Uncle Chris had arrived, and he’d been here for a full day already. He’d set up shop in the guest wing, much like Zeke and Arthur had when they first came to town. But unlike them, Uncle Chris didn’t come shorthanded. He brought his entire entourage; his wife and three daughters.

One thing that always stood out about Uncle Chris’s family was his wife, Raven. She was a Wicklow, a cousin to the branch of Wicklows we knew. That meant she shared their bloodline and their abilities, along with a few unique to her. Raven was a force in her own right, blending her Gypsy heritage with a formidable presence of a trained hunter. Together, Chris and Raven had three daughters: Rachel, Roxanne, we all just called her Roxy, and Rainie. They really leaned into the “R” theme, which seemed like a family quirk. I used to think it was some kind of Wicklow tradition, but Bartley and Shelta never found it amusing. I think they always looked at Raven as a weird cousin… which was funny coming from them. Raven and her daughters were almost mirror images of each other, just at different ages. They were all tall, had long, straight black hair and green eyes, and just as physically dominating as any trained hunter would be.

All three of their daughters had abilities, of that, I was certain. However, they weren’t as refined in their craft as the Wicklows we knew. Chris and Raven had different philosophies when raising their girls. Instead of focusing solely on one aspect of their heritage, they wanted their daughters to have the best of both worlds. They trained them in critical hunting skills and honed powerful, specific abilities rooted in their Gypsy bloodline. The result? Rachel, Roxy, and Rainie became lethal… superhuman even. Each one could anticipate movements in a fight, see just far enough ahead to predict outcomes, and strike with uncanny precision. They weren’t just hunters; they were practically supernatural forces in their own right.

Growing up, I hadn’t fully grasped the extent of their power. But as time went on, it became clear: these girls weren’t ordinary. Uncle Chris and Aunt Raven had turned them into something exceptional. Despite their skill, they stayed in their lane. Chris ran his family, I ran mine, while Zeke… and now Arthur… managed theirs. We kept out of each other’s business unless someone reached out, and Uncle Chris tried to respect our autonomy. Still, he was older, and he saw it as his duty to look out for us, even if he gave us space to operate.

Now they were all here. The daughters had families of their own, though their husbands stayed back home. These men, much like Wayland, were hunters who had grown alongside their wives, learning the trade as they went. But compared to their wives, they were outclassed. The sisters’ abilities put them in a league of their own, making their husbands’ contributions more supplementary than essential.

A few friends of Uncle Chris also lingered around the guest wing, coming and going as if they owned the place. Chris gave them free rein over our family compound, asserting his presence as if he’d always been in charge. It was clear he felt right at home, taking over in a way that only he could. However, I called him… I asked for help… he was just doing what he thought he should.

We’d been having a lot of conversations lately, digging through every ugly thing that had gone down. Sam’s monstrous presence in our lives started it all off. Eleanor… dying, then coming back, it was hard for him to believe. Allen, who didn’t just return but came back as something else entirely, a werewolf. The losses of Bartley and Zeke, wounds that still bled. And now, Autumn. My daughter. Locked up like an animal because we didn’t know how else to keep her safe… or keep others safe from her. Patrick... a mess I could feel spiraling further every second.

Uncle Chris had his opinions. I could see it every time he looked at me: disappointment, judgment. Like he saw a man who’d failed, who let this infection take root and spread, turning everything I loved to ash.

“What’s wrong?” he asked from the doorway, his voice heavy with a concern that only irritated me further.

I stared at the scuffed floorboards of my office, barely able to meet his gaze. “What? What do you mean, what’s wrong?” My voice rose, sharp and brittle. “Everything is falling apart. Autumn’s locked in a cage, Chris. Should I be throwing a fucking party right now?” The words were out before I could stop them, slicing through the air. I regretted it instantly.

I braced for him to snap, but he just nodded, the weight of understanding settling between us. “I’m sorry, Carter,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. If it were one of my girls...” His jaw tightened. “I don’t know how I’d handle it. Sometimes I focus too much on tactics, and it makes me seem cold.”

Uncle Chris ran a hand through his weathered blond hair, streaked with silver. His face, rugged and lined, spoke of years of hard choices and heavier burdens. Though still broad and muscular, his body carried the signs of age; a subtle tremor in his hands, slower movements. Scars marked his arms, pale reminders of battles survived but never forgotten.

His blue eyes, once sharp and piercing, now held a softer, weary understanding. When he looked at me, it felt like he saw my pain… and maybe his own reflection in it. His presence was no longer just about strength but sheer endurance, a quiet defiance against time and loss.

I sighed, dragging a hand over my face. “No, I’m sorry. I just... I want Autumn back. I want things to stop falling apart. Every time we fix one problem, another takes its place.”

Chris stepped closer, resting a hand on the back of the chair across from me. “We’re almost ready. Tonight’s the night. We’ll see if we can break this thing.”

I didn’t want to ask, but the words came out anyway. “And if we can’t?”

His face darkened. “If we can’t... worst case, Patrick’s going to have to disappear. Far away. Somewhere Autumn can’t find him.” He shook his head, his regret palpable. “It might be the only way to keep her alive. To give her any chance at a life, even if it’s not the one you want for her.”

The thought made my stomach churn. My daughter, forever chasing shadows of a love that couldn’t exist… that didn’t exist. But if the alternative was her death... “Anything’s better than losing her,” I muttered, my voice cracking. “I just wish…” I stopped, unable to finish the thought. Wishing didn’t matter.

Chris nodded. “We’ll try everything we can, Carter. I promise you that.”

I nodded back, trying to summon some sliver of hope. It felt like holding water in my hands.

It was late, the kind of evening where the air felt heavy with unspoken tension. The house was crowded, buzzing with quiet preparation as we readied ourselves for what was to come. Even Martin had shown up, though from the moment he walked through the door, I could tell something was wrong. His usual calm was replaced by a haunted, distant look in his eyes as if he were carrying the weight of something too heavy to put into words.

I kept calling Sam. Again and again, my phone buzzed with no response. He’d promised he’d be back. He knew how critical tonight was. He said he’d finish what he had to do down below and return. I’d never doubted him before. Sam could handle anything, kill anything… but the silence was stretching too long. My confidence wavered. Where the hell was he?

Uncle Chris and his family mingled uneasily with Martin. There was a tension there, like wolves eyeing a stranger in their territory. It took Raven’s calm presence to smooth things over, her assurances that Martin wasn’t a threat easing the worst of Chris’s suspicion. But even that didn’t ease my own. Not with Sam missing and Martin looking like a man about to break.

While my cousins busied themselves around the silver-lined cell where Autumn waited, I pulled Martin aside. He hadn’t said much since he arrived, and it was gnawing at me.

“Are you all right?” I asked, keeping my voice low. His gaze flicked to me, but his mind was clearly somewhere else.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, though his tone betrayed him. His voice was tight, frayed at the edges. “I just...”

“Martin,” I pressed gently, but my stomach was already churning. Sam’s absence had me spiraling, imagining the worst, and now Martin looked like he’d seen a ghost. “What happened?”

“It’s Charles,” he admitted at last, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes drifted somewhere far away, a thousand-yard stare that sent a chill down my spine. “I can’t feel him anymore. Not in the bloodline.”

“What do you mean?” My words felt heavy, the air in the room suddenly thinner. “Cut off?”

“Yes,” Martin said flatly, cutting me off before I could finish. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “He’s dead.”

The words hit like a mallet. “Charles? Dead?” My voice cracked with disbelief. The thought was incomprehensible. Charles was the oldest, the most powerful vampire we’d ever encountered; maybe the oldest creature we’d ever met. Who could have possibly killed him? My mind raced, trying to piece together an answer that didn’t exist.

Martin’s expression didn’t change, but the pain was written in the tight set of his jaw. “His family too,” he said after a moment, his voice strained. “They’ve been destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” The word felt hollow in my mouth. “You mean his human family? The ones he protected?” I swallowed hard as a cold shiver coursed through me. “They were murdered?”

“In the worst possible way,” Martin said, his voice barely holding steady.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, the only thing I could think to do. But what comfort could I offer? A pat on the back, hollow words… it all felt meaningless in the face of what he’d just revealed. Martin’s relationship with Charles was complicated. They’d only recently begun to untangle the layers of what it meant, the history and the bond that stretched far deeper than simple creator and progeny. A slow and persistent reconciliation. And now, just as Martin was beginning to see him differently, Charles was gone. His family, butchered. The implications were terrifying, not just for Martin, but for all of us. Who… or what… could do something like this? And… why?

Stolen novel; please report.

Martin let out a shaky breath, his composure slipping for just a moment. “We can talk about this later,” he said, his voice rough. “Right now, we have more pressing matters.”

I nodded, though the weight of his words clung to me like a shadow. “Thanks for being here, Martin.”

He nodded once, a stiff, mechanical gesture. But his eyes told a different story. Behind the stoicism, there was grief; a deep, raw pain that he was barely holding back.

It took the entire night. The hours bled into one another as Raven and her daughters worked tirelessly in the basement, the air heavy with the scent of strange inks and the faint metallic tang of silver. Raven, my aunt, was at the center of it all, commanding the space with a quiet authority that seemed almost otherworldly. Her daughters: Rachel, Roxy, and Rainy moved around her like extensions of her own will. Each step, each task they performed, was in perfect synchrony with her needs. They were her shadowed apprentices, anticipating her commands with an almost supernatural intuition. It was hypnotic to watch the connection and the work between them, almost everything unspoken.

I watched them work with a mix of awe and frustration. This was a world I barely understood, a depth of knowledge and power that seemed so far beyond my grasp. Yet, as skilled as the sisters were, even their expertise paled in comparison to Raven’s. She was the architect, the master of a craft that felt as old as the earth beneath our feet.

The basement floor had been transformed. A circular design sprawled across the concrete, enclosing the silver cell where Autumn was confined. Intricate symbols and wardings, carved with precision into the very foundation. Twisting, interlocking lines formed a web of arcane purpose, drawn in dark inks that shimmered faintly under the low light. The symbols were eerily familiar; variations of the ones engraved on our silver blades. These weren’t just random designs; they were deeply significant in the supernatural world. Their meanings are ancient and profound.

I recognized the marks as akin to what we called the Mark of the Hunt. It was an art passed down through generations of hunters and Wicklows, born from a time long before our families had united. The marks carved into our weapons weren’t flashy displays of power, but subtle, insidious enhancements. Silver was deadly to most creatures, but the Mark of the Hunt turned it into something more… a poison that crept, spread, and wounded our prey. Allow us humans the strength to take down much stronger beasts. To level the playing field ever so slightly.

The power of the mark lay not just in its form but in the intent behind its creation. A perfect replica of the symbols meant nothing if the will of the one creating it wasn’t imbued into the markings. Intent was everything. The artist had to channel their purpose into each stroke, each cut, or the mark would remain dormant… a beautiful but powerless etching. But if done right, the marks could amplify the effectiveness of silver, strengthen barriers, or in this case, break bindings.

Growing up, I’d been a terrible student of this art. So had Frank. But Clara… she’d been different. From a young age, she seemed to have an almost preternatural ability to carve these marks. She could spend hours engraving blade after blade, infusing them with purpose. Her creations weren’t just weapons; they were tools of precision and death. Most of her marks focused on amplifying the silver’s poison, making it spread faster through a creature’s veins. Others had different effects; blinding, disorienting, weakening senses. Each was a masterpiece in its own right, an extension of her will.

Now, watching Raven and her daughters, I felt a pang of regret for not having learned more. Their work was mesmerizing. Strange brushes danced over the carvings, painting them with inks that seemed to pulse with energy. I wanted to ask questions, to understand the mechanics of what they were doing. But I held back. I couldn’t afford to interrupt, not when the stakes were this high.

This ritual wasn’t just about containment or protection. It was designed for a singular purpose: to break the curse binding Autumn and Patrick. Disruption and dispersal… that’s what Raven had called the desired intent. But I needed more than simple explanations. I needed to believe this would work. I had to. For my daughter. For Autumn.

Hours passed, and the circular ward took its final shape, its width nearly four feet thick, enclosing the entire silver cell. Autumn sat inside, her glare like daggers, her body tense with barely contained rage. She didn’t understand why we were doing this. In her eyes, we were the problem, not her. She wasn’t cursed; we were simply standing in the way of her and Patrick, the so-called love of her life.

Her voice was sharp, venomous. “You’re wasting your time,” she spat, pacing within the confines of her prison like a caged animal. “None of this is going to work. And when I get out of here, I’m leaving. For good. You’ll never see me again.”

Her words stung more than I’d expected. She mocked us and hurled insults with the fervor of someone utterly convinced of their righteousness. But beneath the anger, I saw something else… a flicker of fear. She was lashing out, not just because she believed in her love for Patrick, but because some part of her knew we might be right. It raged against us.

Still, the doubt lingered in me. Could this ritual really break whatever had taken hold of her? Could it save her from herself?

Even though I knew her mind was clouded, her heart ensnared in lies, hearing those words tore through me. The look in her eyes… sharp, resolute, made it worse. There was no hesitation, no flicker of the daughter we knew. She didn’t want us. Not anymore. When Autumn looked at Eleanor and me, it wasn’t with love or warmth… it was with disgust. She wanted nothing to do with us, her family. Her world began and ended with Patrick.

As dawn broke, the house stirred with quiet tension. One by one, the Wicklows arrived, their presence heavy, purposeful. They stayed upstairs, out of Autumn’s sight, but I could feel her awareness shifting. She slowed, her sharp tongue dulled, her mocking quieter. Her gaze often lifted toward the ceiling, her eyes narrowing as though she could feel him… Patrick… just beyond her reach. It was haunting to watch. Predatory.

Shelta joined Raven and her daughters in their meticulous work, the basement a hive of quiet concentration. Whatever ritual they were preparing, Shelta was all in. I tried to understand the pieces they explained to me, but my mind refused to settle. The complexity of it, the ancient nature of their craft, was beyond my grasp. I wasn’t built for this world of symbols and intent. But Shelta was, and she trusted Raven’s plan.

I retreated upstairs, the weight of Autumn’s twisted reality suffocating. In the kitchen, Eleanor poured wine… a poor remedy at this hour, but the burn was welcome. We stood there, silent, the clock ticking endlessly as the morning light crept across the floor. Martin lingered near, a shadow navigating shafts of sunlight that cut through the curtains. His movements were automatic, a quiet dance with survival. He even joined us in drinking, though his wine was laced with some yellow powder he brought himself.

Frank, Jane, Eloise, and Allen all filtered in quietly. Clara and Wayland had arrived in the dead of night, leaving Delilah with Wayland’s parents until this was over. We were all here. A family on the brink, each of us holding our breath.

Eleanor moved to adjust the curtains again as the sunlight shifted. Just as she reached for them, the front door burst open, sunlight flooding in, cutting the shadows in half. Martin recoiled instinctively, but the figure who stepped through sent a jolt through the room.

Alex. Her hair as crimson as the blood streaking her face, she stumbled inside, slamming the door behind her. For a moment, the surreal nature of her entrance stole the air from the room. The winter sun outside should have seared her, should have turned her to ash. Yet, she stood there, her skin unscathed, her eyes wild and frantic.

Martin was on her in an instant, catching her as she faltered like a deer maimed by a mountain lion, on the precipice of death. “Alex?” His voice was a low growl, laced with disbelief. “What’s wrong? How did you…” His eyes darted to the windows, the sunlight he avoided like death itself. “How did you walk in here like that? The sun…”

Alex’s breath came in ragged gasps, her entire body trembling like she was on the verge of collapse. Her eyes darted around the room, unfocused, like she couldn’t quite believe where she was… or that she had made it here at all. Her lips moved without sound at first, her throat working through the impossible weight of what she had to say. Finally, a broken whisper escaped.

“They killed him,” she choked out, her voice shattering into a raw, grief-stricken tremor. “He’s gone.” Her eyes stared somewhere else.

The room froze. Her words didn’t just linger; they cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving. I felt the weight of them slam into my chest, knocking the breath from me. A cold dread seized me, rooting me to the spot.

Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth, her voice thin, barely audible. “Who? Alex, who are you talking about?”

Alex’s eyes, wide and haunted, flicked to Eleanor. Her lips trembled as she forced the name out. “Sam.”

The name hit like a hammer, and suddenly the air was too thick, too heavy.

“They ambushed us,” Alex continued, her voice cracking, rising in pitch. She clutched at her bloodied shirt, as though she could tear the memory from her skin. “They knew. They knew we were coming, and we…” Her breath hitched, a sob breaking through. “We didn’t stand a chance.”

The room seemed to shrink around us, every word dragging us deeper into her nightmare. She took a shaky step forward, her hands trembling so badly she had to grip the edge of the coffee table to steady herself.

“It wasn’t just them…” she spat, her voice growing more frantic. “It was the place! It…” She clawed at her temple, her nails digging into her skin like she could force the words out faster. “It was suppressing him. Weakening him. He couldn’t…” Her voice broke again, and she doubled over, gasping.

Martin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Alex, stop. This is Sam we’re talking about. He wouldn’t just… he couldn’t…” His voice cracked, the veneer of control slipping.

“I SAW IT!” Alex screamed, her voice a wail of pure anguish. She stumbled toward Martin, her fists clenched at her sides. “They were all over him! Clawing, tearing…” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, trembling with horror. “They ripped his arms off. His legs. He wasn’t whole anymore. And they didn’t stop there.”

She pressed her fists to her eyes, as though trying to block out the images. “They were eating him, Martin. Tearing away chunks of him like he was nothing. He told me to run…” Her voice faltered, her words barely audible now. “He knew we wouldn’t make it.”

She sank to her knees, her body wracked with pain that looked foreign to her. She couldn't understand the feelings she hadn’t felt in so long. “I ran,” she whispered, her voice dripping with self-loathing. “I left him. He saved me, and I left him to die.”

Eleanor staggered backward, her face pale, eyes wide in disbelief. “No,” she muttered. “No, that’s not… Sam can’t…” She shook her head violently, her hands trembling. “You must’ve seen it wrong. He can’t be gone. Not Sam.”

But Alex’s eyes snapped up, blazing with grief and fury. “I saw it! I saw every fucking piece of him get torn apart! He’s dead! He’s gone!”

Her words were a dagger, slicing through what little hope remained. The room fell deathly silent, save for Alex’s ragged sobs. It felt like the world itself had shifted, every plan, every purpose we had been holding onto now scattered like ash.

The weight of her revelation crushed us. Sam… the indestructible, the immovable force we all relied on… was gone.

Eleanor gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. I could hear her whispering Sam’s name under her breath, as if speaking it might bring him back. No one else spoke. We were too shattered, too stunned to respond.

It felt like we were standing at the edge of an abyss, and the storm Alex had fled from was about to swallow us whole.