The soft clatter of wheels echoed through the night as a black carriage cut along the stone path outside West Hill. Inside, two vampires sat in silence, the thick air between them heavy with unsaid thoughts. Lord Lucas leaned back with effortless elegance, his long fingers toying with a half-burnt cigarette.
He exhaled slowly, the pale smoke curling into the cold air before drifting lazily out the window. The moon was high, cloaked in a veil of thin clouds. It was a bitter night. The kind of night where shadows whispered secrets only the brave dared to listen to.
"You knew her?" Lord Lucas finally spoke, his voice low, velvety, and unhurried...like he already knew the answer but wished to hear it aloud.
Oliver, seated opposite him, didn't flinch. "No."
Lucas raised a brow, watching the ember at the tip of his cigarette die down. "But you seemed... familiar. Do you perhaps like her?"
"I don't spend time admiring young ladies, my lord. You know that."
Lucas chuckled faintly, a sound without warmth. "Then you haven't changed."
Oliver met his gaze. "Do you like her?"
There was a pause...brief but weighted. Lord Lucas stubbed out the last of his cigarette with a flick of his fingers, and it vanished into smoke.
"Yes."
Oliver said nothing.
Lord Lucas's gaze turned toward the window again, his eyes reflecting the starless night. "There's something about her... her optimism. It's unnerving. And riveting."
"She's a bold one," Oliver said. "But bold women are often deceptive."
Lucas tilted his head. "Or honest."
"That, too," Oliver murmured, unconvinced.
They rode in silence for a while. Then—
"Have you heard from Logan?" Oliver asked, changing the subject.
"No," Lucas replied. "He's too busy playing husband. Human wives demand too much."
Oliver allowed a small smile. "Perhaps. He did leave her for long."
Lucas nodded. "They need to bond. Meanwhile, Castiel told me a witch was found dead in Black Bridge. Looks like the coven is growing desperate in their hunt for those damned stones."
"You don't think Logan was mistaken?"
"Logan doesn't make mistakes. If the witches are truly seeking the stones again, then we should reach them before they do."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "They're not just plotting, Lucas. They're burning entire villages down."
A pause.
"Then perhaps we stop them," Lucas said.
⸻
Back in the Harrison estate, Della stood in the hallway outside her father's study. She had come to see him, but the door had been left slightly ajar—odd. "Papa?" she called softly.
Receiving no answer, she stepped inside, her slippered feet barely making a sound on the polished floor. The room was dim, save for the warm flicker of candlelight atop the large oak desk.
Something caught her eye.
A parchment envelope, sealed but unguarded, rested openly among the scattered papers. Curiosity tugged at her. Hesitantly, she reached for it and broke the seal. Inside were several aged letters and rough ink sketches—drawings of stones. Ancient ones. She recognized their forms instantly. The same stones her mother had spoken of in cryptic notes.
But just as her eyes scanned the writing, a sharp voice behind her startled her.
"Della."
She spun around, heart lurching. Her father stood at the door, Xavier beside him.
"Papa—" she faltered, clutching the letters to her chest. "I... I didn't mean to—"
Fredrick's face hardened. "Touching my papers, child?"
He walked up to her and took the pages from her hands without further scolding, though his brows were furrowed.
"What are they?" she asked softly, eyes now drifting to Xavier—his expression unreadable, as always.
"I'll come back when you're less busy," she whispered before turning and quickly leaving the room.
Fredrick stared after her with a conflicted gaze.
"She knows something," Xavier said, frowning.
"I'm not certain," Fredrick sighed. "But we must tread carefully."
⸻
Later that night, the halls of the mansion were quiet. Della sat in her room, lantern glowing softly beside her as she held her mother's note. Her eyes traced the words she had memorized long ago. There was power in them. Hidden warnings.
A knock rapped at her door.
She opened it to find Xavier waiting outside, calm and composed.
"Are you really just a servant, Xavier?" she asked, her tone neither accusing nor playful...simply curious, searching.
He didn't blink. "Why do you ask, my lady?"
She paused, then gave a faint smile. "Never mind. What brings you here?"
"Your father wishes to speak with you," he replied.
She nodded and stepped out, closing her door behind her.
"Are you off somewhere?" she asked gently, noting how he wasn't dressed for bed.
"Just a walk in the gardens," he said.
Della gave another nod, then turned and walked down the softly lit corridor, her figure fading into the warm glow of oil lamps.
Xavier remained standing. His eyes lingered on her retreating form—quiet, golden, ethereal. His heart pulled in a way he hadn't meant to allow.
And for once, the hidden spy couldn't hide the faint smile playing on his lips.