Chapter 28 Capture Her Alive
The morning began with quiet precision in Valen’s chambers, a vast space of understated opulence. Dark marble floors stretched beneath his feet, the walls lined with tapestries older than the city itself, woven in shadowed hues of crimson and midnight. Only a soft, indirect light touched the room, casting a moody glow over the vampire leader as he prepared himself for the day.
Valen moved in calm, measured steps, his mind as sharply honed as the physical routines that kept him in peak form. With long, graceful strokes, he swept back his raven-black hair, exposing high cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and eyes that gleamed with an intense, unsettling allure. His movements were deliberate, precise, echoing the control he wielded over his realm. Every action, from dressing to the minor adjustments of his cuffs, embodied the silent power he commanded.
As he adjusted his collar, a faint knock came at the door—a sound that few in the Devil’s City dared to make. Dorian, his second-in-command, stepped in after a brief pause, his respectful nod a testament to the rigid hierarchy in place.
“Master, Maxwell has returned. He brings… news,” Dorian informed him, his tone carefully neutral but unable to mask a glint of unease in his eyes.
Valen glanced up, a flicker of curiosity softening his usually cold gaze. With a nod, he allowed himself a final glance in the mirror before striding to his study with Dorian tailing behind—a chamber of grand, intimidating proportions, lined with ancient tomes and relics that whispered of ages past.
Maxwell awaited him there, his tall, lean figure wrapped in the dark clothing he preferred for covert missions. Despite his subtle presence, there was an unmistakable air of menace about him—a creature shaped for espionage, with uncanny abilities to vanish into shadows, manipulate scents, and blend seamlessly into any environment.
As Valen took his seat, he observed the vampire spy with a measured look, his piercing gaze a silent demand for details.
Maxwell inclined his head, beginning his report. “My Lord, I have reason to believe… that the rumors are true. There exists a healer wolf, though weakened. And she appears not to be within the wolves' territory, temporarily removed from her pack.”
Valen’s brow raised slightly, but he remained silent as Maxwell withdrew a small vial of blood and handed it to Dorian, who, with barely a pause, passed it to Valen. The vampire leader held the vial up to the light, examining the rich crimson liquid within. Something in his expression changed—a flicker of rage tempered by intrigue.
Could it be? After all these years? He thought he'd ended every last one of them—an entire lineage extinguished out of vengeance. His gaze hardened, his mind drifting briefly back to that fateful war.
The memories surged unbidden. Lydia, his mate, radiant with life and laughter, had been taken from him, cut down in a clash between rival clans. Desperate to save her, he’d swallowed his pride, going to the werewolves, even as the truce between their races hung by a thread. The werewolves had healers then—wolves with powers beyond comprehension, able to pull the dying from the brink.
But they’d refused him. With cold, accusing stares, they’d turned him away. He’d stood outside their gates, helpless, while Lydia lay cradled in his arms, her face pale but still managing to offer him a feeble smile. And then she was gone.
The rage that had ignited in him that day still smoldered, lingering in the dark recesses of his heart. He’d vowed vengeance upon all healers that day, eradicating them so none could ever wield the power they’d denied his mate. And now, here was evidence that one had survived.
Maxwell’s voice cut through his reverie. “The healer wolf, my Lord, appears to have lost her connection to her wolf spirit, leaving her far more vulnerable and… more human,” he continued, measuring his words.
Valen’s gaze sharpened. “Interesting. So she cannot sense the presence of other creatures?”
“No, my Lord. She was unaware of my proximity, and I was able to gather intelligence freely. The only protection she has are four werewolf guards, stationed near the hospital entrance. But I avoided them easily by using the shadows and my gift of invisibility.”
Valen’s fingers tapped idly against the desk, eyes narrowed in thought. Maxwell had proven himself a master of concealment, able to mask his scent and his presence even from the keen noses of werewolves. But this information added an unexpected twist—one that could tip the scales in his favor.
“Where is this healer being held?” he asked, his voice cold and deliberate.
“In a remote hospital outside her pack’s territory. Apparently, she was on her way to the South when rogues ambushed her. An Alpha saved her and brought her to the nearest hospital,” Maxwell replied, his gaze never wavering from Valen’s.
The vampire leader’s lips twisted into a dark smile. “And this Alpha—where is he now?”
“Gone on a trip, likely in search of those responsible for the ambush,” Maxwell said, his tone infused with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Valen leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered the possibilities. With the Alpha absent, the healer wolf was ripe for the taking, defenseless and unaware of the storm approaching.
He turned to Dorian, his eyes flashing with intent. “Prepare a team of our best. Instruct them to retrieve her alive—no harm is to come to her. I must see with my own eyes what remains of the healer line.”
Dorian nodded, understanding the gravity of the order. “Yes, Master.”
With a final glance at Maxwell, who stood awaiting further instructions, Valen dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As he departed, Valen’s mind returned to Lydia and the lingering ache of his lost vengeance. If the healer wolf truly existed, then perhaps fate had finally delivered a way to satiate the vengeance he had been denied so many years ago.
For the werewolves, the reckoning was just beginning.