he holds.
"You've done some fucked up shit in my club, Daz, but this is the fucking worst. What the hell did you do to her?" he hissed.
"I didn't attack her," I said, flat and steady.
I brushed Elena's hair away from her face. Strands clung to the dried blood on her cheek. She didn't stir. Unconscious. Worse, she had stopped drinking. Her mouth hung open as my blood dripped uselessly between her lips.
I gently pulled my wrist away and lifted her into my arms. The wound on my wrist immediately sealed itself.
Bastian stayed silent. Watching.
When I finally looked at him, I told him everything — the wolf, the shadows, the vampire feeding on her, the choice I gave her, if you could even call it a choice.
There was a lot of swearing. Pacing. Hands raking through his hair. Eventually, he stopped and pressed his fingers to his forehead, as if holding his head together by force alone.
"And you think turning her was the best option?" he asked quietly. At least he wasn't shouting anymore.
"I couldn't let her die. The way she was left—"
Bastian scoffed, dropped his head and shook it.
"—because of me," I finished.
That made him look up.
"I wasn't the one who attacked her," I continued, "but she came here because of me. I told her I liked to practice on that stage before gigs. I planned to wipe her memory after. As you know… that didn't happen."
Bastian exhaled slowly and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. Possibly praying for patience. Or a reprieve.
"Bast," my voice dropped, almost pleading, "I need your help. You're veilbound. You know what it's like to be turned. I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing."
"You got that right," he muttered, eyes fixed on Elena.
I ignored the comment. "What was it like when you were turned? What do I do to make this easier for her?"
Pain flickered across his face — fast, but unmistakable.
"Stay with her," he said finally. "Don't abandon her like I was."
I stayed silent and did not dare interrupt.
"All I remember is being alone. No one there to tell me what was happening. You'll need to guide her through every step, every new sensation, especially when her abilities start surfacing. If you're lucky, she'll be Blood Wolf like you. If not, you'll need to find someone else to help her."
Each clan had its own abilities. Blood Wolves could shift into wolf-like beasts. Blood Owls could fly and wield electricity. Bastian always used magic to hide his wings even among the vampire community, almost as if he refused to acknowledge them. I had only seen them once - white, magnificent, almost angelic.
"And the pain will start soon," he added. "You should be able to relieve her of that."
Bitterness edged every word. I nodded. I already knew the incantation, it was simple yet effective.
Bastian rarely talked about his turning. I had only ever caught fragments - enough to know he'd been drained by one vampire and turned by another. He never found either of them.
And suddenly, I saw it.
Elena was the same. Drained by one. Turned by another.
I couldn't blame him for the ghosts this stirred.
"What are you going to do about her friends? Her family?" Bastian asked quietly. "You know she'll never be able to see them again."
The words hit harder than I expected. Guilt thudded in my chest, but I didn't let it surface. I looked down at Elena instead.
"It's Averon City," I said finally. "People go missing every day."
Bastian stared at me, then snapped, "Are you off your nut?" A dry, broken laugh escaped him.
"She could've told someone she was coming here. Friends. That boyfriend of hers could be a real problem. I could have police sniffing around this place in a couple of hours."
He gestured sharply to the dark stains behind me.
"And I've got that to clean up. Not to mention the club opens in a few hours."
"Okay," I said tightly. "Yes. My plan has flaws."
"Flaws? No. No, it has more than flaws—"
He started pacing again. I opened my mouth to interrupt.
And then he kicked something.
We both stopped.
A bag lay near the wall. A book had spilled out onto the floor.
Bastian crouched and picked it up, flipping through the pages. His movements slowed. His expression changed.
"Uh… Daz," he said, holding it up. "Would you say this is the wolf you saw?"
Carefully, I shifted Elena's weight in my arms and stepped closer.
It was a sketchbook. Black pages filled with stark white drawings.
The wolf stared back at me – exactly as it had appeared in front of me.
Bastian turned another page. Then another.
My breath caught.
She had drawn the symbols of each clan.
Wolf — Sange Varcolac, Blood Wolf.
Flower — Dahlia Roja, Red Dahlia.
Owl — Otus Aima, Blood Owl.
Forest — Blut Wald, Blood Forest.
Eye — Gwaed Gwrach, Blood Witches.
Flame — Ketsuen, Blood Flame.
How could a human know this?
"She's a seer," Bastian said quietly, finishing my thought. "She's having visions. Like all Blood Witches, she soothes her sight through craft."
He turned the page again.
Drawn perfectly was the ancient symbol of the Star.
"Zul-Ithra Sil'Vaen," I whispered.
The star remembers before blood.
A symbol of a clan long destroyed. Every veilborne and veilbound knew it in some fractured form. Yet here it was — perfect, complete. Even marked with the inverted moon that all vampire clans incorporated into their symbol.
I looked down at Elena's face. So peaceful amidst the violence.
How was it possible she had the sight? Access to the veil? The Blood Witches were reclusive for a reason. They lived apart, hidden away on their island, led by their Elder, Elianore — the oldest among us. Some even claimed she remembered the Blood Star Clan before it fell.
How was I meant to help Elena if the Blood Witches never left their island?
I already knew the answer.
Elena moaned in my arms. The first true wave of pain. The turning had begun.
Bastian was still staring at the sketchbook, brow furrowed.
"Daz… I think she saw her killer. Before tonight."
He showed me the page. A shadowed figure, hand outstretched — beckoning.
The next page stole my breath.
A body.
Blurry. Broken.
Her death?
Elena cried out softly. Her body tensed.
"Bastian," I said tightly, turning away. "I need to get her out of here. Now."
******
We were already running for the back door.
I had Elena wrapped in my black leather jacket, her slight weight pressed against my chest, while Bastian scooped up her bag, shoving the sketchbook back inside. He was talking, scolding, really, rattling off everything I should expect as she transitioned into veilbound. Symptoms. Risks. Rules.
I tried to listen.
I really did.
But Elena's pain was cresting in waves, sharp and relentless, and it drowned everything else out.
Bastian surged ahead and threw open the service door, the one deliveries came through. My car sat nearby, tucked beside a stack of empty crates. The sun had fully set now, and the rain had softened into a fine mist, turning the asphalt slick and reflective beneath the streetlights.
I reached my car — dark blue, almost black, an Audi RS7 — yanked open the passenger door and eased Elena into the seat, still cocooned in my jacket. She whimpered, a sound that punched straight through me. I shut the door harder than I meant to.
By the time I rounded the car, Bastian was there, keys already in hand. He dropped them into my palm.
"Daz," he said, low and serious, "I've got a bad feeling about this. This wasn't a random hit. Someone knows she's a seer. And I don't think we've even scratched the surface of what this means."
I met his gaze — those steady, ancient dark blue eyes. Always the voice of reason. Even now.
"Be careful," he added. "And keep an eye on those drawings. Now that she is turning, her skills will develop even more."
I nodded. "Thanks, man."
I gripped his hand, clapping his arm with my free one in a wordless show of gratitude.
"Call me when she's stable," he said. "She'll likely be claimed by the Blood Witches. They have a way of knowing these things. I may know someone who can help." His mouth curved into a wicked grin. "And try not to fuck things up worse than you already have."
He turned and headed back for the door.
"Don't you have a crime scene to clean up?" I called after him.
Bastian flipped me off without slowing.
I chuckled — then froze.
A sharper cry tore from the car.
"Shit."
I slid into the driver's seat and looked over.
Elena was breathing hard now, fingers clawing at her own skin like she was trying to remove some foreign entity from inside her body. My blood perhaps.
"Elena, it's going to be okay," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I'm taking you somewhere safe."
I stroked her hair, but she didn't respond — only whimpered between waves of pain, hands still grasping at herself. If she heard me, she gave no sign.
Then I saw it.
Blood seeped from her nose.
Another wave hit her and she slammed her head back against the seat, a scream ripping from her chest. Loud — for a human. I knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.
I needed to get her out of here. Now.
"Sorry if it's not your genre," I muttered, "but I need to drown you out."
I shoved the key into the ignition and turned it.
The engine roared to life, the vibration jolting the car and pulling another cry from her throat. I cranked the stereo — hard, classic rock exploding from the speakers. Elena clutched at her ears, already too sensitive to the noise.
I turned it up anyway.
Reverse.
I slammed my foot down and the car shot backwards into the empty street. I wrenched the wheel one-handed, laying my other arm firmly across her chest to keep her in place as the car spun — tyres screaming, rain-slick asphalt sliding beneath us.
Then the nose of my car snapped around.
Straightened.
Forward.
I punched the accelerator and tore towards home.
Gold and blue streetlights strobed across Elena's face as she panted and groaned in pain. I glanced at her in sharp intervals as we tore through the slick streets of the South Side, the rain-polished asphalt reflecting the city back at itself.
The night was in its final shift change. The dregs of the neighbourhood were crawling out into the open, while the more innocent retreated behind locked doors, sensing — rightly — that the dark still belonged to something else.
As I sped past, I caught human attention, but only because of the bass and drums pounding from my car, the rock song threatening to tear itself free of the speakers. I earned nothing more than annoyed looks and exaggerated eye-rolls — the universal judgement reserved for someone being an asshole, not a psycho killer with his prey bleeding out in the passenger seat.
Good.
Finally, we reached my home.
I pulled in behind the recently repurposed Church of St Dymphna. The irony wasn't lost on me. Patron saint of mental illness. Of lost souls. Of those who rebelled against their fathers.
When I first saw it — broken, abandoned, rotting quietly under the weight of neglect — I knew it was mine.
The church dated back to the 1700s, modest in scale but stubborn in its survival. One bell tower rose above the roofline, its iron bell long since silenced. Inside, the altar remained intact, the stone worn smooth by centuries of knees and prayers. The acoustics were excellent for anyone on the inside which was perfect for rehearsals, when the band needed somewhere private and loud.
Thanks to a borrowed Warden from Bastian — and a very generous payment — humans steered well clear of the place. No squatters. No curiosity. Nobody to bother me.
Just stone, shadows, and a saint who understood exile.
While driving, I had started timing Elena's waves of pain. They were constant, but mercifully consistent. If I was lucky, I could get her inside before the next shriek tore free.
I parked and was out of the car in a second, sprinting to the passenger side. When I opened the door, Elena was staring at nothing, panting hard. Blood still dripped steadily from her nose.
I scooped her up, one arm braced beneath her knees, the other supporting her back and neck. Her arm fell weakly around my shoulders.
A low, guttural sound tore from her throat — a growl more than a groan. Not human.
In any other circumstance, I might have found it endearing.
Her head tipped back, mouth falling open as her breathing grew ragged. In the blood-slick darkness of her mouth, I saw them — two new canines pressing down past the old. Claiming space.
I didn't waste another second.
I crossed the distance from the car to the church in long strides and shouldered open one of the heavy front doors.
Darkness swallowed us.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, focusing my energy along the aisle. One by one, the candles flared to life — ancient flames licking up blackened wicks, casting gold light across worn stone.
The altar waited at the far end, watched over by Saint Dymphna herself. Above it, a stained-glass window bloomed into colour — the saint's arms outstretched, her gaze gentle and unyielding.
I laid Elena down on the cold stone.
Blood streamed from her eyes now. She was crying.
Her fangs were fully exposed, her body shaking as another wave of pain built inside her — imminent, unavoidable. I cradled her face, thumbs brushing the blood from her cheeks.
"Elena," I said softly. Steady. "I'm going to take the pain away. You won't see me again until you wake."
Her eyes finally found mine.
The green stopped me cold.
They had been green before — human green. This was something else entirely. Bright. Luminous. Like sunlight caught in new leaves in spring.
"I'm scared," she whispered, breath hitching.
"I know," I said — and meant more than I could explain.
I placed my hand against her forehead and spoke the incantation, sinking her into a deathlike sleep.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her body went slack.
It worked. I sighed in relief. But it was short-lived.
Suddenly her back arched violently, and her scream echoed throughout the altar in surreal symphony.
The last of her human blood was expelled — pouring from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and her wounds. It spilled down the stone altar in a gruesome cascade, vivid and obscene.
I could only watch, frozen, wide-eyed. After what felt like an eternity, her body fell back onto the altar and was still.
Elena's humanity died there on the altar.
And her body began to change.