Blackstone was the kind of town people drove through, never suspecting what slept beneath its surface. To outsiders, it was small, quiet, the kind of place where the only real drama was the diner running out of coffee on a Monday morning. But Blackstone had teeth. Its veins ran with secrets no map could chart—werewolves who still bowed to an Alpha's law, vampires who stalked the edges of night like shadows made flesh, witches who whispered in tongues older than the soil itself.
And then there were the hunters.
Lucien Cross had led them for years, men and women sworn to keep the balance, sworn to stop anything that threatened to spill the hidden world into human sight. But Damien Cross—his ward, his greatest complication—was the town's most dangerous contradiction.
Because Damien wasn't only a hunter.
He was what hunters were raised to fear.
A hybrid.
Vampire blood in his veins, wolf blood in his bones, steel in his hands. A paradox made flesh. A boy who could have been hunted… if not for the fact that he hunted better than most of them combined.
But why was Damien Cross, a hybrid, allowed to walk among hunters instead of being their sworn target?
The answer was Lucien Cross.
Lucien Cross had been the leader of Blackstone's hunters for decades, long before Damien was born. A man in his fifties now, hardened by endless nights chasing monsters through blood-stained alleys, he carried himself with the unshakable weight of survival. He had seen werewolves tear men apart under the full moon. He had watched vampires leave nothing but husks in their wake. He had burned witches whose magic bled too far into madness.
Yet one night—when Damien was only eight years old—Lucien had made a choice that defied everything he believed in.
The night of the fire.
Blackstone still whispered about it: the night the last Alpha's house went up in flames, an inferno that lit the sky red and stank of death for days. No one knew what really started it—some said a vampire raid, others whispered witches had cursed the pack. Whatever the truth, Damien's parents perished inside. So did most of their kind.
But not the boy.
Lucien found him in the wreckage. A child with smoke-stained skin, bloodied knees, and eyes that glowed faintly with the unholy marriage of wolf and vampire. He should have killed him then. He knew that. Every law of their order demanded it. Hybrids were abominations, unpredictable, dangerous, too powerful to control.
But Lucien hadn't raised his blade. He had raised the boy.
No one could explain why, not even Lucien himself. Some called it mercy. Others called it madness. But from that night forward, Damien Cross became his ward—his responsibility, his weapon, and his greatest gamble.
And so the hybrid became a hunter.
********************
Evelyn had already left for her hospital shift by the time Grace dragged June out the door, practically buzzing with energy.
"You have no idea how excited I am," Grace said for the fifth time that morning, looping her arm through June's. "We're going to make Blackstone yours. Everywhere, every corner, every secret spot—by the time I'm done, you'll know this town better than the people who were born here!"
June couldn't help but smile at her cousin's enthusiasm. Grace had the kind of personality that left no room for gloom, filling every silence with chatter and laughter. It was… comforting. Something June hadn't realized she needed until now.
They strolled through the narrow streets of Blackstone, the small-town air buzzing with the ordinary rhythm of life—shopkeepers raising their shutters, neighbors exchanging greetings, the faint whistle of the morning train in the distance. The contrast to Bel Air's polished chaos was stark. Here, everything felt slowed down, almost intimate.
"First stop," Grace announced, spinning on her heel and pointing dramatically. "Sunnyside Diner. The crown jewel of our oh-so-tiny empire."
June followed her gaze. The diner was a squat, cheerful-looking building with a flickering neon sign that read Sunnyside in looping cursive. The glass windows reflected the morning light, showing rows of red vinyl booths and the faint haze of the coffee machine at work.
Inside, it smelled like grease, coffee, and something sweet on the griddle.
Grace beelined for a booth, sliding in like she owned the place. June slid in across from her, watching as Grace flagged down the waitress with a grin. "Two chocolate milkshakes, extra whipped cream. And a basket of fries—make that two. Thanks, Mrs. Dempsey!"
June raised a brow. "You come here a lot?"
Grace grinned. "Only every single day I can convince Mom to let me. Sunnyside has the best fries in town. Okay, it has the only fries in town, but they're still the best."
Their food arrived quickly, and Grace dug in like she hadn't eaten in days, talking through mouthfuls of fries. "You're gonna love senior year, June. Trust me. Everyone's already dying to meet you. New girl, mysterious background, drop-dead gorgeous—"
June shook her head, sipping her milkshake. "You are exaggerating."
"I never exaggerate," Grace said solemnly, then grinned again. "Okay, maybe a little. But seriously, you'll fit right in. Especially with me around."
For the first time in weeks, June felt herself relax. The milkshake was cold, the fries salty and perfect, and Grace's chatter filled the empty spaces inside her chest that grief had hollowed out.
But somewhere between Grace's stream of words about classes, lockers, and who was dating who, June found herself speaking.
"I think I'll need to get a part-time job."
Grace blinked, fry halfway to her mouth. "A job? You? But—you're an heiress, June. You don't need to flip burgers."
June's lips tugged into a wry smile. "Heiress doesn't mean much when you're seventeen. Most of my parents' money is tied up, and the rest…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Let's just say my uncles and aunts aren't exactly rushing to make sure I'm comfortable."
Grace frowned, the fry forgotten. "That's… that's messed up."
June shrugged, trying to keep her tone light. "It's fine. I just need something to do. Something normal." Her fingers traced the rim of her milkshake glass. "I've never worked a day in my life, but… maybe it's time to start."
Grace studied her for a long moment, then forced a bright smile back onto her face. "Well, lucky for you, Sunnyside is always hiring. And if they don't take you, we'll march in here together and demand they do. You'd look cute in one of their little aprons."
June laughed softly, shaking her head. But for the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel quite so heavy.
Grace leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with determination. "Then it's settled. You're not doing this alone."
June blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Grace said with mock seriousness, stabbing a fry in the air like it was a declaration of war, "I'm quitting my part-time job. Right now. Boom. Done."
June arched a brow, hiding her smile. "You have a job?"
Grace gave her a look. "Of course I do. Do you think these fries pay for themselves? I help out at Mr. Bailey's bookstore three afternoons a week. It's dusty, it smells like old socks, and Mr. Bailey snores behind the counter half the time." She sighed dramatically. "But if you're getting a job at Sunnyside, then so am I. We're a package deal."
"Grace…" June's tone was half-exasperation, half-gratitude.
"Nope. Don't fight me on this," Grace said, popping the fry into her mouth. "Besides, we'll look adorable in matching uniforms. And think about it—we'll get all the fries and milkshakes we want for free."
June chuckled, shaking her head again. Somehow Grace made everything sound so simple, so… livable.
The door to the diner swung open with a chime of the little brass bell. June barely noticed; her back was to the entrance, and Grace was still in full chatter mode.
But the air shifted. Subtle, almost unnoticeable—like the faint crackle of static before a storm.
Damien Cross and Logan strolled in, the kind of entrance that wasn't loud but impossible not to notice. Damien was all lean arrogance in his leather jacket, walking like the world already belonged to him. Logan, steady and broad-shouldered beside him, carried the grounding presence that kept them from being mistaken for just a couple of reckless rich kids.
The two headed straight for the counter, where Mrs. Dempsey, the waitress with a fondness for gossip and handsome boys, nearly tripped over herself to serve them.
"Well, if it isn't the Cross boy," she said with a smile that was far too eager.
Damien's mouth curled into a lazy half-smirk. "Mrs. Dempsey. Looking younger every time I see you. What's your secret—sunscreen or witchcraft?"
She flushed pink, swatting at him with the order pad. "Oh, you hush."
Logan rolled his eyes and leaned an elbow on the counter. "We're actually here to ask you something."
Mrs. Dempsey perked up. "Ask away, sweetheart."
"It's about Nancy Hall," Logan said carefully, his tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. "We heard she was here not too long ago."
The woman's smile faltered just slightly, but Damien caught it. His eyes narrowed, though the smirk never left his face. He reached over, idly picking up a sugar packet and tearing it open with exaggerated boredom.
"Don't look so worried, Mrs. D. We're not the sheriff," Damien drawled. "We just heard she might've stopped in. Probably ordered something sweet, right? She had a thing for sugar."
Mrs. Dempsey hesitated, tapping the order pad against her chin. "Well… she did come in. A few nights ago. Just for a milkshake. Sat in that corner booth over there, all by herself. Didn't seem upset or anything, but…"
She lowered her voice. "There was a man watching her. Gave me the creeps. Tall. Pale. Didn't touch a thing, just sat there nursing a coffee that went cold."
Logan straightened, his jaw tightening. "You recognize him?"
She shook her head quickly. "Never seen him before. But I'll tell you—when Nancy left, so did he."
Damien's smirk thinned into something sharper, his gaze flicking to the reflection of himself in the coffee machine. He tapped the sugar into his drink, stirred it, and finally looked back at her.
"Appreciate the info, Mrs. D," he said, voice deceptively light. "And don't worry. If Nancy comes back in here, she'll be fine. I promise."
Something about the way he said it—cool, confident, like the promise of someone who'd already decided the outcome—made Mrs. Dempsey shiver.
Meanwhile, just a few booths away, June and Grace sipped their milkshakes, oblivious.
Mrs. Dempsey was still talking, her voice low but urgent, as she leaned across the counter toward Damien and Logan. Her hands twisted around the order pad nervously, and Logan's steady nods coaxed her into saying more. Damien, as always, looked like he had better things to do, idly tracing condensation down the side of his untouched glass of water, though every word she said sharpened behind his lazy smirk.