Marcus woke to a ceiling that looked like the inside of a spaceship white plaster framed by recessed lights, no cracks, no water-stains, no buzzing roach in sight. For half a second he thought he was dreaming, until he tried to sit up and every muscle in his body hollered like it had been bench-pressing Buicks all night.
"Morning, young master."
The bass-heavy accent came from the doorway. Tobias the driver with the not-quite-human ears stood there in a charcoal vest, polishing a silver tray. In the daylight the tint to his skin was obvious: sea-glass green, darker around the knuckles. His eyes were completely black, yet somehow warm.
"I made you Haitian coffee—your great-grandmother's recipe. Ms Blackwood said the smell might feel familiar."
Marcus swung his legs off the mattress, half expecting to stick to plastic like back at home. The sheets were Egyptian cotton; his toes landed on a rug softer than his old winter coat.
"How long was I out?" His voice croaked like he'd swallowed sand.
"Four hours. At dawn Ms. Blackwood led the warding ritual. With the place locked down, she said you could sleep until noon, but food will help your recovery."
Marcus followed the scent dark roasted beans mixed with condensed milk and cinnamon across a bedroom bigger than the living room he'd grown up in. The mirror over the dresser caught him by surprise. No garbage juice, no alley dirt. Someone had cleaned him, trimmed his nails, even fixed the faded twist-out in his hair. He wore a long white T-shirt that reached his knees, hospital-gown style.
"You… uh… carried me?"
"I did," Tobias said, pride sneaking into his voice. "Moonborn weigh more than they look. Dense bones. Good for smashing vampires; bad for my back."
Marcus laughed, then winced. "Every part of me hurts."
"Your body rewired itself last night." Tobias handed him the coffee. "Growth spurts, adrenaline surges, muscle fiber realignment—Moonborn puberty, all in a few hours. Small wonder you ache."
Coffee hit his tongue like liquid memory—Grandma Marie humming old folk songs, the rattle of her tin kettle, him stealing sips when Mom wasn't looking. His eyes stung.
"Thank you."
Tobias bowed. "My pleasure. Clothes await in the closet. Ms Blackwood prefers punctuality."
Ten minutes later Marcus found Amara in what could only be called a glass temple. The back half of the mansion opened into a sun-drenched atrium overlooking rolling woods. Floors of pale stone were painted with silver sigils—moons, wolves, trees, shapes he'd seen in her floating blood the night before.
Amara sparred with a man built like an MMA heavyweight. He swung a wooden staff; she deflected every blow with her bare forearms, moving like water cutting stone. Sparks burst where wood met her skin—real sparks, blue-white, sizzling on the floor.
She disarmed him, tapped his chest twice. "Again at dusk, Erik." The big man bowed and lumbered away, breathing like a freight train.
Amara turned to Marcus. She wore yoga pants and a sleeveless top, her arms corded with lean muscle and faint silver scars that pulsed under the skin.
"Sleep okay?"
"I feel like I wrestled a bus."
"That's accurate," she said. "Your cells broke their speed limit all night. Side effect of being born under a lunar crest." She tossed him a matte-black object the size of a TV remote. He fumbled, sore muscles protesting. "Fitness tracker. Moonborn models read power spikes, not just steps."
The display lit: HEART 92 | POWER 3%
"Three percent?"
"You burned through most of your reserve jumping rooftops. Think of it as a phone battery; right now you're on red." She beckoned him toward a low wooden bench. "First lesson: charge cycles."
She pointed at the sun-soaked glass overhead. "Moonlight is ideal, but any light feeds you. Food helps. Sleep helps more. Fear… fastest of all, though I don't recommend living scared."
Marcus nodded, absorbing. "So I'm a solar panel for the moon."
"Close enough." She handed him a protein bar the size of a brick. "Eat."
It tasted like chocolate drywall, but halfway through he felt the meter on the tracker tick 4%, 5%, 6%. The ache in his shoulders eased.
"Second lesson: rules. One—the Covenant has given us seven days to show you're not a threat. Break the masquerade, kill a bystander, start a gang war—Matthias gets to drink you like Capri-Sun. Two—you'll train, twice a day. Body at dawn, senses at dusk. Three—you listen. You question, you argue, but when I say 'move,' you move. Deal?"
Marcus looked out at the forest, leaves stirring in the hot breeze. Somewhere beyond those trees Dante was probably gearing up, telling his boys a new boogeyman lived in Buckhead. Marcus swallowed the fear—felt the tracker jump to 8%.
"Deal."
"Good. Let's see what three percent power can do."
"I'm at eight now."
Her eyebrows lifted, pleased. "Even better. Try to hit me."
Marcus laughed then realized she was serious. "Like, for real?"
"For real. Swing."
He swung. Slow. She stepped aside, tapped his forehead. "Again."
He tried faster. She parried, nudged his shoulder. "Again."
Frustration boiled. He thought of Tyrell's hand on Keisha, Dante's gun in his face, Matthias's red eyes. Power stirred. He went low, faked high, pivoted off his back foot the way Coach Anders taught.
Amara slid inside his guard and flicked his ear. Pain zinged. He stumbled.
"Your fundamentals are good—for a human. But Moonborn instincts are different. Feel, don't think."
He tried five more times, landing nothing but air. By the sixth, sweat dripped off his chin, tracker reading 15%. Every miss made the next swing stronger, faster. He felt the air warp around his fist.
Amara finally caught his wrist mid-punch. The floor cracked under his planted foot; her arm didn't budge.
"That was better," she said, releasing him. "But you're burning charge too quickly. Control is power measured, not power dumped."
Marcus's lungs heaved. The aches were gone, replaced by a tingly hum through his muscles. "Okay… what next?"
"Shower. Breakfast number two. Then academics—Moonborn history, Covenant law, supernatural taxonomy. Tonight we test your vision range."
He wiped sweat with the hem of his shirt. "When do I learn how to kill a vampire?"
Amara's smile was thin. "Sooner than you think."
––––––
The house had more corridors than his entire apartment complex. Paintings of people with unsettling eyes lined the walls—some looked like Amara in period clothes; some looked like Tobias with smaller ears. He passed a library big enough to be a public branch, then a kitchen where a matronly woman chopped herbs that glowed faint green.
She glanced up. "I'm Lenora. If you're hungry, say so. If you're injured, let me know where to bury the body."
Marcus decided she was joking. Mostly.
He found his room again and stepped into a bathroom tiled in black marble. The shower had six nozzles; he twisted one and almost jumped out of his skin when hot water hit from above and the side at once. Back home the water heater coughed if two faucets ran at the same time.
He stared at himself in the fogged mirror. Same crooked front tooth, same faint mustache he'd been coaxing to grow. But his eyes… still brown, thank God, yet deeper. Almost like a shadow moved behind the iris.
Moonborn.
He touched the crescent scar on his shoulder. Was Grandma Marie Moonborn too? Had she fought vampires in Haiti before hopping a boat to New Orleans? He wished she were alive to explain everything.
A knock. "Five minutes," Tobias called.
Marcus threw on the training clothes laid out—compression shirt, flexible cargo pants, socks that felt like clouds. He caught himself grinning. Yesterday he'd worn the same ripped jeans three days running.
Downstairs, Amara waited at a long dining table. Plates of fresh fruit, eggs, smoked salmon. No cereal, no Pop-Tarts. Tobias poured juice that shimmered silver.
"Moon-tonic," Amara explained. "Orange, coconut water, pinch of powdered moonstone. Helps recharge."
He drank; it tasted like citrus and static electricity. The tracker jumped to 22%.
Amara slid a tablet across. "History Lesson One: Moonborn Lineages of the Western Hemisphere. Skim chapters two and five. Pay attention to the Haitian Rebellion section—your family played a role."
Marcus blinked. "My family was part of a revolution?"
"A footnote, but yes. Marie-Claire's great-great-grandfather was a messenger for Dutty Boukmann—another Moonborn. The blood runs deep."
He scrolled, reading names he couldn't pronounce, battles never taught in U.S. History. Slaves who shattered chains under red moons, women who healed whole platoons with a touch, children who saw through plantation walls and mapped escape routes.
While he read, Amara answered emails, voice-typing in French, Spanish, something Slavic. She must have felt his stare.
"Questions?"
"Yeah. Why help me? My great-grandma asked, sure, but you could have said no."
Amara set the tablet aside. "When I was your age, someone saved me. Taught me what I was before the Hunters caught up. I repay the debt by paying it forward. Simple as that."
"Don't feel simple," Marcus muttered.
She softened. "Maybe it isn't. But it's the best reason I've found to keep living this long."
"How long?"
A small, private smile. "Older than Atlanta. Younger than the pyramids."
Before Marcus could decide if she was joking, Tobias hustled in with a phone. "Ma'am, secure line—Cassandra Voss."
Amara's smile vanished. She took the phone, voice dropping an octave. "Cassandra, should I assume this call means your fledgling has gone rogue?"
Pause.
"I'm training the boy. Yes, that boy."
Her gaze flicked to Marcus, then away.
"If Dante steps foot in my territory again, I will not respect Miami borders. Clear enough?"
She ended the call, exhaling. "So much for a quiet week."
"Dante's in Miami?"
"Was. Now he's missing. When a newborn vampire vanishes, people die."
Marcus felt his anger fizz. "He's coming for me?"
"Or for attention. Or both. Either way, you'll be ready." She stood. "Academics are over. Time for fieldwork."
"Like… outside?"
She headed for a glass door that opened onto the back lawn. "Matthias made a point last night. The Covenant will send an auditor to test you. Best we schedule the first demonstration on our terms."
Marcus followed, heart punching his ribs. "What kind of demonstration?"
Amara smiled over her shoulder. "A simple one. You're going to catch a bullet."
He stopped. "You serious?"
"Perfectly. It's rubber, but it will travel at nine hundred feet per second. If you miss, you'll bruise. If you freeze, you'll break a rib. Catch it, and the Council envoy will mark your reflexes 'controlled.' One test down, six to go."
Tobias appeared with a padded vest and a football helmet. "Safety first," he dead-panned.
Marcus swallowed the last of his fear, watching the tracker blink 30%. Felt the hum in his skin turn into a low thunder.
Catch a bullet. Okay, crazy. But last night he'd jumped forty feet and lived. Maybe crazy was the new normal.
He slipped on the vest, buckled the helmet. Across the lawn, Erik the mountain of a sparring partner loaded a single round into what looked like a police-grade rifle.
Amara raised her hand. "Remember—feel, don't think."
Marcus exhaled, eyes on the rifle. The world slowed. Grass bent in the wind like time-lapse. A dragonfly hovered, wings a blur. He could almost hear the click of Erik's finger tightening.
The rifle barked.
Marcus moved. Not forward or back but sideways, hand snapping out on instinct. Pain stung his palm—more shock than hurt. When he opened his fist, a squashed rubber slug sat there, smoking.
Silence… then Tobias whooped like a soccer fan. Erik grinned wide. Amara's eyes gleamed proud.
"Very good," she said, but her smile faded as she checked her phone. "And just in time. The envoy will arrive tonight."
Marcus flexed the hand holding the bullet. A red welt rose but healed even as he watched. Tracker climbed: 34%.
"Tonight it is, then," he said, surprising himself with how steady he sounded.
Amara nodded. "Tonight. Eat, rest, meditate. Shadowfalls come at dusk."
"Shadowfalls?"
"You'll see." She headed back toward the house, talking over her shoulder. "And Marcus?—welcome to the job."
He looked at the bullet one more time, then at his glowing tracker, then at the blood-red moon ghosting pale in the daylight sky.
First test passed. Six days, six more to go. And after that? Dante. Matthias. Whoever else thought the hood kid was easy prey.
Marcus closed his fist around the slug.
Bring it.