7. Sam

The iron gates clang shut behind our car as it winds up the long gravel drive to Deveraux Manor. I gaze out at the imposing neoclassical facade, each column and pediment symbolizing the centuries of dominance held by this powerful coven. And yet, tonight we come to them as peers, not supplicants.

Beside me, Gavriil sits rigid, knuckles white on the armrests. He insisted on bringing not only Sasha, but also two of his best Elite guards. Though the precaution might insult our hosts’ hospitality, nothing will dissuade Gavriil from caution since the attack that stole his Luciana.

When the engine stills, he turns to me with brows drawn. “Stay close tonight.” His voice leaves no room for debate. “I’m not leaving you unguarded here.”

I nod placation, fighting the urge to glare. Open defiance will only provoke his ire. He trapped me in this visit; now I am chained to his side. So much for my hopes of exploring the legendary gardens and galleries alone... But who knows, given the proper distraction, I may still find a way to escape.

My role this evening is clear—distant politeness masking utter obedience. The good Ursa sister. I will play my part flawlessly.

Inside, the manor looms quiet and cavernous, the household staff given the night off to celebrate with family, as is tradition on Samhain. Our footsteps echo across marble floors left dark and polished for the occasion, the spaces usually bustling with staff now eerily abandoned.

Gavriil and the Elite walk through the parlor’s double doors, but I lag behind, a moth drawn to the manor’s flickering lights. Let Gavriil deal with the necessary politics; I wish to wander a bit first and clear my head.

My heels sink into plush carpets lining the wide corridors, display cases, and gilt-framed paintings gleaming in the low light. This stately home oozes old wealth, every surface polished to a smug shine.

I stroll along the portrait gallery, scanning the painted faces of centuries of Deveraux witches. Stern, proud visages follow my passage, silently judging the Ursa intruder in their midst.

At the end hangs Cassandra, the current heiress, flanked by her ancestors. Cascading raven hair and pale, freckled skin—not the usual red hair look found along generations of Deveraux women.

But while the witches’ painted eyes gleam with cunning and drive, Cassandra’s stormy gray irises hold only sorrow and resignation. Her beauty is merely a shell masking the frail spirit within.

Powerful magic may course through her veins, but her mind remains shallow and malleable. Yet Gavriil intends to yoke our clan to her line through marriage. The thought curdles my stomach. She is no fit match for an Ursa King.

But next to Cassandra’s portrait hangs a legend—Juliette Deveraux, the first Grand Witch of her lineage. Her blazing mane of strawberry red hair cascades down her back, framing high cheekbones and piercing emerald eyes that exude shrewdness even in stillness.

Her rosebud lips hold the slightest curl at the corners, hinting at the silent malice she harbors towards any who dare to defy her. Even captured in motionless oil, her preternatural allure will radiate from the canvas.

“Formidable,” I murmur in admiration. What must it have been to wield such unfettered power in an age when women were so utterly dismissed? A true iconoclast.

“The likeness is remarkable indeed,” a male voice agrees behind me.

I whirl, my pulse rocketing. A man stands casually in the archway, keen hazel eyes glinting with unnatural light—a vampire. Every muscle in my body tenses. Unlike the Deveraux witches, we Ursa have never trusted blood drinkers. After all, it was a vicious blood demon who took my father’s life.

“You’re a vampire,” I state bluntly. My fingers itch to summon magic, but I restrain the urge. Still, if he meant harm, we are alone here. No one would hear my screams.

But he merely smiles and spreads his hands, adopting a non-threatening stance. “I am. But I assure you, I mean no ill will. Dristan Brek, at your service.” He sweeps into an elegant, courtly bow.

I weigh him with a measured look. “Samara Alexeeva,” I finally offer in return. The old families all know each other by reputation, if not personally.

“A pleasure making your acquaintance. Are you here for the... festivities?” His playful, friendly tone eases some of my wariness. Perhaps legends and old prejudices do not reveal the whole truth about vampires. I should judge him on his merits alone.

“The summoning, yes.” Curiosity loosens my tongue. “Tell me, is it true?” I search his face closely. “Has Juliette Deveraux herself returned from the grave?”

The story seems fantastical, but if anyone would know the truth, it would be a vampire allied with the Deverauxs.

Dristan nods, his smile turning wistful. “It is no lie. I have spoken with her personally. She is still adjusting to this century, but her legendary power remains steadfast.” He sounds impressed, even intimidated.

Hope blooms inside me at his words. “To speak with such a renowned witch would be a dream come true,” I admit fervently. Skepticism melts away, replaced by growing excitement.

Dristan’s smile broadens, eyes glinting with understanding. He proffers his arm. “Then come with me, mademoiselle. Let us make your dream a reality tonight.”

I accept his offer readily, caution burned away by my eagerness and fascination. For a chance to speak with the most influential witch of the age, I would trust even the devil himself. Dristan seems a gentleman by comparison—my brother would surely have a fit if he saw me now. Luckily, he’s nowhere in sight.

As he escorts me through shadowed halls, a tingle of anticipation runs down my spine. Tonight, anything seems possible under this venerable roof. I cling to Dristan’s arm tighter in my growing awe, grateful for his reassuring presence beside me.

Dristan guides me to a candlelit salon. Ensconced on an antique divan sits none other than the living legend herself.

I inhale swiftly, the air knocked from my lungs. Dristan’s tales did not exaggerate—Juliette’s magic presses down with almost suffocating intensity, a tangible force that leaves me lightheaded.

Her piercing emerald eyes sharpen on me, stripping away all pretenses and probing my innermost spirit. I fight the urge to sink to my knees under her overwhelming presence.

Never have I felt magic like hers—ancient as tributaries carved deep into the bedrock of the earth, yet as vital as lightning splitting the sky. How can her fragile body contain such fathomless power?

“Juliette, may I present Samara Alexeeva, your guest this evening,” Dristan announces.

I wet my dry lips, struggling to summon my voice. “Grand Witch, I am honored to meet one of such profound gifts and wisdom.” The inadequate words trip over my tongue. I can’t help but bow deeply before her, humbled by her presence.

Amusement flickers in Juliette’s expression. “Rise, child. We stand as equals, you and I.” Her casual praise washes over me like summer rain, soaking into my thirsty soul. “We are sisters in the Craft, after all.”

This is no dream—I speak to the most influential witch of our age, purely as women and peers. All too soon, it will end. I cling to every second granted to me.

Gently, she takes my hands in her warm, delicate grasp. Her emerald eyes meet mine with curiosity. “Your magic is astonishingly powerful, my dear. Truly a fearsome gift.”

I flush, glancing away self-consciously. But she tilts my chin up, compelling me to meet her earnest gaze.

“You mustn’t be ashamed,” she says. “One day, our world will be ready to embrace your greatness. I pray the gods grant me years to witness it.”

Her words resonate through me, hinting at a glorious destiny I scarcely dare imagine. I manage a silent nod, overcome with emotions I cannot name.

After a moment, Dristan’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder. “We should join the others, though I regret stealing you from such a pleasant conversation.”

Reluctantly, I nod farewell to the Grand Witch, like one waking from a dream. “I hope we may speak again soon.” My voice quivers with longing, hoping our paths will cross once more after tonight.

“And I would hear more of your sharp mind, Samara Alexeeva,” she purrs. “Until then.” Her smile sets my heart ablaze as Dristan leads me from the salon. But her praise lingers, spurring my spirit to soaring heights. The realm of possibility seems boundless now.

“That was...” I trail off, at a loss for words as we exit the salon. The grand gallery’s stillness instantly envelopes us. “Extraordinary,” I finally breathe. “She’s extraordinary.”

Dristan smirks knowingly. “Mm. I felt the same, when we first met. Like reuniting with someone I already knew.” He offers his arm, and I take it without hesitation, comforted by his steadying presence. A vampire and an Ursa witch strolling in harmony through the opulent halls of Deveraux Manor—it defies all preternatural laws.

As we turn down the corridor, a petite blonde girl nearly collides with me, only Dristan’s quick reflexes preventing a collision.

“Oh! Pardon me!” the girl exclaims, cheeks flushed. “I was just so excited for tonight, I got careless.”

Despite her flushed cheeks, a radiant halo enfolds her—exquisite shades of violet, gold, and rose flickering like a living flame. I itch to take her hand, to better read the hues and rhythms of her aura, glimpsing hints of the brilliant witch she will become. But Dristan’s subtle look reminds me we’ve lingered long enough.

Dristan makes introductions. “Lady Clarissa Draken, may I present Lady Samara Alexeeva.”

I swallow hard. She’s a Draken, sworn enemies of my clan for centuries—by the gods, we are surrounded by danger tonight. However, the girl’s demeanor is anything but menacing. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.

We make small talk about magic and the Grand Witch’s return until Dristan offers an arm to each of us as he guides us towards the dining room.

Despite Clarissa’s cheerful ease, tension gathers around us as we draw closer. The veil is thinning, and something momentous lurks in the air, just out of sight. As we stand before the room’s double doors, my grip on Dristan’s arm tightens, steeling myself for the darkness ahead.

Inhaling deeply, I summon my courage and heave the weighty oak doors ajar. The grand dining hall beyond has been utterly transformed for tonight’s ritual. Priceless furniture removed to create an open space, black candles providing the only illumination.

Shadows dance across the polished table, set with twelve chairs. Ornate candelabras line the center, their flames flickering erratically as if stirred by spectral breath.

Despite the hazy darkness, the diverse gathering radiates power. Vampires cloaked in preternatural stillness chat with brash, lively shifters. Watchful witch eyes follow everything, missing no detail. Ageless faces mix with unlined youth, predators keeping polite distance from prey.

Yet brittle camaraderie binds them—the sense of belonging to something meaningful. I ache to join in, to converse and forge connections. But uncertainty roots me in place, a moth paralyzed before that alluring flame of inclusion.

At my side, Dristan surveys the vibrant scene, allowing me time to recover my social bearings. A patient friend and guide when I need one most.

In the shadows, I spot Gavriil’s hulking guards flanking him. With surreptitious magic, I dash them a message to remain still, then melt back into the darkness beside Dristan. A moment’s worry will do my overprotective brother good.

At the room’s center, a lone figure stands by an empty chair—the thirteenth seat, biding its time for its owner to appear. Even across the distance, power thrumming around him prickles my skin. No ordinary man, but a blood demon, as the one beside me.

Jet-black hair spills across his proud brow, the ends caressing sharp cheekbones that any model would envy. His skin is alabaster pale, making his fierce green eyes stand out like blazing stars.

He stands with a coiled intensity, power thrumming from his athletic frame. Haughty features carved as if from marble mark him as vampire nobility, along with a subtle arrogance in his posture.

Yet grief shadows his striking face, betraying the turmoil beneath his polished exterior. Love and loss war within him tonight, beneath the ageless beauty and disdainful glamor.

Even across the distance, I feel the force of his ancient magic prickling my skin, raking like spectral claws. Raw yet refined, like a dagger sheathed in silk. Here stands a being who could end my life with a mere thought if he wished.

I whisper urgently to Dristan, “Is that truly Ivan Lockhart?” The elusive vampire lord rarely ventures out of his lair in the United States, yet rumor has it he personally requested this summoning from none other than the Grand Witch herself. Who hasn’t heard the stories of the legendary love affair between them centuries ago?

“My youngest fledgling, yes,” Dristan confirms, pride and concern warring in his voice. “Tonight’s ritual is... personal for our family.”

Before I can inquire further, he stiffens, gaze fixed over my shoulder. “Here comes the devil himself now,” he murmurs.

I turn to see a dark figure stalking towards us, powerful and elegant. So this is the fabled Ivan. His piercing jade eyes burn with quiet outrage as they set on his maker.

“Dristan?” he asks imperiously. “What is the meaning of this?” His smooth voice drips condescension.

I bristle at his arrogant tone, though we’ve barely met. Clearly, the rumors of his haughty temperament ring true.

Lockhart’s searing gaze bounces from me to young Clarissa. Just then, I notice Gavriil watching us from across the room, his expression hardening. He’s ready to break up this meeting in the most hot-headed way. I need to get out of this situation before he causes a scene over nothing.

Dristan remains unruffled, accustomed to his mercurial fledgling’s moods. “I met these lovely ladies outside. This is Miss Clarissa Draken and—”

I interrupt with a decisive step forward, my voice laced with urgency. “Shall we proceed? I’d like to get over with this quickly.” I put on a snobbish mask as I saunter away and join my brother. His hand finds mine almost immediately, and I know full well there will be consequences for my audacious behavior.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Gavriil murmurs in my ear, a quiet promise underlying the mild words. My stomach drops—that conversation will be anything but pleasant.

But my chaotic thoughts come to stillness as Juliette’s commanding voice echoes off the marble floors and gilded walls, calling all creatures to listen and obey. The very air hums with gathering might in answer.

“Come, let’s take our seats.” Gavriil leads me through the horde. He pulls back the head chair opposite Juliette’s seat and I sit beside him—the Ursa Princess that plays by the king’s rules, if only for this evening.