The funeral was as terrible as Kuri had feared. The air was heavy with grief, and even the skies seemed to weep, gray clouds shrouding the sun. Kuri stood just inside the cemetery gates, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. Darren's mother sobbed uncontrollably, clinging to his father, who looked hollowed out, as though all light had been drained from him.
Kuri had met Mr. and Mrs. Shan before. They had been kind to her—welcoming, gentle. Their warmth had reminded her of what family could feel like. That thought only made the ache in her heart sharper.
As the mourners gathered near the coffin, Kuri's eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Annie. The little girl stood closest to Darren's coffin, her face red and streaked with tears. She begged softly, over and over, for her brother to come back.
Kuri's breath hitched when Annie turned and spotted her. The child's grief-ridden eyes lit up with desperate hope. "Kuri!" Annie wailed, running toward her.
Before Kuri could react, Annie threw herself into her arms, sobbing against her. "Kuri, tell him to stop! Tell Darren to stop pretending and come back! He's not dead! He can't be dead!"
Kuri bent down, her arms wrapping tightly around the little girl as her own tears spilled freely. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so, so sorry…"
But her words couldn't reach Annie. Kuri could only hold her, trying and failing to soothe the girl's cries. And all the while, her gaze stayed locked on the coffin—Darren's coffin—standing like a dark, immovable weight over the scene.
The preacher's voice droned on, reciting the usual funeral rites. Relatives came forward to share stories of Darren, voices trembling and choked with tears. It was a blur for Kuri. Her vision narrowed until all she could see was that polished coffin.
He can't be in there.
The feeling wouldn't leave her. The coffin seemed to hum with a presence she couldn't explain, something unspoken and unresolved. Even as the dirt began to fall—shovels scraping and thudding against the wood—Kuri couldn't shake the instinct that he wasn't gone. His spirit was still here, lingering in the air.
And yet… he was gone. The finality of it was inescapable.
She turned away, biting her fist to keep from screaming. Tears fell freely down her cheeks—hot and furious—and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop.
When the funeral ended, the mourners began to leave in quiet clusters, their faces shadowed with sorrow. The Shan family lingered, reluctant to leave Darren behind, until a security guard gently guided them away.
Kuri stayed. She couldn't leave him.
"Sorry, kid, we're closing up," one of the guards said, reaching for her arm.
"Don't touch me!" Kuri snapped, jerking away, her voice sharp with raw anger.
The guard's patience thinned. "I don't have all day. Out."
He grabbed her arm more firmly this time, and Kuri pulled back with a strength that surprised even her. He led her toward the gates, but Kuri's gaze stayed on Darren's grave.
Once outside, the gates slammed shut, locking her out. Kuri fell to her knees, her hands gripping the metal bars, her head pressing against them as if she could will herself back inside.
"Darren…" His name slipped from her lips like a prayer, choked and broken.
Tears of blood ran down her face as she sobbed, every ounce of grief tearing through her like a storm.
XXX
Hours passed, though Kuri barely noticed. She had snuck back into the graveyard as dusk fell, curling up beside Darren's fresh grave. Her fingers dug into the soft dirt, as though holding onto him could bring him back.
"I'll stay with you," she whispered. "I'll stay until I can't anymore."
Her voice was faint, weak with exhaustion and grief. She was dying; she could feel it. The poison in her blood—whatever was happening to her—was winning. But here, beside Darren, she didn't care.
Kuri's eyelids grew heavy, her body trembling as her breaths slowed.
And then a mist rolled across the graveyard, silvery and shimmering in the moonlight.
A figure stepped through it, tall and ethereal. Kuri blinked as the woman emerged—a goddess in the truest sense of the word. Her dark, wavy hair fell in glossy waves, and her skin shone with a faint luminescence. Sapphire tattoos framed her face, winding in delicate patterns that marked her as something divine.
Kuri's breath caught.
"Who…" she rasped, her voice a broken whisper.
The woman knelt before her, her touch gentle as she pressed cool lips to Kuri's forehead. "Merry meet, my young and future Priestess," the woman said, her voice ringing like the chime of bells. "I am Nyx, Goddess of the Night. Vampyres, Vampires, and even the Vampaneze are my children."
Larten Crepsley and Reiko approached, stopping dead when they saw her. Larten bowed immediately, fist over chest, his face awash with reverence. Reiko, stunned, followed his example.
Nyx lifted Kuri to her feet with an otherworldly strength. The blood-tears on her cheeks vanished, replaced by the hum of energy surging through her veins. Her crescent-shaped Mark tingled, and she felt a faint, delicate pattern bloom around her eyes and down her neck.
Her body was alive with elemental power.
Kuri touched her face, trembling. "What… why me? I don't understand."
Nyx smiled softly, her dark eyes full of warmth and compassion. "Because you are Chosen, Kuri. You have a greater purpose—to unite my children and bring peace to their divided clans."
"I can't…" Kuri whispered. "How can I live without him? How can I…"
"You are not alone, my daughter," Nyx said gently. "You have an entire clan waiting for you. You will be their Seer, their Priestess. I have given you the gift of Spirit. But for now, you must trust in those who will guide you."
Nyx turned to Larten. "Larten Crepsley, you will take Kuri as your apprentice. You will care for her and teach her our ways. As long as she remains with you, she will live."
Kuri looked at Larten, her eyes uncertain, but Nyx touched her shoulder, steadying her. "This is not your end, Kuri. Darren's path may not yet be done, but neither is yours."
With that, Nyx stepped back into the mist, her form shimmering and fading as quickly as she had appeared.
Kuri collapsed to her knees, her tears silent, her body still tingling with Nyx's blessing.
XXX
Darren lay still in his coffin, suffocated by silence and darkness. He could hear her.
Kuri's sobs filtered down through the earth, piercing him like a dagger to the heart.
Kuri…
He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted her to mourn him, to cry for him, to suffer. Guilt gnawed at him, mixing with fury.
Fury at Larten Crepsley. Fury at Nyx. Why didn't they tell her the truth?
In the darkness, Darren's fists clenched. He would make this right. Somehow, he would make this right.
Kuri, I'm sorry.
XXX
Kurda Smahlt carried the dying fledgling through the heavy gates of the House of Night, her frail body limp in his arms. Her blood soaked through his shirt and stained his hands, a dark crimson that seemed to burn his skin. Her breath was shallow, wheezing as she gasped for air, blood spilling from her mouth, nose, and even her eyes.
"Kiana, hold on," Kurda muttered, his voice thick with desperation. "Just hold on a little longer."
The fledgling's body convulsed slightly in his arms, and Kurda's heart twisted. He had seen death before, but not like this. This was senseless—violent and cruel. She had been so full of spirit and hope just days ago, a young girl brimming with dreams of leadership, of faith in Nyx. And now…
Kurda reached the ornate front doors of the House of Night and kicked at the bell, ringing it sharply. The sound echoed through the still night air. Seconds passed, agonizingly slow, before the heavy doors creaked open.
A woman emerged, her presence immediately overwhelming. Statuesque and stunning, she exuded an air of commanding authority. Her auburn hair cascaded down in waves, the fiery strands catching the moonlight like living flames. Her emerald-green eyes flashed as they settled on Kurda and the girl in his arms. Her beauty, so perfectly composed, made Kurda pause—but the icy undertone in her gaze sent a chill through him.
"I am Neferet," the woman said, her voice smooth and lilting, like silk sliding over a blade. "High Priestess of the House of Night."
She stepped forward and took the dying Kiana from Kurda's arms with an ease that belied the girl's weight. Her touch seemed gentle, almost motherly, as she cradled the broken fledgling, but something about her calm demeanor unsettled Kurda.
"I had heard word that this young fledgling was entertaining a vampire and teaching him the ways of the Goddess," Neferet said. Her smile was soft, but her tone carried an edge. "I am delighted to find that it is true. Such a curious connection… tragic, of course, that you had to witness her demise. Perhaps if she had stayed more… loyal…"
Kurda froze, her words cutting like glass. Loyal? Was she suggesting this was his fault? His jaw tightened as anger flickered behind his calm exterior. "What are you implying?" he asked quietly.
Neferet's eyes flashed, the hint of malice there gone so quickly it might have been imagined. Her expression softened, and she smiled again—a smile too perfect, too rehearsed. "Oh, of course I am not suggesting you had anything to do with this," she said smoothly. "Fledglings are fragile creatures, especially those who stray too far from their place. She spoke of you often, you know." Neferet chuckled, the sound cold and hollow. "Laughable, really, how children speak."
Kurda's breath hitched. Kiana's words—her excitement, her trust—echoed in his mind. She had spoken of peace, of learning, of Nyx's guidance. She had trusted him. His fists clenched, his hands still stained with her blood.
Neferet tilted her head, observing him closely. "If you would like," she offered with a saccharine smile, "you could stay here. Learn our ways from a real Vampyre. It would be… enlightening."
"No, thank you," Kurda said sharply.
He saw it then—her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though she could see into the anger simmering in his mind. She's reading me. He slammed the door of his thoughts shut, locking them away behind a mental wall. It enraged him that she dared pry.
Neferet smirked, but it was fleeting, replaced again by her serene mask.
"I would like to attend her ceremony of death," Kurda said suddenly, his voice tight. "Whatever it is in your culture."
Neferet's smile faded entirely this time. She laughed—a cold, sharp laugh that echoed off the stone walls. Her arms tightened around Kiana's lifeless form, though there was no tenderness in the action. "There is no ceremony for those who fail to make the Change," she said bluntly.
Kurda's heart stopped. No ceremony? He stared at her, disbelief twisting his features.
"Nothing?" he demanded.
Neferet smiled again, her teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Nothing. The Goddess rejects those who cannot embrace the Change. They are simply… gone."
Kurda's thoughts whirled, his vision blurring with fury. He could not stop the stray thought that broke through the silence in his mind. Her spirit is doomed.
Neferet's smirk widened, as though she had heard it. "Perhaps the girl's spirit should have been stronger."
Kurda recoiled, his fists trembling at his sides. He stared at the High Priestess of the House of Night, this woman who spoke so callously of death, and knew—deep in his bones—that something was wrong.
This was not Nyx's will.
"May Nyx forgive you," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking with quiet rage.
Neferet's gaze remained steady, unflinching, as though she could taste his anger and welcomed it. "Safe travels, Kurda Smahlt," she said sweetly, turning on her heel and disappearing into the House of Night, the doors shutting behind her with a resounding thud.
Kurda stood there in the silence, the weight of Kiana's death heavy on his shoulders. The blood on his hands felt like it would never come clean.
"I will not let this go," he whispered to the wind, his eyes narrowing as he turned away from the cursed place. "Something is wrong here… and I will find the truth."