Chapter 1
I can almost hear them—soft breaths caught beneath their sacred hoods, as if the fabric itself traps their secrets like two threads of silk weaving into a single, solemn lullaby. Two women whisper sweetly. Their lips move in a rhythm older than scripture, shaping inviting utterances that float like incense through a chamber.
The hoods hide their eyes, cradle their wisdom; yet, it's the only thing kept hidden. Pale soft skin on bodies left bare in a purity so delicate it feels like a confession. Their nudity is not vulnerability, but truth. They are unashamed, unburdened, offered to any who dare to look. And all look because it is beautiful, it is a wonder. Living, breathing, heavenly flesh.
Their clasped hands hover, suspended in gentle motion. They sway as though pulled by tides unseen. It must be a prayer. Are they praying for salvation? For whose?
Praying for me, perhaps?
No. Their devotion lies elsewhere. They pray for what they guard: the school itself and our vampiric race. Or… maybe for the restless power that lies beneath my skin, waiting for the moment it will no longer be denied. A rebirth not yet spoken aloud.
Purity, love, hatred, sorrow—here, under their watchful presence, they blur into one indistinguishable ache. A symbol of faith, of protection, of dominion over both the living and the damned. All of it is bound to blood. Blood is a promise. Life carved into death. Death promises life.
And—
And…
I'm awake.
It's a chore, but I blink. Blink again, and again. And again.
The muscle memory is a gentle tug at my thoughts, a wake up from… from where I don't know. All I know is that I actually blink.
My lashes along my peripheral image haze everything out other than the school's crest that lies next to me—silver thread on a black velvet pillow.
It's foreign, but my muscles remember the feeling of motion, of textures, of touch. I want to feel, to understand. As I will it, slowly, my fingers trace along the bed sheets, my nails scratching along, and then bring my fingers hovering beside my mouth. Breath, hot and damp, leaves beautiful traces of existence.
With the tip of my middle finger, I trace my cupid's bow. I expect them to be chapped, but instead, they're plump and soft. It brings a tickle to my skin, the soft fuzz straightening as I give myself goosebumps, igniting a sense of coolness that brings another smile. Which brings my fingers further into my mouth to touch my fangs, sharp and long. Two on either side. But the fangs that I had grown into, the ones that I had known so well, seem somewhat longer—sharper.
With gliding fingers, a blossoming of tingles echo through them. The sensations don't stop. It spreads down my jaw, along my throat, blooming into my neck like warmth remembering where to go. I follow it instinctively, tracing the quiet confirmations of myself: the rise of my collarbone, the tension and release of muscle beneath skin, each discovery grounding me further inside my own body.
The pillow underneath my head is cushioned, while the blanket atop me pulls my muscles back to reality. I can feel the weight laying atop, feel the air stagnant in the—
A cool white room filled with beeps and wires.
Near sight is still hazy, but I focus, forcing my eyes to understand what they are seeing. Blinking more, I pick up my head and challenge myself.
Machines hum around me. A large hospital bed beneath me, a tv mounted just within view—too clinical to be comfort, too intentional to be temporary. Beyond the small space, something stretches out. A classroom… no. A doctor's office? No—neither fits. My gaze drags farther, adjusting, straining. Stainless steel counters. Refrigerators stocked with syringes. Medicine cabinets lined with cataloging. This isn't a place of healing. It's a laboratory. They didn't move me to a hospital, they built one around me.
I search for something—anything—that might explain where I am and how I got here. The murky waters of my memory churn beneath the surface, burning to break through, but the fog remains thick and suffocating.
Then, a figure forms to my left. A being with short blond gelled back hair sits turned away from me, looking between a computer showing a diagram titled The Sanguine Index, a churner with multiple blood vials, and a chart. Presumably my chart with the way I'm set up in this room. The figure holds a straight posture with a long torso, slim shoulders, and wearing a white coat. Underneath that, all I can see are lengthy slim legs wearing brown dress pants and their footwear is masculine dark brown Versace shoes. I can remember Versace but not how I got here. I laugh, but it's gravelly and the figure goes still.
"Who…" My voice is hoarse, but it grants me the privilege of seeing the figure's face. "Who are you?" I say, sitting up. Sorry, trying to sit up. The movement pulls strangely against the fabric covering me, and I look down. White. Not quite a gown, not quite clothing. It wraps around my body in clean, structured lines, the high collar and fitted sleeves giving it an almost ceremonial quality, while the numerous straps feel more like a restraint. I push the thought aside as I focus on moving. My bones feel new. Nerve endings, all of it, almost as if I have never used them before.
Closing out their documents, they slowly turn fully around, their face kind, soft, masculine with feminine eyes. "I'm Doctor Smith." They roll in their office chair towards me. The light catches and a faint red glint flashes. An image of red swirling wine, the words 'more' echoing. "The new—"
"Head of the Biology department." I sound exasperated, but, "I– I remember you." Rubbing my eyes, memories leak forward—slowly, but just enough.
"Very good." The doctor stands, grabs my wrist and holds while staring at their watch. A gold watch, old and worn, but worth a pretty penny. A design peeks out from underneath, a rope or a rod circling around the face of the watch. It feeds into itself. There aren't any numbers which makes me ponder because wasn't I just thinking about time? "How are you feeling?" They ask me.
I pause, taking note of how I'm feeling or how I felt. Myself, time, it all feels… "Odd."
"Take your time." Dr. Smith stops counting heartbeats and rolls to grab their phone. Typing for a short while, they end it with one loud tap and then roll back toward me with a penlight "We will be monitoring you for a few more days. I've notified your relatives. They should be here in just enough time for us to talk and review a few things. Look at the light."
I follow the doctor's commands and do as they instruct with each physical test. They shine a penlight into my eyes, check my reflexes with the tap of a rubber hammer, listen to my heartbeat and lungs through a cold stethoscope, and ask me to follow their finger with my gaze. They jot notes, examine, and most of all, document every small bit of information that they gather. It's incredible to watch as I study them myself—a lover of learning in a different kind of research field.
After a few more tests and a bag of blood later, Dr. Smith asks, "How are you feeling now?"
I open my mouth, then close it. Something sharp pulses behind my eyes. Not pain, not quite. More like… like a thought pressing against glass. "Tired," I say finally. "Heavy. Like I've slept for a very long time, but didn't rest at all." My fingers curl into the sheets, grounding myself. "And… confused."
Dr. Smith studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Their expression doesn't change, but something in their eyes does. Interest, maybe. Or realization. "That's to be expected," they say carefully. "Do you remember anything specific? Before you woke up."
The room seems to tilt. Red blushing. Thick and slow. A scent, metallic and sweet. My stomach twists. "I remember…" I murmur. Flashes of light and darkness. Swift fabric dancing and hollowed out horns. I swallow hard. Trying to picture the memory of Dr. Smith, but it's fuzzy, and the image changes quickly forming into hoods and masks. Vampires laughing. Severed heads. Lips pressed against lips. Masks blurred into horrendously bloody demons. "I remember a ball but with masks? The image keeps changing. I see your face and then it's covered by—" tall horns bleed out and stretch skyward from a black mask. "I'm sorry. That doesn't make any sense."
Dr. Smith nods once, as though I've just confirmed a hypothesis. "It does," they say evenly. Then, with a measured softness that feels almost practiced, they add, "The brain often compensates in cases like this. When faced with gaps—loss—it constructs narratives, images, something it can process." A brief pause. "But it also suggests you retain memory from the night prior to your coma."
I question, "Coma?"
"Yes." Dr. Smith confirms.
A sharp chime slices through the room, three ascending notes, a loud call to attention from the television. Both the doctor and I turn to see the Nocturnal News logo. Then the words Breaking News flash in red. Next, a beautiful, dark-haired Italian woman appears on screen, composed as she announces, "Just in: Fiorenzo Verrone, our up-and-coming southern politician, has finally been found. After months of searching, authorities have confirmed that his body has been recovered. However, the search continues for Father Zayd, who disappeared at the exact same time as Fiorenzo Verrone. Authorities have yet to determine whether the two disappearances are connected. The following images may be disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised."
The screen cuts to a dark ditch alongside a rural road, naming the location in Austria.
Off in the shadows, a man in a black suit stands. He speaks to a nearby analyst clad in a white protective suit and gloves. As he talks behind the newscaster, strands of brown hair hang over his creased forehead. He is exhaustion personified: hair long overdue for a cut, a five o'clock shadow streaks his jaw, and dark circles sit beneath tired eyes. But he observes, directs, and assembles the scene piece by piece.
"As you can see here," the news reporter points out, "markers have been placed to identify traces of the victim. The two larger flags indicate the distance between the head and the body." She holds a brief, heavy pause. "One thing we can not confirm is the whereabouts of his still missing heart. Since his public speech late December, it has been six grueling months of his family and the rest of his political party searching for him. This is not the outcome we had hoped for, but we can now say goodbye and lay our beloved politician, Fiorenzo Verrone, to rest. His procession will be—"
The words don't land all at once. They echo, distort, circle back. Six months since December. Since—
My fingers twitch against the sheets.
Six months.
I haven't been gone for a night.
Or a day.
I've been gone for half a year.
Pressure against my fangs and—
The television goes dark. I turn to see Dr. Smith setting the clicker down. "Let's not excite you more than necessary. You just woke up."
"What's today's date?" There are clues—hell, the news told me—but I need to hear it. Out loud.
"It's June 4th," Dr. Smith says slowly, eyes scanning my face for comprehension. Their voice is steady and precise, as if delivering a report. "Your freshman year just ended. It's been six months since you've been—" Before I can process the words, their hand moves with practiced efficiency, gripping my arm and guiding it as an IV catheter slides in. I hiss sharply and try to jerk back, but the doctor holds me down, and it's already done. My eyes betray the shock. Dr. Smith watches without a flicker of impatience, their expression clinically neutral. "—unresponsive," they finish, as if stating a fact, not a revelation, letting the cold, objective weight of the word settle over me.
The doctor goes to grab my arm again, but I cover the spot with my hand, rubbing my arm responding with, "I'm not much a fan of giving out blood."
The doctor chuckles, "You bloodbornes are all alike."
"What does that mean?"
"Which part?" they say, with that same dry, half-amused tone.
"I was in a coma, unresponsive. This—This doesn't happen to our kind."
"No. It doesn't. But I think your case is a bit different now isn't it?" Dr. Smith says swirling the small amount of blood in the vial, watching it move under fluorescent light.
A slight sweat begins to prick my neck. A beeping from the monitor of my heart begins to quicken. I force it to slow down, but I already know the doctor has taken note.
"What do you mean by that?" I ask.
"You have a strong aptitude from two strong families—one that is almost extinct, and another that keeps their ties very close. Plus, as you noted, you blacked out, fell into a coma, so I'd say that makes you different. Or is there something else you'd like to tell me?" the doctor waits expectantly.
What I should understand is that they've probably been testing my blood since day one. They haven't said anything—at least not yet—and shouldn't they have already if they know something? "No, I guess not," I answer finally. Rubbing my arm, I twist the fabric of my sleeve between my fingers. I glance at Dr. Smith, then look away for a moment, trying to gather the courage. "Did... my blood tell you anything about what could have made me..." My throat tightens. "...fall into a coma?"
"We are still trying to figure that out. Would you please—" Dr. Smith holds another vial, new and ready for harvesting, "you being awake… the draw of your blood now can be crucial to my studies in finding out the reason for all of this."
That's right. If the doctor already knew of my… abilities, they would have said something. I would have probably woken up in cuffs otherwise. I haven't even drank any vampire blood for six months, so…
I give my arm willingly. The doctor clicks it into place, blood flows and they collect three full vials.
Once completed, they stand and walk away, placing the three vials in a rack. Then they move to the medical biowarm and grab an unmarked blood bag, fresh and smelling like a damn chocolate-blood cheesecake with raspberries on top. "Take this." They hand me the bag and sit next to me with another notebook in hand. They begin writing in it as I take the bag to my lips and sip tenderly. As the doctor watches and writes, I suck and am finally able to actively think on my own without questions or tests.
Fiorenzo Verrone. Found. Headless. And why all the way in Austria? Six months of coma time. And I can't even remember fully what happened the night before all of this. The gala. My parents' speech. The dance. Dr. Smith and—Michael. Our fight, our—
A flash of red and black and loneliness. Remembering… remembering what? And then a memory of voices through the dark:
"You're not the one who found her. She doesn't even want you, remember?"
"You think finding her matters?"
"I think after what happened, finding her is all that matters."
The voices fade, replacing it with the taste of this delicious blend and the realization that—"I think I heard something during my coma." I mutter, trying to piece it together.
"Ah, you were lucid, in a paralyzed state—submerged consciousness," they say, making a note. "What did you hear?"
Dr. Smith makes it seem so normal. A lucid state in a coma? I whisper, "They said they found me."
Flashes of a great dark cave, blood dripping in my mouth… Oh, God. Michael—Michael's blood. The taste exploding into my veins. Consuming him, and—
"Yes, by the Malec boy." Dr. Smith states.
My head snaps up to meet the doctor's gaze.
They click their pen. "Oliver Malec. A good boy. Found you right here on campus grounds."
I don't—I don't remember even coming back to the school… Instead, flashes of me ripping heads off with my fangs, and then— "Michael." I whisper under my breath before returning to finish off the bag of blood.
The doctor takes the empty bag and tosses it into a distant trash container before returning. "Michael Malec? He's been a consistent visitor. Every day. He'd sit by your bedside for a few hours, still as a statue, and then leave." They briefly pause before asking, "Your boyfriend?"
"I…" I didn't know what we are—were? We still had yet to actually establish that and after what I said… "Wait, you said Oliver found me?"
"Yes, he found you on the outskirts of the property."
"That doesn't make sense, how could he have–"
"You said you didn't remember?" The doctor interrupts and pauses, looking at me with quiet disbelief. I look away, searching for something to give them. I'm about to speak, to give them the lamest of all retorts, when, "I'm sure it will come back to you," they say. Thankfully, their comment spares me from having to invent a ridiculous lie.
They wheel over to a cabinet, then return with more vials. "I need to take three more blood samples. Would you—" They gesture, mimicking the offering of my arm.
I agree, still sucking my teeth from the blood lingering in between them.
The doctor rolls the chair closer. "Why don't we work on your memory again? Go backwards. I know you've just woken up, but it's important to try. Healthy for the mind, good for documentation, and for your psych evaluation."
Evaluation…? "Yeah, sure, I guess, but…"
"Where were you coming from when you were found?"
"I was…" Flashes of my red dress. Blood—blood everywhere. A knife… A child… A child being held by… by…
"Who were you with?"
Flashes form. A man's face, then something like a woman's.
"I…" my mind focuses on the memory of the woman and—Lex. LEX!
I throw the covers off of me. A vial gets thrown into the air.
Where is she? Is she okay? I search around the room for my phone. Blood drains down to my toes and they turn red hot as I rush from surface to surface looking for—
The doctor stands and catches the vial out of the air, then, "Woah! Where do you think you're going?" Dr. Smith puts a forced hand over my forearm. "You remember what happened?"
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. My pulse spikes, scrambling for something—anything—that sounds believable. But nothing comes other than, "No—but I have this sinking feeling… like I need to help someone. Like I need to go. Somewhere. Can't I just—"
I'm about to pull out the IV when the doctor restrains my wrist. "Miss Vadala, you have just woken up from a six month coma. Your body has only absorbed one bag of blood. After all this energy exerted, you will need a few more days until you are completely healed, monitored, and treated. You need to sit back down."
"But I—"
"Doctor's orders."
Looking at the exit door, I reluctantly sit back down on the bed.
"Now," they say, rolling back to their original position as though my panic had never happened. "You have this feeling of needing to be somewhere or help someone. Who?"
Lex's picture of lifelessness on a stone floor floods me, but I know I can't tell the truth of my memory, instead I stutter, "I—Maybe I'm remembering wrong. I think I was alone."
Dr. Smith looks into my eyes. A few moments pass and they run their hands through their hair and continue with another question, "Before all of this, when was the last time you fed and on who?"
My throat is dry, too dry. Swallowing is difficult. I look at the next bag of blood waiting on the silver medical tray and notice something unusual. Blood bags are always labeled with a name, a date, and a blood type. This one is unmarked. "I—don't remember that either."
"That's interesting because when you came in here, you were covered in blood."
I stare dumbfounded at them and come up with, "I must have had an episode." Clearing my throat, I force disappointment and a look of embarrassment—even a bit of fear. Fear is the easiest to show. It's not forced at all as I think of being a test subject or worse. Killed by the Sovereign for being an abomination.
"Yes, your father told me of your episodes. A family's secret tragedy. Or so, their daughters." I freeze. "But this wasn't like that time, was it?" They wait and so do I. Dr. Smith rolls even closer, "I found your blood dynamic interesting. Quite—"
The doors to the lab burst open. Arabella comes running in, and so does my mother. Following behind them is my sauntering father, clean-shaven and controlled as always.
Dr. Smith quietly steals the bag of blood away and walks to the far side of the room, giving the entering entourage space.
Arabella and Mother weep while Father steadies her, trying to calm the words that refuse to leave her lips. Then she's there, wrapping both of us in her arms as though she's afraid we'll disappear if she lets go. All I do—all I want to do—is hold them. To memorize the warmth of them. The scent of home. The sound of my mother's sobs against my shoulder. I bury myself in their embrace, and every wall I'd built to survive splinters apart. For the first time since I opened my eyes, I don't feel alone. I feel like someone's daughter again.
Tears burn hotter than I remember. I hadn't realized how desperately I'd needed this—needed them—until now.
I swear I can feel another pair of hands resting gently against my back, grounding me. But when I lift my head, Father's hand is on Mother's shoulder. It shouldn't affect me after all this time... but it does.
Then the room fills again as my friends pour through the doorway, each one taking their turn to hold me, to cry, to laugh, to welcome me back to the living. "Or undead," Arabella corrects through her tears. It's like a flash of a quick dream like it's all not real. Reina and Alice dyed their hair white but I think it's the color before they dye it something wild. Samuel seemed to have grown his hair out slightly longer than usual. Henry and Fay seem the exact same, but Fay's eyes are a bit more hollow than usual. The shine of hope in her eyes doesn't match the shadows under them.
Waking up from such a long slumber is just so surreal. Funny enough, my dreams felt more real than this. But when I really think about it, it's hard to even call them that. It's like another life now. Some kind of other realm my mind created. Or maybe that's how a coma state feels like? I remember the voices, and I remember some kind of imagery and emotion, but the name for what it was is a mystery. One that I'm too tired to study, and I'm awake now, so, why worry?
When I look to the far corner, through the noise of friends and family, the doctor stays in the background… watching. I try to ignore them, but the way they steadily observe me… it's more like studying, carefully, logging it for later.
After many hugs, love, drama dumps and life updates, the room began to settle and the weight of waking up finally caught up to me.
"You must be so tired," my mom says. I snap back to her bright blue eyes. "I wish we could take you home, but Dr. Smith wants to keep you for a few more nights."
"It's okay, Mom. I understand," I say gently, trying to sound stronger than I feel. Truthfully, all I wanted was to go home.
"If you need us, call, and I will be right over." Mom says.
Everyone who had entered the room slowly says their goodbyes. It truly is good to be home. As Samuel closes the door behind him and everyone files out of the office—even Dr. Smith—the rush of happy adrenaline fades. My eyelids grow heavy. And the blanket draped over me begins to feel like the same darkness from my coma, pulling me back under.
After a short while, there is only darkness. Within it, I wait for dreams that never come. Stagnant and barren. But it feels right. It's a familiar, comforting blackness—like before—arms seemingly wrap around me, holding me in place. I'm aware, but not. Present, yet hollow. A body without weight. A mind without form. Just… a void.
Ω
It's the middle of the night when I wake to the heat of metal pressing into my palm. Curling my fingers around it, I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, tracing the ridged edges and the worn bas-relief on both sides of the round shape.
Then, a presence interrupts my quiet discovery. My skin prickles, alert. Someone is close, but not too close—near enough that the air feels heavier.
I clutch the metal harder and sit up, quickly realizing the metal was just a figment of my imagination. The presence in front of me, however, is very real.
At first, there's uncertainty. The kind of pause so deliberate it's painful, but something else bleeds through it: Want. Need.
The figure steps forward. Then, just as quickly, back again, like he's caught himself mid-instinct. The faint scent of vanilla and citrus drifts toward me, familiar enough to make my chest ache.
"Michael," I breathe into the darkness. There's no answer, just hesitation. I swallow and straighten. "Why don't you come closer?"
His head dips low, like he's bracing himself. When he exhales, it's ragged and reluctant.
"Please," I whisper. "Michael." I say his name again, steadier this time. "Come closer."
He does, but only barely.
The glow of the moonlight catches his eyes, and they don't just glint—they shine like water over ice. A world frozen, slowly defrosting, beautiful, yet dangerous.
"There's no need to—"
"No need for what?" Something sharp flickers across his face. Confusion masked by irritation… and something darker. Something that looks too much like loathing, though I can't tell if it's meant for me or himself.
He takes another inch of a step closer.
"To act like what happened didn't actually happen." I murmur.
"Please," he says, his voice tightening, "tell me what you think happened then."
Is that what he wants? An apology? An explanation? "I'm sorry," I say softly. "For what I said. For what I did." And for what I am.
"There's no need to apologize." His jaw flexes. "Why are you apologizing?"
"I guess—I don't—" my throat tightens, "I don't know what to say. You came when I needed help. You knew where I was. What to do. You fixed it." I falter, searching his face. The low moon light hitting him ever so gently. "I thought—"
His brow furrows sharply, and he cuts me off. "Where you were? How I fixed it?" He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Gabby… you left the gala practically calling me trash." My stomach drops. "Fix it?" he continues bitterly. "I called you. Left messages. Countless ones. That was the last time we spoke. If you can even call it speaking." His voice lowers. "And then you were found like… this."
He takes two careful steps closer. I can see it now—the red rims of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide. His hands disappear into his pockets, fists clenched so tight his shoulders tense.
"The way things ended," he says quietly, "and then Oliver finds you on school grounds, covered in blood… I didn't know what to do, what to think." His voice cracks. "Where did you go? Why did you leave? What were you thinking?"
He drags a hand through his hair, then gestures sharply, but I lift my hand to stop him. Because none of this makes sense. "Wait," I say. "I'm not trying to upset you. I just… don't understand." My heart is pounding now. "You were there. You helped me. You found me."
"No." He says. The word lands like a slap.
"No?" I repeat.
"After you ignored my calls," he says tightly, "I went to your dorm. Nearly knocked the door down. You never answered. Eventually, I left."
"That's not possible." I whisper.
His expression hardens—not angry, but wounded. "What's impossible," he says slowly, "were the things you said to me before you walked away." He stops himself, jaw tightening. "But, I've had six months to think about them. Six months of visiting you. Of talking to you while you slept. Of trying to understand how you could ever lo—" He cuts himself off and takes on pounds of breaths. "It doesn't matter," he says, stepping back. "It's better this way. I came tonight to tell you that I respect your decision."
"Michael, I—"
"No. You don't need to pity me or be embarrassed anymore. It was fun while it lasted. The only reason I came tonight was to see that you are safe and awake."
"I'm trying to tell you—"
"You're safe now," he says, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "That's all that matters to me."
And then he turns away and leaves. Leaving me filled with the kind of regrets I know I'll be up all night thinking about.
I don't understand how we could have lived through two completely different realities. How I could remember his arms holding me up, his voice guiding me to drink, his presence being the only thing that kept me tethered to life… while all he remembers is me leaving him behind.
Why would Michael come here, look me in the eyes, and tell me something that sounds impossible? Had I dreamed the entire thing? Had my mind created a version of him because I needed him so desperately?
I lay back down, turn to the side, and hold my knees close to my chest. I try to fall asleep, but all I want is to smell vanilla and citrus coming rushing back into the room—coming rushing back to me. Instead, I hold myself while the darkness inside of me holds on tighter.
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