Chapter Nine: Deep Into that Darkness Peering. . .

Ioana enjoyed screaming. High-pitched wails and gut-wrenching shrieks. Guttural moans of agony and the distinctive, blood-curdling sound of a death rattle. Screams were pure. They couldn't lie. It was a simple fact, really. The youngest child of the House of Tepes was no stranger to torture, heinous acts of violence that scarred flesh and spilt blood and made the air ripple with the sound of ultrasonic cries of pain. Pleads for benevolence, for lenience. It did not matter what sort of torture occurred, to be perfectly frank, because the outcome was always the same. Always. Begs and pleads and screams for mercy that would never come.

Not from her, anyways.

The infamous Queen of the Upir did not feel mercy. It was a weakness, one that she had crushed like an injured bird from the time she was able to understand what hatred was. Walking through life without remorse made everything so much easier, so terribly simple. If you want something, take it. If you want someone, possess them, own them. And should someone hurt you, encroach upon your territory where they did not belong?

Destroy them.

So it was with a distinct feeling of relish that Ioana watched the young upir at the foot of her throne sob, screaming in agony and begging for her to just let it end. He appeared close to fifteen years old, about the same age as her sister's spawn, all dark hair and pale skin. Bright red eyes with broken blood vessels streamed tears while he shrieked himself hoarse. She could smell the iron in him. He was a courtier's son, someone worthless and expendable, who had made the mistake of looking at her directly. No one looked at her directly. No one. He needed to be punished. To be Destroyed.

Oftentimes, she imagined it was her sister in the stead of those she broke on a daily basis. Pretty, perfect Adrianna, with her petite stature and wide green eyes. Who everyone adored. Daddy's infallible heir and the apple of Mother's eye, pampered by Elijah and adored by all who met her. She held Serge's heart in the palm of her hand. And Ioana simply could not understand why. Why did everyone love Adrianna so dearly? None of that affection, that adoration, was warranted. Because her dearest older sister wasn't special, wasn't more beautiful or more Gifted or more intelligent. She was weak and worthless and had the audacity to bring a half-breed parasite into the world when the laws regarding them were very clear.

Rage built in the pit of Ioana's stomach. It was familiar and comforting, soothing as a lullaby, and she allowed it to wash over her while the screams of the boy reached new heights. Daddy was dead and gone. Mother had long-since been Destroyed. But people still worshiped Adrianna. Goddamn Adrianna, with those stupid eyes and her awkward giggling laugh, who insisted upon treating humans civilly and had the audacity to spawn a fucking half-breed with one. The upir loved her, adored their former queen, and she knew this. The thought was enough to make her sick. Adrianna was gone, exiled.

She was the queen. She had the power. Not Mother, not Daddy, not precious fucking Adri with those thrice-damned eyes. She had everything she had ever wanted, all wrapped up within the ancient walls of Castle Draculi.

Ioana didn't need their love. Or their worship.

What she required from her subjects was unadulterated loyalty, which fear could inspire just as effectively. And she was oh so very good at provoking fear.

A lazy, viper's grin curled Lady Death's mauve painted lips. Gently, so very gently, she reached out with her Gift and took hold of the boy's internal organs. He kept screaming. Begging through the blood that was gushing up his torn windpipe, pleading with eyes that matched his lips in color. She imagined what it would be like to do this to Adrianna's little half-breed. It would be a most gratifying act. Because extreme acts of cruelty, Ioana thought, required a high level of precision. Nothing would be taught if she did not draw it out. So it was with agonizing, deliberate relish that she tightened her grip on the mass of flesh that gave the boy life. Bit by bit, slowly. He had to feel death, needed to know it on an intimate level that many souls did not have the opportunity to experience.

The screams abruptly changed, going from deep unadulterated wails to sharp, gurgling cries. He couldn't breathe. Not when she was tearing his lungs apart from the inside out. And there was no escape, not for him or for anyone she set her sights on. Because she was the one with the power, not Adrianna, not Mother or Daddy or anyone else. The rage in Ioana's gut erupted through violet eyes as she straightened in her carved throne, bore down on the dying child at her feet. His lungs were nearly collapsed now, and he couldn't make a sound. The little whelp just stared up with the expression of one resigned to suffer. Lady Death's smile widened and sharpened around the edges. It was an ugly expression to match an ugly psyche.

Ioana squeezed.

Silence. The vast throne room of Castle Draculi was deathly quiet. No one moved. No one dared breathe. Ancient walls, nurtured by its mistress's cruelty and watching with silent relish, feasted on the tainted liquid that oozed over elegantly tiled floors. Lady Death relaxed back into her throne with indolent ease, violet eyes scanning the crowd amassed in terror. She immediately spotted the boy's mother. They shared the same cheekbones and nose, and the eyes that ran awash with salty liquid were exactly like the ones that had attempted to beseech her so pathetically just moments before. Tears of grief had a distinct scent, pungent and cloying like decay. Lady Death took them in, satisfaction purring in harmony with the constant lullaby rage crooned in the back of her mind.

"Dispose of it," Ioana drawled. "I don't care what you do with the body, but get it out of my sight before I decide to do something else unpleasant."

The courtiers scrambled like insects to do her bidding. Two men – boys, really, around nineteen years old and clad in ripped leather – grasped the corpse by his wrists and ankles. They hauled him out like a particularly cumbersome sack of cement, his mother and father following in a distraught haze. Ioana took notice of the fact that neither would look at her directly. No one would, every gaze firmly fixed on the blood-stained floor or shoes or other courtiers. Ugly, vicious grin returning, the queen raised a delicate hand towards her subjects.

"Get out, all of you. Court is adjourned until I decide I wish to see your pathetic skins again."

It took all of two minutes for the remaining courtiers to clear out of the throne room. Silence rang like a funeral dirge in the hollow space. And while Ioana enjoyed screams dearly, there was a certain allure to the sound of empty quiet as well.

One could hear the castle whisper when the screams stopped.

The stones upon which Castle Draculi were founded upon had been fed by blood. The blood of innocents, the blood of ancients, the blood of murderers and thieves and royalty. Feasts of depravity which made the center of the Shadow Kingdom strong. It was an ancient magick. Crimson on snow on stone. And if she let the silence reign, if she listened very carefully, Ioana could tap into the wealth of knowledge that her home provided. Whispers and quiet hisses that spat poison and called for action. Old kings providing advice and recently-deceased souls shrieking, hungry for vengeance. Vendetta, they cried. Destruction on all their souls.

Ioana smiled as Castle Draculi enveloped her in a comforting blanket of white-noise.

The blood on the tiled floor disappeared, swallowed by the beast which had nurtured a monster, and the walls hummed in content.


"And which unfortunate creature met their untimely demise today, my darling? I do hope it wasn't anybody important - we've lost nearly a third of our old nobility, and the young upir of your court are beginning to grow restless."

Ioana arched a delicate eyebrow at her adviser, violet eyes aglitter with something dangerously close to amusement. Nikolai Sterling was an old upir with nearly four centuries of experience under his belt and a cruel streak wider than Siberia. He was ruthless, cunning, vicious in much the same manner a starving wolf might be. Many of his predecessors were soft. They preached ideas like mercy and benevolence, weakness in its most basic sense. But not Nikolai.

Her newest Royal Adviser was about as forgiving as an Arctic blizzard, and Ioana adored him for it.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Nikolai," the Queen drawled. "It was just some courtier brat. He wasn't important enough to matter. And besides, he couldn't have been older than fifteen."

The barest hint of a smirk curved Nikolai's thin lips. He offered an arm to his queen, and when she deigned to grasp it, he escorted the tall woman through the veins of Castle Draculi. Torches blazed in their brackets along the hallways. They cast odd shadows in his elegantly smoothed hair, making each white strand seem alive with hellfire. But no matter how much his hair seemed to burn, Ioana always enjoyed how very cold his eyes remained, like frozen quicksilver.

"How goes the search for your sister, Highness?" Nikolai questioned. His voice was a purr, oily and perfectly designed to loosen the tongue of all who heard it. "I was told that Serge and his vassals would be handling it."

Ioana's delicate shoulders stiffened. Her lips drew back in a vicious snarl, and a blood-curdling hiss escaped. "They managed to track her to a small town in America. And they very nearly managed to capture the half-breed spawn she calls a son. However, he seems to have more upir traits than anticipated. He let out a Call, and Adrianna came running before Serge could get away. The House of Demons is gathering reinforcements, and they will return to America in two days time."

The formidable pair swept down a long, darkened corridor which ended in a set of heavy, iron double doors. Gently, Nikolai ran a soothing hand over his queen's forearm, face remaining an unreadable mask.

"May I offer my opinion on the matter?" Forever polite, no matter the atrocity he was about to suggest.

An unladylike snort came in response to his inquiry, and Ioana turned a look of sarcastic derision on the older man. "You're my adviser, Nikolai. It's your job to give your opinion, even when I don't want it."

The look of icy contempt never faded from Nikolai's silver eyes. "Perhaps it is time you found another of your servants to capture Adrianna. We all know of the D'angouleme boy's history with her, and I am firmly under the impression that he still loves her. It could be dangerous, sending him directly into the arms of a woman he loved from the time you were all very small."

For a moment, Lady Death said nothing. They stood before the iron doors in silence, shadows making both faces sharpen into skull-like battle masks. Ioana maintained a tight grip on her adviser's muscular arm, violet gaze sharp and demonic as it bore into the metal before her. Inky curls fell around delicate shoulders when she suddenly raised her chin, bearing arrogant and distinctly royal.

"I have an idea of my own, Lord Sterling," she whispered. "One I believe you will find most agreeable."

With that, she opened the doors before her, all glamour and flourish. The room was massive, very nearly the same size as the Throne Room, though it lacked any and all elegant touches it could have. An iron walk-way surrounded a deep pit in the middle, rails coming up to waist height to prevent spectators from falling into the ring. Various levels of stadium-like seating rose around them, even spanning over top the doorway. Light flooded in from a stained-glass skylight overhead, colors from its ornate design washing over their pale faces and making them seem sickly.

The familiar clang of steel on steel floated through the air, and a true smile spread over Nikolai's severe features. "Ahhh! I think I can see where you're going with this, my darling."

Ioana grinned, all sharp angles mixed with terrifying narcissism, and the formidable pair swept forward in a rustle of silk. The doors creaked shut behind them, Castle Draculi murmuring happily in the queen's ear as blood reds and deep purples stained her white face. Eventually, both Lady Death and her adviser stood near the railing around the pit. It was one of Ioana's favorites, this room, a gladiatorial arena of near Roman proportions. The walls were smooth, high-grade steel that could withstand the strength of a fully-grown Warrior upir. Sand lined the floor. Blood was spilled by the gallon here, so the gritty substance absorbed it.

This was the belly of the beast, the heart of Castle Draculi.

A pair of upir, one absolutely huge and the other petite, were fighting viciously on the floor of the arena. Their swords were a blur of silver, of light, and they moved faster than any human was capable of. It was a disturbing beauty, one that came from blood and violence. The large upir, a man with arms like tree-trunks that towered at nearly seven feet tall, swung a heavy battle axe around his head. His bald head shone with sweat, and both nobles could see his crimson eyes glowing even from their great distance. His blows were vicious, powerful. They blew up great blasts of sand, obscuring the features of the combatants.

However, the much smaller upir - a girl with long ebony curls - evaded them effortlessly.

She moved like a serpent. Calculating and quick, precise with each strike of her blade. Her face was a mask of deadly calm, features impassive even though her opponent got angrier with each passing second. Sweat gave her cheeks an unnatural gleam, one that reflected against her black sword. A vicious, satisfied grin split Nikolai's thin lips as he watched the girl catalog each weakness, each wide swing and lazy riposte, waiting for her opportune moment to strike.

It seemed she would not have to wait very long.

With a roar, the man raised his axe overhead for a downwards chop that threatened to cleave his much smaller opponent in half. But he never got the chance. The girl struck like lightning, violet gaze blazing. Flesh squelching, steel grinding against bone, the elegant sword was shoved through the man's ribs before he could finish his battle-cry. He stood there for a moment, stunned, eyes bulging. Blood welled from between his lips.

"You were boring," droned the girl. "I don't like boring things."

Contemptuous, she twisted her blade in his chest before ripping it out, taking a casual step back as the man's huge body fell with a thump at her feet. Face a mask of calm, the girl looked up to where Lady Death and her adviser stood watching. She bowed elegantly at the waist in recognition of her queen.

"Your Grace, I was not expecting your presence at today's training session," the girl called. "I apologize for the lack of showmanship - Eduardo really was a dull opponent, all bluster and no finesse."

Ioana's shark-like smile never wavered as she inclined her regal head the slightest bit. "Not to worry, little one. Could you please come up here? Nikolai and I have a job for you."

The girl - all of fourteen and with the body of a trained killer - looked up with the darkest set of violet eyes ever to grace Castle Draculi, indifferent to the corpse slowly cooling near her feet. "Of course. Anything for you, Mother."


Christmas was coming.

Winter had squalled over Bailey City the day that Liza died, and neither of the boys could get warm since. Chilled to the bone and angry at the world around them. Everything was angry and nothing was happy and they wanted nothing to do with the corporate cesspool that America described as Christmas. Not now, not ever. Because That Night happened. Because they were depressed. Because they were confused. Because Liza was fucking gone and the Yuletide spirit meant shit when there was no excited blonde to knock them on their asses with a megawatt smile or perfume that smelled like candy canes.

Of course, there were a few perks to their new lives.

Eddie found that living with his mother was infinitely better than living with his Grams. Because he was always welcome to ask questions, to learn about whatever he so desired as long as that subject wasn't still raw and wounded. His room was spacious, filled with all his things and the walls plastered with endless posters to make him forget the pictures which used to hang there. Pictures of his friends, of soccer games with Melody and video game marathons with Howie and horror movie montages with Liza. Instead of memories that burned, there were quotes and faces from different media outlets staring at him.

"Why so serious?"

Avatar: The Last Airbender

"Rule Number One: You do not talk about Fight Club. Rule Number Two: You do NOT talk about Fight Club."

"Winter is Coming."

That last one always seemed to get him: Winter is Coming. So simple, but so damning. Honestly, if Eddie didn't identify with Jon Snow so fucking much, he wouldn't have bothered with Game of Thrones at all. His mother would shit a brick if she found out that he streamed it illegally. Profanity and tits and gratuitous scenes of rape and murder? Nope. Not for him. Never. Of course, it was kind of nice knowing that his mother cared so much about him. That someone loved him unconditionally and wasn't looking for every fuck-up to criticize.

Adrianna Tepes was a good mother, one who loved her son, and that made the world just the slightest bit brighter.

And, despite his newfound Gifts and the fact that he was slowly becoming a permanent fixture in their household, Howie had managed to fly under the radar for the most part. After his incident with Melody after school, Adrianna had taken to coaching her "progeny" in control. They were simple exercises. Breathing, meditation, closing his too-blue eyes and counting to ten whenever anxiety and terror overtook his mind. Everything seemed to spiral around them, like snowflakes in a blizzard. Most nights ended with Eddie curled in a screaming mess under his covers, face buried in his pillow, listening to his mother as she cooed in Romanian.

Howie stayed in a nest of blankets on the floor despite the fact that Adrianna had offered to make him his own room.

He would never admit it, but Eddie was grateful for this, because the thought of being alone through the nightmares of blood and dead eyes and screaming was enough to make him want to swallow his own tongue.

Christmas was coming.

Both of the boys wanted nothing more than to sleep it all away.


Serge D'angoulême, ruler of the House of Demons and third of his name, Lord of the upir society of Normandy and Brittany.

It was a shit title to possess, frankly, because there was nothing worth living in fear every day of his godforsaken life. His father had always impressed upon him the importance of maintaining a good face. Everything else could be falling apart around him, the world crumbling around his ears, but there was no excuse for not having the grace and dignity of a Demon when facing demise. So the young Enchanter had grown up strong in the ways of politics, diplomacy. Cunning and sly to a fault in order to navigate a pit of serpents who would gladly poison him for his power.

And Serge hated every minute of it.

He hated the etiquette lessons and the language tutors, the constant admonishment from his mother over how thick his French accent was when speaking the King and Queen's native Romanian. The words were so coarse in his mouth, so ugly, and he hated them. He hated how his clothing had to be immaculate and his hair flawless, how every move had to be calculated to be just right in order to produce results. How honey-sweet compliments could be veiled threats. How the courtiers, leeches they were, clamored and grovelled at his feet.

The only thing that Serge never hated about his position was Adrianna.

Because Adrianna was beautiful. And talented, headstrong to the point of near-ridiculousness, with a voice that made angels weep and a smile that could light up a ballroom.

Serge remembered the day that he met his precious queen perfectly. It was a cold day in December, close to Christmas. He had been twelve, she ten. Mother had been chastising him over his posture all evening, and his shoes had pinched something awful, and all the young Lord had wanted to do was go to bed and wait for père Noël to come bring him presents. But then he caught sight of the princess. And his shoes didn't matter. And père Noël was a joke. And suddenly, miraculously, he wasn't tired anymore. There was a little princess, petite and slender with over-large emerald eyes, staring up at him with an expression of such frank curiosity it made him want to weep.

"Hello," the little princess had whispered.

"Hello, your Grace," he had replied.

Her pretty face had scrunched up in an moue of distaste, and the princess in her silver gown declared, "Don't call me that. Names are much better than titles. My name's Adrianna."

And for the first time since Father had introduced him to the court on his sixth birthday, Serge grinned openly as he was wont to do. "Mine's Serge. Serge D'angoulême."

"We're going to be best friends, Serge."

"Forever, my princess. That you can be sure of."

Forever sometimes got broken between the past and infinity.


"Ahh, Serge, darling!" Ioana exclaimed. "I'm so glad I caught you before you left for America once more. There's been a slight change of plan."

The tall Frenchman stood rigid before the wrought-iron throne where his Queen sat, eyes just barely downcast in the most minuscule display of respect he could muster. Because Serge was most certainly not her darling. But he was her vassal, a pet or toy for the demented psychopath currently sitting upon the throne to use and abuse as she please. He had a duty to carry out. For his family - Mother who could barely leave her bed for illness and the memory of Father, for his younger cousins that knew nothing of court because their elder cousin had taken the full burden.

He could not allow Ioana to sniff him out because that would spell doom for the House of Demons.

For Adrianna as well.

"Of course, Your Grace," the handsome upir acknowledged smoothly. He kept just the barest hint of his French accent, enough to entice and distract. "What can I do for you on this beautiful day?"

A smile curved Ioana's crimson lips, nasty and cruel, and ice filed the pit of Serge's stomach as he looked upon it. He knew that smile, had watched that smile as Lady Death took twisted satisfaction in Destroying those beneath her Gucci-clad heel. Swallowing thickly, the young Lord caught sight of Lord Sterling hovering just behind the throne. Immediately, his guard shot up, intensely aware that the Royal Adviser did not trust him in the slightest. Nikolai was ruthless, cold, and there would be no mercy if he caught wind of the Enchanter's rebellious thoughts.

Ioana, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of the turmoil in her vassal's mind. "Yes, it appears as though we will no longer require your services in the apprehension of my darling sister. Lord Sterling and I have come up with an alternative plan which should yield more results than previous attempts."

The world shattered around his ears.

And Serge put on a good face.

"Might I inquire as to what this plan is, my Queen? It seems rather abrupt to simply yank me away from a project which you so ardently insisted that I take on."

Ioana tilted her head, a serpent surveying its prey before it strikes. A cold chill ran down Serge's spine, and he instinctively used his Gift to shield his thoughts from any stray Enchanters that might have been lurking in the shadows. This place, Castle Draculi, was filled with monsters. Danger. His instincts kept screaming at him to flee. Because these were predators, and though he was good with a blade, he hadn't the power to stand up to Lady Death or her loyal adviser.

"It's very simple, my sweet. Aurelia shall take Bellatrix and fetch my sister. Surely you can think of no one else qualified for this particular endeavor?"

The lazy, arrogant grin on Nikolai's lips told its own tale. Horror swelled in Serge's chest, doused him in icy water, and he could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed disbelief at his supposed Queen. Her face was a mask of vicious triumph, beautiful and terrible. Beast that appeared as Beauty to the untrained eye.

Quiet, precise steps, nearly silent in their predatory nature, broke the young Lord from his internal battle. Crimson gaze stunned, Serge turned to regard the newcomer entering the Throne Room. The teenage girl that faced him didn't say a word, face a mask of impassiveness, but she didn't have to. Ebony curls pulled back into a thick braid, body wrapped in leather, she looked like a wraith of legend.

Aurelia had definitely inherited her mother's penchant for making an entrance.

"Lady Aurelia," Serge bowed, slightly irritated that he had to bow for a petty teenager. "I was just informed that you would be replacing me in the quest to capture your aunt."

Deep violet eyes, dark like nightshade, locked onto his own and it took every ounce of Serge's self-control not to hiss in alarm. Aurelia was a Warrior, violent by nature. It made sense that her thoughts would be darker than others. But he couldn't even feel the girl's thoughts, couldn't get a sense of what went on behind the blank gaze and the disturbing gaze. It was unsettling. His gift was stronger than most; it simply shouldn't have been possible for another upir to shield their thoughts.

But here was a fourteen year old girl with dark violet eyes, black hair, that could do just that.

"You were informed correctly," Aurelia drawled. "I leave tomorrow. Mother need only solidify the travel details for the Lemercier girl to meet me in Portugal. Then we'll find the half-breed and the traitor."

Rage clawed inside his eyes.

Shut your ignorant mouth, you little bitch. You know nothing about my Adrianna.

Aurelia didn't so much as flinch. However, the corners of her lips turned up ever so slightly, and the Enchanter wanted to shriek in frustration. He bowed once more, clicking his heels theatrically, and turned his attention to Ioana and Nikolai.

"I wish you good luck on your quest, princess. If I may be so bold as to request dismissal, I should like to return home. Mother hasn't seen me in nearly three weeks."

Ioana waved a lazy hand of dismissal, and Serge disciplined himself so he didn't sprint from the room.

Don't worry, darling. She won't touch you.

I'm done playing games.


"Wake up, my darling. Wake up!"

Eddie grunted in his sleep, rolling over in his thick cocoon of blankets to squint, bleary-eyed at the clock on his nightstand. Five-thirty a.m. Five-thirty a.m. His mother had woken him up at the ass-crack of dawn for no goddamn reason. Jesus-fuck he was too tired - too old, too cold - to put up with this shit. He just wanted to sleep. The fourteen-year-old groaned again and burrowed further into his pillows.

"Go 'way, 'm sleepin'."

"Edward Anton Matthews, wake up this instant!"

Roaring in surprise, Eddie shot bolt-upright in his bed, only to land heavily on the thick carpet as he toppled over the edge. Well, he should have hit the carpet. But he didn't. Because Howie's skinny upir ass was blocking that, which only made landing more uncomfortable. Both teenagers groaned loudly, incoherent with exhaustion, and looked up at their aggressor with wide, confused eyes.

"Jesus H. Christ, Mom! What the hell?!"

Adrianna sat cross-legged atop the duvet, laughing loudly at their expressions. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head, and her Mickey Mouse pajamas had obviously seen better days. But her eyes were bright and open, entirely too awake for it being five-thirty in the fucking morning. Eddie had to wonder if her Gift was being able to stay awake at obscene hours of the day or night.

Smiling, Adrianna purred, "Oh, good, you're awake. Now we can get started!"

Howie shoved Eddie over onto the floor, ignoring the larger boy's cries of protest, and frowned at his sire with sleep-filled azure eyes. "What are you talking about, Adri? It's five-thirty in the morning. The only thing I want to get started is looking at the back of my eyelids."

Huffing like a child, Adrianna leaped off the bed with all the grace of a hunting cat and crouched before the two. "I cannot believe you two have forgotten that today was Christmas."

Eddie groaned and flopped back down amongst the tangle of thick covers. "We didn't forget, Mama. We just don't care at this point."

"Well, tough luck," the red-head sing-songed. "Because we're having Christmas whether you like it or not. Now, get your lazy butts up! I made hot chocolate, and there are presents under the tree just screaming to be opened."

As Eddie allowed himself to be dragged down the staircase by his mother, who was at least a good five inches shorter than him, he couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. She loved this, loved having hot chocolate and curling up on the couch and opening presents. It was cute in a weird sort of way, and the red-headed teenager idly thought about what Christmas would have been like during his childhood had she stayed. Would he have woken up every Christmas morning with his mother at five-thirty to drink hot chocolate? Jumped on his Dad until they all went down for presents and pancakes?

Although, he could have pondered this at a more decent time of the day.

Like at noon.

"Alright boys. First hot chocolate, then breakfast, and then we'll open presents. And I don't want to hear any complaining about what time of the day it is, understand?"

Still yawning, Eddie nodded his head as he plopped down at the knotted kitchen table, cracking his spine as he went. "Yes, ma'am. But if I'm going to be awake this early, you better have the biggest batch of hot chocolate known to man over there."

"Here, here!" Howie agreed.

The petite woman hummed to herself in amusement, only to stun both her son and his friend by producing three of the largest mugs of hot chocolate that had ever graced the planet. She wasn't joking around, Eddie realized, and he reached out to take a cup with eager fingers. For the first time in nearly a month, a nearly evil grin split his face, one that was reminiscent of his days as a prankster. Before Liza was gone and the world had gone cold.

Taking a sip of the thick chocolate concoction, Eddie nearly moaned as the taste washed over his taste-buds. "Christ, that's some good hot chocolate. Thanks, Mom."

Howie had his face buried in a mug, practically gulping the liquid down. But he eventually looked up from the foaming chocolate. His face never smiled; however, his eyes sparked like they used to, smiling without smiling.

"Yeah, thanks Mom."

They all froze. Howie's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, made comical by the hot chocolate spread over his top lip, and his knuckles turned white with the force of his grip on the mug handle. Eddie had nearly choked on a sip of his own beverage. Adrianna simply blinked a few times in surprise. But then she relaxed, smiling gently at the young teenager who lost so much in such a short amount of time. She padded over to where he sat and leaned over to press a kiss to the top of his forehead.

"You're very welcome, dragă (sweetheart)."

Howie looked ready to cry in relief, burying his face in Adrianna's stomach with a shuddering breath, and Eddie's smile returned in a heartbeat. It had taken him nearly thirteen years to find his mom again. But, in all honesty, Howie had never really had a mother in the first place. The former Mrs. Jones was a bitch who only thought about herself and her fashionable new husband, forgetting all about the son she left behind without a second thought. And it wasn't as though his mother didn't play a huge role in his not-brother's (brother?) life.

Becoming an upir was a huge deal, after all.

"Drink up boys! I made chocolate chip pancakes."

Maybe Christmas had another gift for them. . . .


The doorbell rang while they were opening presents.

Adrianna answered with a smile on her face, attention still focused on her boys as they tore open box after box. But then the smile faded to a look of wide-eyed horror as she took in the figure standing on the front porch.

He was tall, and he was handsome. And he had eyes that could melt steel, crimson eyes that had only ever looked at her kindly before the coup. And his expression was one of urgency, not smug arrogance as she was accustomed to, blood dripping from a gash in his hairline as he panted.

"Adrianna, may I come in? Please? It's a matter of life and death."

Of all the presents Father Christmas could have left on her doorstep, Serge D'angoulême had to be the least welcome.


Holy shit, that was a long one!

I must apologize for my extended absence everyone. School and work got the better of me, and my attention wavered from the plot of this particular story into something else. Forgive me!

On a brighter note, it seems as though my muse for Eddie's Life has returned full force, and it shouldn't take me five fucking months to update anymore. Or it might. College is hard, ya'll. Being a chemistry major in college is even harder. Not as hard as Ioana's lady boner after killing someone, but that's neither here nor there.

So, I hope you liked this chapter, and there's certainly more to come!

Leave a review for me in the little white box below because constructive criticism is always welcome

BlackRosePoetry