Third Memory: A banquet hall under open sky. Laughter like wind chimes. A man with kind eyes placing a crown of white roses on my head. "Our little princess of fire." Then—a scream. Shattering crystal. Blood on white petals.
Current Reality: A corset being laced too tight, the ghost of a crown replaced by the weight of a stranger's ring.
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The black gown was a masterpiece of elegant suppression. Silk so dark it drank the candlelight, with sleeves that fell to a point over my knuckles and a neckline high enough to choke. But the back—the back was a fortress of intricate lace and tiny buttons that rose to a stiff collar, perfectly designed to conceal my scars.
A young woman with silver eyes and silent footsteps had appeared to help me dress. She didn't speak, just worked with efficient, cold fingers, lacing the corset beneath the gown until my breath came short. Her eyes lingered a beat too long on my bare shoulders before the fabric covered them.
"Who are you?" I finally asked.
She met my gaze in the mirror, her expression serene as a frozen lake. "Lysandra. I serve the D'Cruz household." Her voice was barely a whisper. "The Master requested you wear this." She held out a necklace—a single teardrop ruby on a black velvet choker.
A collar. A beautiful, expensive collar.
I took it, the stone cold as ice against my palm. It pulsed once, faintly, with a dark red light. I nearly dropped it.
Lysandra's lips twitched. "It suits you. Fire and blood." She turned to leave.
"Wait." The word stopped her. "What happens at dinner?"
Her silver eyes seemed to look through me. "You eat what is served. You drink what is poured. You compliment the host. You do not look directly into anyone's eyes for too long. And you never, ever refuse a toast." She paused at the door. "The Johnsons brought a gift. Be… cautious."
She vanished into the dim corridor.
I fastened the choker. The ruby settled at the base of my throat like a brand. In the mirror, I was a stranger—a pale, sharp-faced doll in a mourning dress, with a spot of blood-red at my neck. The scars beneath my gown itched fiercely, as if protesting their confinement.
A knock at the connecting door. It opened before I could answer.
Aaron stood framed in the doorway, changed into a tailored black suit that made him look like a prince of shadows. His gaze swept over me, assessing, calculating. A flicker of something—approval? Surprise?—crossed his face before it smoothed into impassivity.
"You clean up adequately," he said, offering his arm. "Remember. My arm, my name, my protection. Do not wander from it."
I took his arm, the cold of him seeping through the layers of silk. "What's the gift? Lysandra said to be cautious."
His jaw tightened. "The Johnsons enjoy making statements. Whatever it is, smile and thank them." He led me out into the hall. "And stay away from the red wine. Drink only the water or the golden champagne. Do you understand?"
I nodded, my throat tight.
The mansion felt different at night. Alive. The shadows in the hallways seemed to shift and breathe. As we passed a grand mirror, I caught movement in its depths—not our reflection, but a swirl of darker shapes flitting through an endless corridor behind the glass. I looked away quickly.
Distant, melodic laughter echoed from below, mixed with the clink of crystal. The sweet-metallic scent was stronger here, now layered with roasting meat and exotic spices. My stomach twisted, but not with hunger.
We descended the grand staircase. The great hall had been transformed. The long mahogany table glittered with black crystal and silver. Candles in wrought-iron holders cast flickering light over the assembled guests—perhaps thirty of them, all dressed in opulent, old-world finery. They were beautiful, every one. And every one had that same too-pale skin, that same predatory stillness.
The conversation died as we entered.
Rene sat at the head of the table, Fin at her right. Thomas was to her left, grinning like a cat. The Johnsons occupied the center—Alistair with his cruel smile, Rose in a scandalously crimson gown that clashed with her pout.
"Ah, the happy couple," Alistair said, raising a crystal goblet. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost in your marital chambers."
A ripple of low laughter.
Aaron guided me to two empty seats beside Thomas. "My apologies. Ella needed to rest."
"Of course, of course." Alistair's eyes pinned me. "Trauma to the mind is so… fragile. Tell me, my dear, do you remember anything at all? A face? A name?"
All eyes were on me. I could feel their focus like a physical pressure.
I smiled, the empty, charming smile I'd practiced in the mirror. "I remember that my husband has terrible taste in champagne," I said, reaching for the golden flute before me. "He prefers the bitter vintage."
A beat of silence. Then Thomas barked a laugh. "She's got you there, brother!"
Aaron's hand settled over mine on the flute, his thumb brushing my knuckles. A warning. A claim. "She's always had expensive taste," he said smoothly.
The moment passed. Servants—silent, silver-eyed like Lysandra—began to glide in with platters.
The food was a work of art that turned my stomach. Rare meats glistening with red juices. Fruits carved into ominous shapes—bats, twisted roses, weeping faces. A centerpiece of what looked like black orchids floating in a bowl of liquid silver that swirled on its own.
Rose leaned toward me, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "The roast is divine. It's from a special breed. Very… fresh."
I looked at the slab of meat on my plate, its juices pooling crimson. My scars burned. *Not hungry*, I told myself. *Not at all.*
"Ella doesn't eat red meat," Aaron said, signaling a servant. "Bring her the poached swan and moon peaches."
A murmur went through the table. Fin grunted, his first sound. "Vegetarian?"
"A recent affectation," Aaron said, his fingers tightening on my wrist under the table.
Alistair watched the exchange with keen interest. "How… human of you."
The first course passed in a blur of veiled insults and elegant cutlery. I sipped the golden champagne. It tasted like sunlight and honey, warming my chilled insides. I avoided the ruby-red wine that everyone else seemed to favor, which shimmered with an unnatural viscosity.
Then, the gifts.
A parade of beautiful, unsettling presents: a dagger with a hilt carved from a single black rose, a music box that played a lullaby which made the candles weep wax, a portrait of Aaron and me that I certainly never sat for, where my eyes were closed and his were glowing red.
Finally, Alistair rose. "Our gift," he announced, "is a tradition. A welcome to the family." He snapped his fingers.
Two servants wheeled in a large, covered object on a cart. With a flourish, Alistair pulled away the black velvet drape.
It was a cage.
And inside the cage was a boy.
He looked about eighteen, human, with messy brown hair and terror-wide eyes. He was dressed in simple linen, shivering, his wrists bound with silver rope. He stared out at the dinner party, his breath fogging the gilded bars.
"A purebred," Alistair said proudly. "From a line untouched by magic. The flavor is… exquisite. And his fear is particularly aromatic tonight."
My champagne flute slipped from my fingers. It hit the table with a dull thud, golden liquid spreading like a stain.
The table erupted in polite applause. Rose clapped delightedly. "Oh, he's beautiful! Look at his eyes, Father. So blue!"
Bile rose in my throat. This was the gift. The fresh breed.
Aaron's hand clamped on my thigh under the table, hard enough to bruise. *Don't move*, his grip screamed.
But I was moving. Standing. My chair scraped loudly against the stone floor.
All sound ceased.
"Ella," Aaron's voice was low, lethal.
I couldn't tear my eyes from the boy in the cage. His gaze met mine. A silent plea. A recognition, maybe, of another trapped thing.
Rene's icy voice cut the silence. "Is there a problem, Eleanor?"
My mouth was dry. The ruby at my throat felt like it was burning. "I…" The words wouldn't come. The memory of blood on white petals flashed behind my eyes. Screaming. So much screaming.
Then, a voice—soft, melodic, and entirely in my head: "Sit down, you foolish girl. Or you'll be in the cage next."
My head snapped toward Thomas. He was examining his nails, a slight smile on his lips. His eyes met mine. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He was in my head.
Magic. Real, terrifying mind-magic.
I sank back into my chair, my legs trembling.
Aaron's grip eased slightly. "My wife is still unwell," he said, his voice carrying across the table. "The sight of silver often unsettles her. A remnant of the accident."
A weak excuse, but the table accepted it with murmurs of understanding. The cage was wheeled away, toward a shadowed archway. The boy's eyes stayed locked on me until he disappeared.
Alistair chuckled. "A delicate constitution. How… quaint." He raised his glass of red wine. "To new additions. May they learn our ways quickly."
The toast was echoed around the table. I lifted my empty flute, my hand shaking.
The rest of the dinner passed in a nightmare haze. The food tasted like ash. The laughter sounded like shattering glass. I drank three more glasses of the golden champagne, seeking its warmth, its numbness.
By the time Rene rose to signal the end of the meal, my head was swimming. The candles had burned low, casting monstrous, dancing shadows on the walls.
"The drawing room for drinks," Rene announced. "The young ones may retire."
Rose pouted but was ushered away by her mother. Aaron stood, pulling me up with him. "We retire as well," he said to his mother. "Ella needs rest."
Rene's eyes narrowed, but she nodded. "Very well. We will speak tomorrow, Aaron. About… many things."
It was a threat.
Aaron all but dragged me from the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor. His silence was a storm. When we reached our chambers, he shoved the door open and pushed me inside, slamming it behind us.
He rounded on me, his eyes blazing with actual crimson light. "What in the name of the eternal night was that?!"
The warmth from the champagne ignited into something else in my veins. Fury. "That was a *boy* in a cage! A gift to be *eaten*!"
"He is *food*!" Aaron snarled, getting in my face. His fangs were extended, sharp and white. "That is the natural order! That is our *way*! Your little human melodrama almost got us both killed!"
"I am not one of you!" The words tore from me, fueled by terror and champagne and the image of those pleading blue eyes.
A dangerous quiet fell. Aaron's gaze dropped to the ruby at my throat. It was pulsing with a light that matched the fire in his eyes.
"Aren't you?" he whispered. He reached out, his cold fingers brushing the choker. "This stone reacts to power. To magic. It's glowing, Ella. Because you're angry. Because something inside you is answering."
I looked down. He was right. The ruby shone like a hot coal, casting red light on his pale fingers.
I stepped back, breaking his touch. "I want it off."
"Good luck. It's sealed with blood magic. My blood." He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "You need to understand. This isn't a game. My family, the Johnsons… they're vampires, Ella. Centuries old. Powerful. And you are a mystery wrapped in a pretty lie in the middle of their territory. If you draw attention, they will dissect that mystery. And then they will dissect *you*."
The word hung in the air. *Vampires*. A confirmation of the nightmare.
"And what are you?" My voice was small.
He turned back, the anger gone, replaced by something weary. "I am the vampire who made a bad deal to avoid a worse one. And you are the consequence." He walked to the sideboard, pouring a glass of that thick, dark liquid. "Go to bed, Ella. Tomorrow, the real work begins."
"What work?"
"Teaching you how to survive in a house full of monsters." He didn't look at me. "Starting with how to watch a boy be taken to the larder without flinching."
I felt cold. So cold. "I won't learn that."
"You will," he said, his back to me. "Or you'll die. And I didn't drag you out of that hospital just to watch you become an appetizer."
I stumbled toward the bedroom, my gown suddenly feeling like a shroud. At the connecting door, I paused.
"The voice in my head. At dinner. That was Thomas?"
Aaron's shoulders stiffened. "Yes. My brother is a telepath. A weak one. He can only send, not receive. It's his favorite party trick." He finally looked over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "Consider it a warning. You have no secrets here. Not even in your own mind."
I fled into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I tore at the choker, but it wouldn't budge. The ruby's glow had faded to a dull pulse, like a sleeping heart.
Outside the window, the moon was a sliver of bone in the sky.
And on the windowsill, where the frost message had been, there was now a new one, written in what looked like smeared, dark liquid:
THE BOY'S NAME IS MATEO.
HE SAW YOUR WINGS IN THE DARK.
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