The Hunter's Hall never truly slept. The old building creaked with age, its wooden beams groaning under the weight of memory. Weapons lined the walls—crossbows, rifles, blades of silver, iron stakes —all polished, all waiting. The scent of oil and steel clung to the air, mixed with the faint burn of lantern smoke.
Lucien Cross sat at the long oak table, his posture as steady as a mountain. At fifty-three, time had grayed his hair at the temples, but there was nothing fragile about him. His frame carried the quiet strength of a man who had fought too many battles and survived them all. Some wondered why he remained in Blackstone—a town so small, so ordinary—but those who knew the truth understood. Blackstone was no ordinary town. And Lucien Cross was no ordinary man.
The door scraped open. Reynard Hale stepped inside, his shoes heavy against the floorboards. His face was lined, his eyes sharp with discontent. He didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"You've made a mistake, Lucien."
Lucien's gaze lifted, calm, unreadable. "You've been saying that for eighteen years, Reynard. Perhaps you should be clearer."
Reynard crossed the hall, his steps quick, clipped with frustration. "I'll say it again, then. Damien. That boy shouldn't be sitting among hunters, let alone leading a team of them. He's not like us. He's not even close."
Lucien leaned back in his chair, "And yet he's better than most of them."
"That's exactly the problem," Reynard snapped. His voice dropped, as if afraid the shadows themselves might listen. "He's a hybrid. A vampire's hunger, a wolf's rage, and on top of that—our training. Our instincts. Our weapons. What happens when he stops hunting with us and starts hunting us?"
The words echoed through the hall.
Lucien's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm, iron in velvet. "You speak as if he's already lost."
Reynard's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend he's stable, Damien is reckless. Unpredictable. Half the time he doesn't care about rules, the other half he's mocking them. And you—you've raised him like he's untouchable. He has power, freedom, and no leash." He leaned forward, his tone sharper. "Tell me, old friend. What happens when he decides the leash is beneath him?"
Lucien rose slowly, the chair scraping back across the floor. For a man in his fifties, he moved with startling authority, the kind that silenced a room without needing to raise his voice.
He studied Reynard, eyes steady. "Damien isn't on a leash, because he doesn't need one. I raised him with discipline, not chains. Yes, he's reckless. Yes, he bends rules until they scream. But I know him. I know the boy I pulled from fire and ruin when he was eight years old. I know the man he's becoming. And he is not the monster you fear."
Reynard scoffed. "You're blind. You've given him everything—a team, weapons, your name. And more than that—money. A business outside this town, isn't that right? He manages it under your hand, doesn't he? A boy just eighteen, already with more resources than half the hunters combined. You've built him into something unstoppable. And for what? Out of love?"
Lucien's lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. "Yes. Out of love."
Reynard faltered, as though the blunt honesty caught him off guard.
Lucien continued, his voice low, firm, threaded with conviction. "He is my son. Blood or no blood, he is mine. He has my name, my house, my trust. And yes, I've given him power. Because power is not the enemy, Reynard. It's what a man chooses to do with it. And Damien chooses to hunt."
Reynard shook his head, his hands curling into fists. "And if one day he chooses differently? If the wolf takes control? If the vampire hunger wins out? What then?"
For the first time, Lucien's expression hardened, steel beneath the calm. His voice dropped, steady as a blade. "Then I will be the one to stop him."
Silence followed, heavy and unyielding. Reynard searched Lucien's face for hesitation, but there was none. Only the grim certainty of a man who had already carried that burden in his heart for years.
Still, behind the mask, Lucien felt the ache of memory. The small boy covered in ash, trembling in his arms. The sharp wit and impossible arrogance of the young man he had become. His son in all but blood. Reckless, yes. Unpredictable, always. But never beyond his love.
Lucien broke the silence first. "You fear what Damien could become. I believe in what he is. That's the difference between us."
Reynard's mouth opened, but no words came. He stood there a moment longer, then turned sharply, and left the hall.
Lucien remained, staring into the lantern's flame, his face carved with resolve. He knew Reynard's fears weren't unfounded. Damien was a paradox—blood of predator, will of a hunter.
************************
The house smelled faintly of soap and frying oil, Grace clattering dishes in the sink while humming some off-key tune. Evelyn's shower hissed down the hallway, the muffled rhythm of water against tile. Evening pressed close against the windows, the neighborhood quiet, almost too quiet.
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
June, sitting cross-legged on the couch, flinched. She glanced at Grace, who was elbow-deep in suds.
"Can you get that?" Grace called without looking up.
"Yeah." June padded over, tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.
She opened the door.
A man stood on the porch, holding a greasy pizza box. His uniform was faded, his cap tilted low, and his skin—June froze a second—his skin was pale. Not pale like someone who worked nights. Pale like wax, like all the color had drained from him.
"Delivery," he said flatly, his voice almost toneless.
June blinked. "Uh… delivery? For us?"
He tilted the box, extending it toward her. The cardboard was spotted with dark grease stains. "Order for this address."
Confused, June turned her head toward the kitchen. "Grace! Did you order pizza? Or… maybe Evelyn?"
"Nope!" Grace shouted back over the clinking dishes. "We didn't order anything!"
June frowned, stepping back to the door. "Yeah, sorry. I think you've got the wrong house. We didn't order pizza."
The man didn't move. He just stared at her. His eyes were strange—flat, unblinking, fixed like he was trying to memorize every line of her face.
Her stomach tightened. "Uh… maybe you should double-check your list."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Are you sure?" His voice was low, deliberate. "You should check again."
June swallowed. "I'm sure."
Still, he didn't leave. He glanced—not at her face this time—but at the doorframe, at the hinges, like he was studying them. His gaze lingered there, unnervingly long.
June's fingers tightened on the knob. "Is… everything okay?"
The man's head snapped back toward her, and for the first time, his expression changed. Something flickered in his eyes—something too sharp, too intent. Then, just as quickly, it smoothed out.
"Yes," he said softly. "Everything's fine."
He turned at last, stepping down the porch with stiff, almost unnatural movements. The pizza box swung loosely in his grip. He didn't look back.
June hesitated, heart thumping in her chest. Then she closed the door, frowning, and slid the lock into place.