Lightning struck, bathing the two men in a blinding flash—a grim reminder to the far-too-old vampire that he had an appointment to keep. The muted peal of thunder soon rolled into the office.

  The storm had only just begun.

  Sullivan rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes. He missed the scent of his usual leather gloves. The white silk, chosen to match his suit, felt slick and foreign against his skin—unfamiliar, unwanted. It was much too soft.

  "Let's go," he sighed. "The sooner this is over with, the better."

  "Permit me to escort you—with utmost dread, my liege!" Oliver swept into an exaggerated bow, offering his arm with a dramatic flourish.

  Sullivan shot him a flat look before rolling his eyes and walking past.

  "Shut up, Oliver."

  "As you wish, my liege! With all due haste!"

  "Shut up, Oliver."

  Sullivan knew he couldn’t suppress his cousin’s antics forever, but the lull was more than welcome. Still, that minor exchange left his unruly cousin with just enough of an emotional high to survive the next hour, his insidious grin gleaming.

  Sullivan caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. He scowled.

  Tonight would be long.

  So very, very long.

  Their footsteps echoed against stone paths slick with fresh rain even under the breezeways. Not even the Inner Sanctum grounds were safe from the lashing rain as they made their way over the bridge, past the Sky Dome, through the Great Hall, just to reach the old chapel.

  Once grand, now mostly forgotten. It had been built long ago, back when relations between vampires and mortals hadn’t yet soured. When trust wasn’t a currency in such short, demanding supply.

  Yet despite its abandonment, a single invitation—and the whispered promise of free booze—had been enough to lure the city's faction leaders through its heavy oak doors. They arrived one by one, armed with plastic smiles stretched taut across wary faces. The unspoken tension coiled tight behind every handshake and murmured pleasantry.

  It was not trust that brought them. No, never that. It was curiosity... but mostly the alcohol.

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  The guests had already retreated inside, eager for the rare honor of entering Sanctum Vespertine—a manor of Old World opulence perched high upon its grassy hill. To walk its halls was a once in a lifetime privilege, as the gates never opened for prying mortal eyes.

  It was an invitation into a world where few dared tread. The last sanctuary of immortals thrown open for a single, dark and stormy night.

  The gifts—bribes, really—already formed a glittering tower of finery in the reception hall. Sullivan spared their givers no more thought than he would a nest of parasites. They were opportunists. They’d get nothing in return but empty smiles and chilled wine.

  Sullivan locked eyes with the elven twins, his polite greeting stapled to a pair of halfhearted handshakes. Neither grip offered the firm formality of mutual respect—just the airy, practiced touch of those who believed civility was a courtesy extended downward.

  He thanked the younger brother, Caillou Silverthread, for the expedient permits that allowed the Sanctum’s gates to open.

  The scoff that followed could have peeled paint.

  Platinum hair swished with disdain as he replied coolly that the credit belonged entirely to his older twin sister, Myriil Silverthread. Said sister’s eyes were wide, visibly dazzled by the decadent decor. Her smile was affectionate in the way a bemused aunt might regard a toddler hosting a tea party.

  If Sullivan held the same sway with the elves as he did with the goblins, he might have said something. But no—he swallowed his contempt and cut the pleasantries short, careful to hide the pain lancing down his fingertips.

  His burns had returned—crackling, bone-deep, pulsing beneath his gloves with every breath he didn’t take.

  As the old chapel's pews filled one by one, Sullivan subtly balled his hands into fists behind his back. The white, pristine silk biting against his blackened skin. A phantom fire that refused to die—gnawing at his withering tendons. He’d grown adept at controlling the tremors, but today, control gave way to dread. There wasn’t much he could do except grin and bear it as he willed away the shakes.

  Oliver took that as his cue to grab the next person’s hand for him, allowing the older vampire a reprieve.

  “Amala! It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  Oliver delicately kissed the back of her hand. She was a Vampire Lord, and one of Sullivan’s peers. It’d be less than ideal if she noticed his cousin struggling. A disaster really. Among vampires, order was maintained through infallible strength.

  Anything less was blood in the water.

  Oliver’s eyes cut across to the man standing beside her and gave him a nod up.

  “Obasi.”

  Obasi returned Oliver’s gesture, a smirk tugging at his thick, pouty lip. Amala smiled as her response, her golden bangles chiming like a flirtatious wink. Her finger lingered at Oliver’s chin before allowing her son to escort her to their seats.

  Sullivan, meanwhile, curled and uncurled his fingers, relearning the motion, the silk stretching taut about his wrists as he endured the bite and the pulse and the sting. If there were any bit of mercy in this world, truly it was the sensation of knowing that one was still alive. It grounded him, at least.

  Pain was real.

  He dragged in a long breath, head tilted in resignation, then exhaled slow. Oliver’s timely pat jolted his cousin upright; with the effortless flair of a stagehand, he drew the next wave of guests’ eyes elsewhere—the perfect misdirection as the curtain rose.

  “You okay?” Oliver whispered over his shoulder.

  “Fine.” Another slow, deliberate breath.

  It wasn’t just the pain plaguing him.

  Something sweeter pulled at his senses—syrupy, damning. Her scent spilled through the cracks in the chapel door as easily as the rain drowned the gardens. She was everywhere now. And he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  How tragic.

  For her.