The plan

The plan
Vicky
Nightfall draped the world in shadows, the sky a deep indigo pierced by the first stars. Marcelo’s coven had settled at a clearing for the night, our makeshift camp alive with the crackle of a bonfire and the low hum of conversation.
After dinner, as the scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke lingered in the air, Marcelo stood. He flashed a warm but purposeful smile and waved his hands to draw everyone’s attention.
“Well, brothers,” he said. "I need to talk to my Ame alone.”

The coven exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement, but they rose without protest, drifting into the darkness for a walk. I stayed by the bonfire, the heat warming my face as I tucked my knees to my chest, my heart thudding with a mix of anticipation and unease.
Marcelo settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the faint energy radiating from him, like a current beneath his skin. His purple eyes caught the firelight, flickering with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

“You said something about always wanting the truth,” he began.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving mine. “I need to tell you two things,” he said. “The first is that I’m going to need to use you as bait to catch your father.”

I stiffened, my fingers digging into the rough fabric of my jeans. “I’m always put in the game like a pawn, even if I don’t want to.”
Jean, Dimitri, now Marcelo, all maneuvering me into their plans, as if my own desires were irrelevant.

Marcelo’s expression softened. “But this time, you’re going to play, Ame. And the prize is your freedom.”

Freedom. I wanted to believe him, to trust that this dangerous game could unshackle me from the past, but doubt gnawed at me. I swallowed hard, bracing myself. “And the second issue?”

He looked away, the fire casting shadows across his face. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, heavy with something like sorrow. “Your father might want to kill you,” he said, “or trick Nosferatu into doing it. Because he’s counting on it to increase his power. The moment you die, the powers he took from you will return to him. This is the curse, or the turth of your family bloodline. It is why Jean killed his mother, to get her powerful and fullfill his. And it is also the reason you have no witch power, because your father have not dead, once he was...”

My breath caught, a cold weight settling in my chest. “So, he never loved me?”
I’d clung to the hope that Jean, despite his distance, had cared for me in some flawed way. But now, that hope felt like a child’s fantasy, crumbling under the weight of Marcelo’s words.

Marcelo’s eyes met mine again, and I saw a flicker of pain there, as if he hated being the one to shatter me. “I can’t say for sure,” he said gently. “But, since I know him well, I don’t believe that. He never loved my mother either and was her lover for years. I’m sorry for everything.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the fire’s restless crackle. I stared into the flames, my mind reeling, my heart a tangle of grief and rage. Marcelo shifted closer, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, almost a whisper.
“There’s more,” he said. “Jean killed my mother—his own queen. Or rather, he manipulated Nosferatu into doing it, all to gain more power. I have no doubt he’d do the same to you and still come out as the victim of the story.”

The revelation hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath. My father, a murderer, not just of strangers, but of Marcelo’s mother, the woman he’d claimed to love. And me? I was nothing more than a means to an end, a vessel for power he’d sacrifice without hesitation.
The fire’s warmth couldn’t touch the chill spreading through me, my hands trembling as I pressed them to my face. Jean’s betrayal wasn’t new, I’d always sensed his manipulations, but to hear it laid bare, to know he’d orchestrated such horrors, made my blood run cold.
I thought of Dimitri, dead by his father’s hand, and wondered if Jean had played a role in that too, pulling strings from the shadows. Was I next, bait not just for Marcelo’s plan but for Jean’s ambitions?

I looked at Marcelo, his face half-lit by the fire, and saw the weight he carried. He was asking me to risk everything, to step into a trap that could end my life, all for a chance at freedom.
But what choice did I have? If Jean wanted me dead, running wouldn’t save me. And if Marcelo was right, this was my chance to fight back, to reclaim my power and my life.

“He defended me from my grandmother. Hid me all my life, pretending to be a therapist to keep me close. And when he came to power, he would find a way to kill me to have more power? He is that monster, isn’t he?” The words spilled out, bitter and sharp, as I pieced together the lies. “What a long, lying story he told to build this whole narrative without raising suspicions.” I looked at Marcelo. “How do you know all this?”

“Perpetua, or Pepe as you knew,” he said. “She’s our clairvoyant. She saw some things that could happen in the future. That’s why I came here. And Morgana has the gift of speaking to spirits. She heard certain confessions from her own grandmother.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tangling in my hair as I stared into the flames. “I wouldn’t say I’m shocked,” I said, my tone hardening. “But that my paternal family is a horror, oh yes. And if that was the end of Dimitri,” I continued, “it could be mine. Or who knows, he might still manage to kill me.”

Marcelo tilted his head, a faint smile curving his lips, though his eyes held a fierce protectiveness. “But you are stubborn, aren’t you, my sweet Âme?” he said, his voice warm, almost teasing. “So, whatever happens, don’t accept death.”

I met his gaze, a spark of defiance igniting in my chest. “My goal is to stay alive,” I said firmly, straightening my shoulders. “I’m too young.”

He chuckled, his smile widening, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “And pretty.”

I raised an eyebrow, catching the playful shift in his tone. “Is that a pick-up line, Celo?”

“Ah, Âme,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “the things we could do to test our connection.”

I swatted his arm hardly. I believed I have used my wolf strength to hurt him a little. “I’m seeing these scenes,” I said, narrowing my eyes in mock indignation. “Clear your head.”

He laughed again, louder this time. Marcelo was a polygamous pervert, no question about it. His flirtations as bold as his convictions. But beneath the teasing, I felt the weight of his sincerity, his belief in our bond as soul siblings.
I rolled my eyes, letting the moment pass without leaning into his invitation. New experiences could wait; right now, survival was my focus. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks skyward, and I felt a resolve settle in my bones. Jean might see me as a pawn, but I’d rewrite his game. I’d live, not just for myself, but to spite the monster who’d shaped my life with lies.

…

We’d taken the long way around, Marcelo’s coven moving with practiced stealth to avoid the surveillance nets Jean and his allies had likely cast over Romania. The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of moss and pine, and every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig set my nerves on edge.
We were close now.
Bucharest loomed just beyond the horizon, a city pulsing with danger and answers. The weight of our mission pressed against my chest, but so did the thrill of it, the chance to outwit my father and claim my freedom.

We walked during the day. At night, we hid, curling up in makeshift shelters or hollows, sleeping fitfully under the stars. My muscles ached from the relentless pace, but it was the quiet moments that let my thoughts wander to James.

As we paused in a small clearing, my phone buzzed against my hip. I pulled it out, my heart lurching at Dário’s name on the screen.
His message was brief but loaded: The devils have arrived. James stayed. I’m sorry. You’re both equally stubborn. He asked me to send you this song:
Right here waiting.

I stared at the words, my breath catching.
“He’s an idiot,” I typed back, a mix of exasperation and affection twisting in my gut.
The song cheesy, and pure James, the kind of gesture that could make me roll my eyes and melt at the same time.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and leaned against a tree, its bark rough against my back. The forest was quiet, save for the distant chatter of the coven and the soft creak of branches overhead. My mind drifted to James.
I’d always been just as stubborn, refusing to bend to his decisions, fighting for my place as his equal. Now, with our roles reversed—me out here, defying danger, while he stayed behind, waiting—I wondered if he finally understood.
It wasn’t just him who’d move mountains for me; I’d do the same for him. I didn’t need to obey his commands, didn’t need to be the one protected. We were partners, equals, even if he struggled to see it.

The thought brought a bittersweet ache. I loved him, fiercely, but love didn’t mean surrender. I’d left to protect him as much as myself, to face Jean and unravel the lies that bound me.
I sighed. Would he ever see that my leaving wasn’t rejection, but strength? That I was fighting for us both, for a future where we could stand side by side, not one shielding the other?

The forest gave way to craggy hills as we neared Dracula’s Castle, its silhouette looming in the distance like a jagged scar against the twilight sky. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying the faint metallic tang of ancient stone and something darker.
The plan had been laid bare: Marcelo intended to confront Nosferatu and Jean, pitting them against each other in a deadly game of accusations. He’d offer me as bait, handing me over to whichever of them could convince him of their innocence in his mother’s death.
I was to plunge a poisoned dagger into Jean’s jugular, while Marcelo would dose Nosferatu with a toxin potent enough to weaken the vampire king, imprisoning him for a century. That was the penalty for the unjust murder of a royal, a sentence Nosferatu, as an original, could only face with the council’s approval.
Death was off the table, but a hundred years of confinement would strip him of power.

Marcelo’s warlocks buzzed with confidence, their eyes glinting with the certainty of a well-crafted plan. They trusted their prince, his charisma and cunning a beacon in this shadowed war.
But me? My role was the linchpin—hugging my father, the man who’d shaped my life with lies, only to drive a blade into his throat.
Marcelo needed me to be brave, to channel my rage into precision. Meanwhile, he’d face Nosferatu, slipping poison into the vampire’s veins. The plan was elegant, ruthless, but doubt gnawed at me. Could Marcelo pull it off? And more importantly, could I trust him?
He was charming, funny, his violet eyes warm with promises of loyalty. But he was a warlock prince, driven by the ghost of his mother’s murder and the allure of Jean’s power. Was vengeance his true aim, or was he playing a deeper game, with me as another pawn?

I sat on a moss-covered rock, the chill seeping through my jeans as I rubbed my temples, my head spinning from the weight of it all. I couldn’t afford naivety, not when Jean’s betrayal had already carved such deep wounds.
But Marcelo felt different, he was sincere, just like Dimitri.
I closed my eyes, reaching for Veny, my inner wolf, whose presence had become my anchor since our reconnection.
Veny, girl, what do you say? I whispered in my mind, my heart racing. It’s a big risk, but no one has a better plan, right? Maybe now you need to connect with your witch side and feel what I should do.
Her response was a warm pulse, felt both wild and clear: Trust, but stay sharp. Lean into your power—wolf and witch.

Marcelo’s voice broke through my thoughts, soft but urgent, as he crouched beside me, his lantern casting a golden glow across his face.
“Âme, I feel your doubts,” he said, his purple eyes searching mine. “We won’t win if we don’t trust each other. If we have doubts, they’ll get us, wolf. I have some witch allies within my mother’s coven, but Jean’s brought his own, so in the end, it’ll be you and I who tip the scales. I won’t be able to enter with my brothers.”

“This all sucks,” I admitted, my voice rough. “I can feel that I should trust you, but even so, I’m apprehensive.”

He nodded, a flicker of understanding in his gaze. “That’s natural,” he said. “It’s your first time in a duel of giants. I’m sure you can lead this attack very well with me. You just need to be prepared for the emotional state of being face to face with your father.”

I scoffed, bitterness rising like bile. “He’s not and never was anything to me,” I said, my voice hard, “other than a big lie.”

Marcelo’s lips curved into a determined smile. “So, let’s bring light to the darkness!”
As Marcelo moved to confer with his coven, I lingered by the lantern’s glow, my mind racing. The plan was bold, but it relied on precision and trust—two things I struggled to fully embrace.
Then a thought struck me: allies from within could shift the odds. Valeska. She’d been my contact, her messages sharp and reliable.
Could she infiltrate the castle, move unseen where we couldn’t? Her ties to the vampire world might give her access, a way to disrupt Jean or Nosferatu from the inside.
I pulled out my phone, the solar battery’s faint hum reassuring, and typed a quick message: Valeska, are you near Dracula’s Castle? Need to know if you can get inside. Big moves happening.