Aiken's Porsche Carrera glided down the lonely road, the engine humming like a lullaby of power beneath the hood. Trees zipped past in a blur of green and black, moonlight slicing through the branches overhead. His hand rested lazily on the steering wheel, one arm hanging out the window.
He grinned to himself.
"I didn't expect such a great witch to fall for it so quickly..." he muttered.
That bracelet. That perfect little lie wrapped in cursed silver and sentimental charm.
"An anti-siphoning object…" He chuckled darkly. "Creating one is impossible. For now."
He had built it as a protective charm for Bonnie in case she ever found herself in danger when he wasn't there. But the moment he saw her grandmother's reaction, he realized its potential. The old woman had accepted it without truly testing it. She had merely felt it—let her fear and hope do the rest.
He smirked. "Fear and hope… best materials for magic, if you ask me."
When the bracelet reacted earlier, when it had lashed back at him and drawn blood—he hadn't been siphoning. He'd merely let out a flicker of hostile intent. He'd designed it to react defensively, to protect the wearer in close range—about a foot or two—from anyone who bore aggressive feelings toward them.
And it worked.
His fingers tapped on the wheel thoughtfully.
But one day, he thought, I will build a true anti-siphoning artifact. If another siphoner ever touches Bonnie... she'd die in seconds. And I can't let that happen.
The car pulled smoothly into the long gravel driveway of a house. His house.
He parked, engine idling for a second before shutting it off. Silence returned to the woods.
Aiken leaned forward and opened the glove box.
He reached in, expecting to find his keys—he always kept them there, old habit—but something felt… off.
He paused.
The air around him thickened, a familiar tingling crawling down the back of his neck. That feeling again. Psychic powers.
He emptied the compartment completely—receipts, a lighter, Bonnie's old charm bracelet she'd forgotten once… but nothing else.
Still, the sensation remained. Stronger now.
He squinted, fingers brushing the inside of the glove box.
"There's nothing here…" he thought.
But then—his hand caught on something.
A faint seam along the top panel. Hidden. Deliberate.
Aiken pressed gently.
Click.
A secret compartment popped open with a soft hiss.
Inside… wooden stakes, finely carved and polished smooth. Not crude weapons. Professionally made.
Aiken's breath caught in his throat.
"…He was a Vampire Hunter," he whispered.
His mind flashed to the past.
All those hunting trips in the Sherwood forests. All the times his father had taught him to track, to aim, to kill with silence. But never once had he mentioned vampires. Not once.
"What else were you hiding from me… old man?"
The wind rustled through the trees outside. Aiken sat in the driver's seat, staring at the stakes in his hand. His reflection flickered faintly in the rearview mirror—young, powerful, and now… completely lost.
"Did a vampire kill you?" he muttered. "Or did you become one of them?"
A long pause.
"…It's getting more and more complicated."
He shut the glove box, pocketed the key, and stepped out of the car. The door shut behind him with a soft thunk.
...
The house was a mess.
Stacks of old books, hunting gear, and worn clothes were scattered across the living room floor. Paperwork covered the dining table in a chaotic sprawl. Aiken stood in the middle of it all, his breath shallow, the psychic pressure on his temples building like a migraine that wouldn't quit.
He had brought everything here after his father's disappearance. Every belonging, every trace. Trophies from the Sherwood hunts, faded photos, old boots and broken watches—anything that might whisper the truth to him.
But nothing had spoken.
And still… the feeling persisted.
"That damn sense again..." he muttered, rubbing his temple. It gnawed at him, sharper than instinct, deeper than magic. A low hum in the bones, urging him to keep looking.
He checked the same drawer again.
Under the stairs.
Behind the kitchen wall panel.
Nothing.
Defeated, he collapsed onto the sofa with a long sigh, one arm draped over his eyes.
"This is pointless…"
Silence followed. The kind of silence that made the walls feel like they were listening.
Aiken let his hand fall lazily to his side—then blinked.
His eyes fell on the wardrobe at the far end of the room.
It was open.
He had already searched it. Twice. Thoroughly.
But something about it made his skin prickle.
"No way…" he muttered, standing.
He reached into the wardrobe and pulled out the old stack of letters.
Familiar.
He had read them all when he was young—back when curiosity ruled him. He used to sneak into the Gemini Coven's restricted archives just to know more. These letters were no different. All of them were from his father's late wife—the woman Aiken never knew. She had left before his father found him in the forest. But his father always spoke of her… like she was the sun itself.
Beautiful. Caring. Full of light.
That light had never reached Aiken. Only stories.
He flipped through the envelopes again, sighing.
"I've already checked all of these…"
But his fingers stopped on one.
The feeling hit him again—hard. His powers screamed for him to look.
Aiken opened the envelope.
Inside… was a letter.
But not just any letter.
"18th January, 2008," he read aloud.
His heart stopped for a beat.
That wasn't right.
He remembered this one. It was supposed to be one of the early ones. Dated before his father even met him.
But this—
This was the day before his father vanished.
"…What the hell?" Aiken whispered.
The paper felt slightly newer than the others, despite the envelope's aged edges. Someone had replaced it. Maybe his father.
His hands trembled as he unfolded the page.
To be continued...
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Also, I'm trying to deepen his father hunter's backstory, hope you are liking it.