Chapter 2

Chapter Two

DEADLY DISCOVERY

The fog has become a living thing, writhing around my legs as I try to find my way back to the main gate. Something's wrong with my sense of direction – I've walked this path hundreds of times, but nothing looks familiar anymore. The weathered headstones I pass don't match my mental map of Ravencrest's geography. I should have reached the Milton mausoleum by now, but instead I'm in a section I've never seen before.

Don't panic , I tell myself, though my heart is already racing. The cemetery isn't that big. Keep walking and you'll hit either the fence or the main road eventually. But as I move through the cloud of mist, a horrible thought occurs to me: what if I'm walking in circles? The fog is so dense now that I can barely see ten feet ahead, and every monument I pass looks like a twisted shadow of itself .

A gust of wind sends dead leaves skittering across my path, their dry rustle like whispered warnings. The temperature seems to have dropped at least ten degrees in the last few minutes. I pull my coat tighter, but it does nothing to ward off the supernatural chill that's settled into my bones. Because that's what this is, isn't it? Supernatural . The writer in me knows the signs – the unnatural fog, the disorienting paths, the feeling of being hunted...

Stop it , I scold myself. This isn't one of your novels. There's a perfectly rational explanation for everything happening right now . But even as I think this, I notice how the silence has deepened. Not just quiet – a complete absence of sound, as if the very air is holding its breath. My boot heels on the gravel path should be echoing off the stones, but instead each step falls into a void of absolute stillness.

Movement catches my eye – a shadow darker than the surrounding gloom, slipping between two ornate obelisks about thirty yards ahead. My body freezes, primal instincts warring with rational thought. It's probably just another mourner , I try to convince myself. Or a groundskeeper working later than normal. But if that's true, why does every cell in my body scream at me to run in the opposite direction?

Before I can decide what to do, I hear it: the distinct sound of metal striking earth, followed by the softer impact of soil being displaced. Someone is digging .

Walk away , my survival instinct begs. Whatever's happening, you don't want to know. Get out of here now. But my traitorous feet are already moving toward the sound, drawn by the same dark curiosity that compels me to write about the monsters that lurk in humanity's shadows. The fog parts slightly as I approach, revealing a path I've never noticed before, leading down a gentle slope between two massive marble angels.

I move quietly down the path, grateful for the damp earth that muffles my footsteps. The digging sounds grow louder, accompanied now by something else – a low voice muttering in a language I don't recognize. The words sound ancient, full of hard consonants and guttural vowels that make my skin crawl.

Twenty feet ahead, the path opens into a small clearing ringed by towering cypresses. Their branches seem to bend inward, creating a natural dome that holds the fog at bay. In the center of this space, a tall figure stands over a freshly dug grave. Even in the dim light, I can tell it's a man – broad-shouldered and large, dressed in what looks like an expensive black suit that somehow hasn't collected a speck of dirt despite his labor.

He's holding a shovel, but what catches my attention is the object at his feet: a long bundle wrapped in dark fabric, roughly the size and shape of a human body .

My heart stops.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I should run. I should scream. I should do something other than stand here frozen, watching this scene unfold like some twisted tableau from a nightmare. But I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't even blink as the man sets aside his shovel and crouches beside the wrapped form.

"You should have known better than to challenge me in my own territory," he says, his voice a deep velvet rumble that sends inexplicable shivers down my spine. There's an accent I can't place – something old-world and aristocratic, completely at odds with the gruesome task at hand. "I am nothing if not fair. I gave you every chance to leave."

He's talking to the body, I realize with growing horror. Having one-sided conversations with corpses – that's serial killer behavior, isn't it? I need to get out of here. Need to find my phone, call the police, do something besides stand here like a deer in headlights while this madman hides a body in plain sight.

But even as these thoughts race through my mind, the man reaches down and pulls back the fabric covering what I now know with certainty is a corpse. I expect to see something horrible – blood, violence, decay. Instead, I find myself staring at the most beautiful dead person I've ever seen.

The body is male, probably in his mid-twenties, with features that would look at home on a Renaissance sculpture. His skin is pale, unmarked except for two small puncture wounds on his throat. His expression is almost peaceful, as if he's merely sleeping. But there's something wrong with the way his chest doesn't move, something unnatural about the absolute stillness of his form.

"The young ones always think they're immortal," the man continues, and there's something like regret in his tone. "Always convinced they're the exception to rules written in blood centuries before their turning. Did you really think I wouldn't sense you hunting in my domain? That I wouldn't notice you stalking my chosen?"

Turning? Domain? What the fuck is he talking about? My mind struggles to process his words, to make them fit into any kind of rational framework. But there is no rational explanation for what I'm witnessing. Just as there's no rational explanation for why I'm still standing here, watching this scene unfold instead of running for my life.

The man straightens to his full height – well over six feet – and makes a gesture with his hand. The air seems to ripple, and suddenly the corpse bursts into flames. I clamp both hands over my mouth to stifle a scream as the body burns with a furious intensity, leaving no smoke or smell. Within seconds, there's nothing left but a fine gray ash that the man kicks into the open grave with an almost casual motion.

"Dust to dust," he says, and there's dark humor in his voice. "Though I doubt this is what the prayer had in mind."

I take an involuntary step backward, and my heel connects with a loose stone. The sound seems deafening in the unnatural silence, and the man's head snaps up with inhuman speed.

Our eyes meet across the clearing.

Oh dear God.

My legs tremble as I take him in. He's beautiful. Terrifyingly, impossibly beautiful, like an angel carved from marble and granted terrible life. His features are aristocratic – high cheekbones, strong jaw, aquiline nose – but it's his eyes that trap me, that pin me in place like a butterfly on a board. They're the color of arctic ice, ancient and predatory, and they're fixed on me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

For an endless moment, neither of us moves. I'm not even sure that I'm breathing. Then his lips curve into a smile that shows too many teeth, and reality comes crashing back.

I run .

Blind panic gives my feet wings as I flee back up the path, no longer caring about noise or direction or anything except getting away from those eyes and that terrible smile. Branches whip at my face as I crash through the fog, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind me, I hear nothing – no footsteps, no pursuit – but somehow that's even worse.

This isn't happening this isn't happening this isn't happening. The words repeat in my head like a broken record as I run, matching rhythm with my pounding heart. Part of my mind is already trying to rationalize what I've seen, to file it away as a hallucination or a trick of the light. But a deeper part knows the truth: I've witnessed something impossible, something that's going to change everything.

I risk a glance over my shoulder and immediately regret it. He's there, standing perfectly still about thirty feet behind me, watching my flight with what looks like amused interest. I never heard him move. Never sensed him following. He's just there , like he materialized out of the fog itself.

My foot catches on an exposed root and I stumble, throwing my hands out to break my fall. Pain shoots through my palms as they scrape against gravel, but I barely register it as I scramble back to my feet. When I look back again, he's gone .

Relief floods through me for exactly two seconds before I slam into something solid.

Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I can fall. I look up – way up – into those impossible eyes, and my mind goes blank with terror. He's so much larger up close, radiating a physical presence that makes me feel small and fragile. That elegant suit does nothing to hide the predatory power of his frame.

"Now, now," he says, that voice doing things to my insides that have no business happening in a moment of mortal terror. "What's your hurry, little ghost?"

I try to step back, but his hands might as well be iron bands for all I know. "Let me go," I manage to whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds.

His head tilts slightly as he studies me like a scientist examining an undiscovered specimen."I think not," he replies, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that terrifies me more than anger would have. "You've seen far too much to simply walk away."

"I won't tell anyone," I say quickly. "I swear. Whatever I saw – whatever I thought I saw – I'll forget all about it. Please."

That too-sharp smile returns. "You're lying," he says, and one hand releases my shoulder to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are cool against my skin, sending electric shivers down my spine. "I can hear your pulse racing, smell the fear rolling off you in waves. But underneath that..." He leans closer, inhaling deeply, and my body betrays me with a shiver that has nothing to do with fear. "Underneath that, I smell fascination. Desire . The dark part of you that wants to know more about me."

He's not wrong, I realize with horror. Beneath the terror, beneath the rational part of my brain screaming at me to run, there's something else. Something that's drawn to the danger he represents, to the ancient power that radiates from him in palpable waves. The same part of me that writes about monsters and creatures of the night is now face to face with something straight out of my darkest fantasies.

"What are you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

He laughs, a rich sound that seems to vibrate through my entire body. "I think you know exactly what I am, Elena Monroe."

My blood turns to ice as he purrs my full name. "How do you know my name?"

"I know many things about you," he says, and his hand slides from my face to curl around the back of my neck. The touch is possessive, claiming. "I've watched you walking these grounds for years, mourning your dead with such beautiful grief. Did you think you were alone in your midnight wanderings? That no one noticed how the darkness calls to you?"

I should be terrified by this admission of stalking. Should be repulsed by the thought of this creature – this vampire , my mind finally admits – observing my private moments of sorrow. Instead, I feel a thrill of... something. Recognition? Anticipation?

"Who was he?" I ask, nodding toward where we'd been. "The man you... the body..."

"A foolish young one who thought to hunt in my territory." His voice hardens. "One who had taken an unhealthy interest in you."

The implication hits me the same way a physical blow would, and I raise my brow as I question him, "He was watching me?"

"For weeks." His grip tightens so slightly that I almost miss it. "Did you think the sensation of being followed was merely paranoia? He was waiting for the right moment to strike, to take what I had already claimed as mine."

"Yours?" Indignation flares through my fear. "I don't belong to anyone, and definitely not you ."

His smile turns predatory. "Don't you?" His other hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip in a gesture that makes my breath catch. "Why do you think you've felt so drawn to this place? Why do you think your steps always led you deeper into my domain, no matter how you tried to resist? You've been mine since the first moment I saw you, Elena. You just didn't know it yet."

I should argue. Should pull away and run screaming into the night. Instead, I find myself swaying toward him, drawn by some primal magnetism I can't begin to understand. "I don't even know your name," I whisper.

"Torrin," he says, and the name seems to echo in my bones. "Though I've had many others through the centuries."

Centuries . The casual way he says it sends another shiver through me. "What... what are you going to do with me?"

His laugh is dark velvet. "Nothing you don't secretly want, little ghost." He steps back, releasing me so suddenly I stumble. "For now? Nothing at all. The hunt is half the pleasure, after all."

I blink in confusion. "You're letting me go?"

"For now," he repeats, and his smile promises things that make my knees weak. "Run home, Elena. Lock your doors. Write your stories. But know this – you're mine now. I'll be watching. Waiting . And when the time is right..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. The promise hangs in the air between us like smoke.

Then he's simply... gone. No dramatic disappearance into mist, no supernatural speed. One moment he's there, the next he isn't, leaving me alone in the fog with my racing heart and trembling limbs.

I run all the way back to my car, refusing to look over my shoulder again. The cemetery gates seem to groan in sympathy as I burst through them, fumbling with my keys before practically throwing myself into the driver's seat. Only when I'm locked inside with the engine running do I allow myself to break down, shaking with delayed terror and something else. Something darker and more primal that makes me press my thighs together against a heat I don't want to acknowledge.

As I pull away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of movement in my rearview mirror – a tall figure standing just inside the gates, watching my retreat. My foot presses harder on the accelerator, but I can't shake the certainty that follows me home:

This is only the beginning.