Evelyn Smith pulled into the driveway, her little sedan humming low as she killed the engine. Her limbs ached with the kind of exhaustion only nurses knew—the kind that settled into your bones after too many hours under fluorescent lights, tending to too many patients, keeping smiles even when your spirit begged for rest.
Her scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and the sharp tang of the hospital. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose against her damp forehead. She'd worked the night shift, double-shifted really, and though every part of her wanted to collapse, she felt lighter driving up the hill that led to her home.
Her home. Their home now.
She opened the front door quietly, automatically. Habit. Grace and June were probably still asleep.
The house greeted her with silence, the good kind—the silence of a safe home, of family. The faint smell of last night's cooking lingered in the air, and Evelyn caught sight of the pot on the stove. Spaghetti. A smile tugged at her lips. Grace. Her daughter was a clean freak, always had been, but she could never resist leaving a little something behind, as if food proved they'd all lived through another day.
The counters gleamed. Plates washed, pans dried and stacked neatly. She knew it was Grace's work, her compulsive tidying, her little way of keeping the world in order. Evelyn sighed softly. That was her girl.
She dropped her keys in the dish by the door, slipped her bag off her shoulder, and rubbed the stiff ache from her neck. For a moment, she just stood in the quiet, staring at the staircase.
Her eyes softened.
June.
With quiet steps, Evelyn made her way upstairs, the old wooden staircase creaking beneath her weight. She paused before June's door, hand hovering at the knob, before gently turning it. The door creaked open.
The girl lay curled under the sheets, her black hair fanned against the pillow, her chest rising and falling steadily. She looked so small like that. So young. So breakable.
Evelyn leaned against the doorframe, watching her, and her chest tightened.
How was she really doing?
On the surface, June always said she was fine. Always smiled politely, nodded when spoken to, laughed when Grace dragged her into chatter. But Evelyn wasn't blind. She'd seen the heaviness in June's eyes when she thought no one was looking. The girl was trying—Evelyn could see that. She was trying so hard to adjust, to live, to be normal again after everything.
But how could she possibly be?
She wasn't even eighteen yet. And already she'd lost everything that should have been untouchable—her parents, her home, her life as she knew it. Evelyn remembered that night vividly, the phone call, the news, the way June had arrived at her doorstep like a fragile shadow carrying too much grief for someone her age.
And Evelyn had promised herself, right then, that she would do everything to make this child feel safe. To make her feel loved.
But was it enough?
Blackstone was nothing like Bel-Air. This wasn't marble floors and glittering ballrooms. This was a town where everybody knew everybody, where gossip traveled faster than light, where secrets never stayed buried long.
Would June really ever feel at home here? Or was she simply enduring it because she had no choice?
Evelyn pressed her lips together, swallowing down the ache in her throat. She wanted to walk in, to brush the hair from June's face, to whisper promises she wasn't sure she could keep. But she didn't.
Instead, she stayed in the doorway for a long minute, her eyes soft, her mind heavy.
Then she stepped back. Slowly, carefully, she closed the door with a quiet click.
For a heartbeat, the house was still again. Too still.
Evelyn exhaled. She didn't know why, but the morning felt heavier than usual. A weight pressed at the back of her mind, something she couldn't name, couldn't shake.
She turned and made her way down the hall toward Grace's room, pushing the thoughts aside. They were fine. They had to be fine.
They were safe.
They were always safe here.
…Weren't they?
************************
The hunters' hall was quiet at this hour, silent but for the steady drip of water seeping down from somewhere deep in the stone ceiling. The wide chamber smelled of damp and smoke, torches casting low amber light against the walls. The air itself felt heavy, as though it remembered the screams of monsters slain within its walls.
Now it carried only one sound—the labored, ragged breathing of the vampire chained to the floor.
He was pale, almost corpse-like, with veins standing dark and visible under his skin. Silver chains coiled around his wrists and ankles, burning into his flesh, leaving angry black welts. His chest heaved, his eyes glared with an insane fire, and every so often he let out a strained, mocking laugh that echoed off the stone.
Damien leaned casually against one of the stone pillars, arms folded across his chest. His leather jacket was torn, dust and blood staining the edges. He looked as though he had just walked away from hell itself, yet he was calm. Relaxed. Bored, even.
Marcus and Ethan stood nearby, tension stiff in their shoulders. They weren't supernatural like Damien or Logan; they were hunters forged by discipline and steel, human yet unyielding. Still, even they shifted uneasily whenever the vampire spat out laughter between coughs of blood.
Logan sat on the edge of a training bench, his jaw tight, one leg bouncing restlessly. The full moon had left its mark on him last night—his skin was still pale, his eyes darker than usual, though he forced himself to sit still.
"Talk," Marcus demanded, stepping closer to the rogue. His hand gripped the hilt of his silver knife, knuckles white. "Where is Nancy Hall? Where are the others?"
The vampire grinned, teeth stained red. "Nancy… sweet girl. She screamed the loudest." His voice cracked, but he laughed through it, wild and unrepentant. "They all screamed, but her voice—it sang."
Ethan cursed under his breath. Logan's fists clenched. Marcus started forward, fury on his face, but Damien's voice cut through the air.
Damien grew bored, he pushed off the pillar, boots echoing across the stone floor as he approached the chained rogue. He crouched down beside him, his eyes narrowed, lips twisted in that dangerous half-smirk.
"You think this is funny?" Damien's voice dripped sarcasm. "You think I dragged your sorry ass here just to hear bedtime stories about how much you enjoy screaming girls?"
The vampire spat at his feet. "You can chain me. You can burn me. You'll never know where the cave is."
Damien chuckled. Low. Cold. Then he leaned closer, so close the vampire flinched despite himself.
"You're right. You won't tell me. That's the thing about cowards—they never do."
Then his smirk deepened. "Lucky for me… I don't need your permission."
Before Marcus or Ethan could react, Damien's fangs extended—sharp, gleaming under the torchlight. With a swift, vicious motion, he sank them into the rogue's neck.
The vampire let out a strangled scream, body convulsing as Damien held him down, ignoring the thrashing chains.
And then it came.
Images surged into Damien's mind, sharp and brutal:
Nancy Hall, eyes wide, crying out as she was dragged by pale hands into a damp cave.
Bodies hung like broken dolls against the stone walls, blood drained, eyes empty.
The rogue standing over them, lips smeared red, laughing.
And then—June. Her face, etched in his mind. The pale man's obsession with her. The way he had stalked her, shadowed her steps, whispered to himself about the new girl in town, how she was different. How he would savor her. Taste her.
The flood of memories burned like fire, then receded. Damien ripped his fangs free, rising to his feet, blood on his mouth. His eyes glowed red, sharp, unblinking.
The rogue sagged in the chains, trembling, laughing weakly. "You see now? She's mine… the girl… she's—"
Damien didn't let him finish. His hand shot forward with inhuman speed, piercing through the vampire's chest. Bone cracked, flesh tore, and in one brutal motion Damien ripped his heart free.
The hall fell into silence. The heart beat once, twice, then stilled in Damien's hand.
He looked down at it, expression unreadable, before he dropped it onto the floor with a wet thud.
The body collapsed against the chains, lifeless.
Marcus exhaled sharply, muttering a curse. Ethan stared, silent but grim. Logan's eyes flicked from the corpse to Damien, but he didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Damien wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, golden eyes dimming back to their usual shade. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if nothing had happened.
"Nancy's dead," Damien said flatly, his voice echoing in the hollow chamber. "All of them are. The missing girls—every last one—their bodies are hanging in some cave near the old quarry. We torch the place at nightfall."
For a long moment, the words just hung there, heavier than the chains still rattling against the corpse.
Marcus swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Damn it… I knew it. My gut told me she wasn't alive anymore." His voice cracked, anger masking grief. "But seeing it confirmed like this…"
Ethan looked away from the body, his jaw tight. "All those girls. Families still waiting. And now we torch what's left of them like garbage."
Damien didn't respond, his golden eyes dimming as the glow retreated. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, expression unreadable.
Logan let out a low, humorless laugh, his voice rough. "You know, this ability of yours—this Blood Echo…" His gaze flicked to Damien, unsettled. "It's creepy as hell, man."
"Creepy?" Marcus snorted. "That's one way to put it. Useful is another."
Logan exhaled, running a hand over his face. "Figures."
Damien started toward the exit, tossing the words over his shoulder like it was nothing:
"Let's clean this mess up. We're late for school."