71

71


"Tell me again exactly. Did that man say anything else?" Gosto asked, for what felt like the fifth time.

We were gathered in his office Gosto, Fosco, Ermes, Diamante, and me trying to piece together the fragments of that disastrous night. Exhaustion clung to me like a second skin, but so did fear. Someone out there knew what I was that I had awakened and the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I was convinced I knew who it might have been.

"I... I have something to confess," I said slowly, hesitantly. "I think I’ve seen him before. The man who called me Nephilim… his voice was different in the ballroom rough, hoarse but it might have been him."

“Him?” Ermes blinked, eyes narrowing. “Who are you talking about?”

I took a deep breath. “Since the day I arrived at the residence, I’ve been receiving notes strange ones.”

“What kind of notes?” Gosto’s voice dropped, steely and cold.

A lump formed in my throat, but I pushed past it and told them everything. The letters left at my door. The shadowed chase through the corridors. The midnight meeting by the fountain with a man cloaked in secrecy.

Gosto’s fists clenched as I spoke. His anger wasn’t loud or explosive it simmered just beneath his skin, restrained but razor-sharp. I understood his fury, but I needed them to see I hadn’t acted out of recklessness.

“I didn’t know who to trust. After what happened at the summer estate, I was completely alone. I felt... abandoned. Vulnerable.”

My eyes met Gosto’s. His expression was tight, his eyes burning not with rage, but with guilt. He looked like a man bearing the weight of his own failure. I didn’t speak. I just watched him, until my voice returned.

“All I wanted was the truth about what I am. And when someone offered that, I took the chance.”

“You met him at night? In the garden?” Fosco asked for clarity.

I nodded.

“Did you think he might be working for Gosto?”

“At first... maybe. He had a presence, something familiar. There was a quality about him a kind of power that reminded me of Gosto. In the ballroom, I felt it again, clear as day.”

“You must be mistaken,” Ermes said with a disbelieving snort. “No one under Gosto’s command has that kind of power.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “That’s why I doubt he was one of them.”

“Then how the hell did he get in?” Diamante cut in. “If he wasn’t one of us…”

“He could’ve been smuggled in by one of Anselmo’s spies,” Fosco offered, though even he sounded doubtful. “But considering he helped murder both Anselmo and Gualtiero… it’s more likely he came through the tunnels.”

Fosco looked at Gosto, and tension crackled between them.

“Don’t,” Gosto warned, his voice a low growl.

“Why not?” Fosco pressed. “No one ever found the body.”

I glanced from one to the other. “Whose body?”

“Aronne’s,” Ermes answered. “Gosto’s brother.”

I froze. I remembered Alighiero’s search for him how even he believed Aronne was gone.

“You think he’s still alive?”

Gosto opened his mouth, but Fosco beat him to it.

“Gosto refuses to hold on to false hope. But there have been signs. Small, unsettling signs that Aronne might not be as dead as we once thought.”

I turned back to Gosto. “Wouldn’t you want him to be alive?”

“I would give anything to see my brother again,” he said quietly. “But if he is alive… he may no longer see me as his brother.”

The air thickened with silence. I looked between them, desperate for more.

Fosco finally stepped in. “Before Gualtiero condemned Aronne to the wasteland, he claimed it was Gosto’s choice. Said he let Gosto decide.”

My mouth parted. “But… that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Gosto shook his head and lowered his gaze.

“I don’t understand…”

“Gualtiero told him a half-truth,” Fosco explained. “Gosto was forced to choose. One of them would be sent to the wasteland. The other would be imprisoned and tortured. Gosto knew Aronne wouldn’t survive the torture, so he chose that fate for himself. Aronne was cast out—and tried to survive. He even found a way to contact Alighiero.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. I looked at Gosto, and I saw it: pain carved deep into his soul, still raw after all these years.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. His lips twitched into a sad, fleeting smile.

“Every day, I prayed Alighiero would find him. But he never did. Then, years later, there was an attack on lands that once belonged to our father. Fosco and I had placed traps there. Ones only someone with Santini blood could pass through. And someone did.”

“And you didn’t search for your brother after that?” My voice trembled with disbelief.

“I did,” Gosto said tightly. “But it wasn’t simple. Whoever invaded those territories had to be strong. My brother was born... different. Weaker. It’s rare among vampires, but once in a thousand births, one is born fragile sick. There’s no cure for it. Especially not in the wasteland.”

“Then how is it possible?” I whispered.

Fosco sighed. “The wasteland is where the souls of fallen angels rest. Legend says that one can awaken them by offering their soul in exchange for power.”

“It’s just a myth,” Gosto muttered, but the look in his eyes betrayed him.

“And if it’s not?” I asked.

“If he made that kind of deal,” Gosto said slowly, “then he’s no longer my brother. Demons who borrow flesh can mimic their hosts. But they erode them slowly, deliberately until there’s nothing human left.”

I swallowed hard. “So... the man who came to me he could be Aronne?”

Fosco nodded, grave. “The question is why. If he made a pact with a demon, he wouldn’t need your blood.”

“I think he wanted me to awaken,” I said. “Does that mean my blood’s stronger now?”

“It might be,” Ermes admitted. “Your power’s been growing since the awakening.”

“But still,” Fosco argued, “if he has demonic power, he shouldn’t need you at all. It doesn’t add up.”

“What if we’re wrong about the demon part?” Diamante suggested. “What if he found a cure”

“There is no cure!” Gosto snapped. Then softer, his voice breaking, “There was no cure… for him.”

His eyes met mine, and I finally understood. My blood my love might have cured him. But not as I was then.

Fosco cleared his throat sharply. “We need to focus. Whoever this is, he’s strong. He just assassinated the ruler of the Underworld. It’s not hard to guess who his next target will be.”

I tensed. “Gosto?”

Fosco’s gaze fixed on me. “You. Both of you.”

The residence had become a fortress. Gosto’s guards encircled the estate. My windows were reinforced, and four warriors stood at my door.

Still, I didn’t feel safe.

Sleep dragged me under only from sheer exhaustion. But it wasn’t peaceful. My mind descended into a place I'd never seen before dark and unnatural.

I soared across desolate land, endless deserts scorched and cracking. I passed over a blackened forest, its trees nothing more than brittle ash. Then a cave appeared, a dark hollow in the earth.

Within its tunnels, the air glowed faintly red crystals pulsing in the gloom.

Then I saw him.

Crawling.

He looked barely human. Naked, covered in soot and blood, his skin raw and burned. His legs were shattered, his body crawling toward the crystals with gruesome determination.

He reached them. Pressed his hand against the sharp edges until it bled.

“Beliale,” he rasped. “I summon you. I offer my soul.”

The crystals shimmered. A voice echoed through them ancient and male.

“You are weak. Worthless.”

“I beg you,” the man wheezed. “Lucifer’s blood runs through my veins.”

Laughter. Cold, cruel.

“Power means nothing if it resides in a corpse.”

“But you were called worthless once too,” the man hissed. “You wanted revenge. So do I.”

The crystals trembled, some cracking.

“Your soul cannot rebuild my form,” the voice mocked.

The man bled harder, smiling through the agony. “Then I will…”

But the sound distorted. A dark cloud wrapped around my mind, muting his final words. I strained to hear, but only meaningless syllables came through.

Then the cloud lifted but the conversation had ended.

“Then I shall lend you my strength,” Beliale said.

The crystals exploded into dust. Darkness swallowed the cave whole.

I bolted upright in bed, gasping. My heart thundered. That vision hadn’t felt like a dream it felt real.

And something inside me knew: the part I hadn’t heard… it mattered. Maybe more than anything else.