Chapter XCIX: The Bitten History
The next morning dawns in a fog so thick it seems to muffle even time itself. London lies beneath a veil of gray, as if the heavens are reluctant to let the sun pierce through.
Still within the Hoia Baciu Forest in Romania, Nathaniel, Theo, Kingsley, Edison, Pauline, and Maisie are still brainstorming. Inside Dracula's library, where the ancient and the modern collide in a cathedral of shadow and candlelight, the group gathers once more.
The scent of parchment, old wax, and iron seeps through the stone. Nathaniel stands before a long oak table, his reflection fractured on its polished surface. Theo lounges against a pillar, Edison fiddles with the edge of his notebook, Kingsley's brow remains furrowed, Pauline arranges her notes in perfect order, and Maisie clutches her glowing sphere close to her chest.
Dracula watches from his high-backed chair like a monarch carved from shadow. His crimson eyes are dimmed but alert, burning with centuries of memory.
The air hums. Something in the castle has awakened—something old, restless, listening.
Nathaniel flips open one of the books—the ink faded, the edges crumbling at his touch. Its cover bears the sigil of the Pectus family: two serpents entwined around a silver chalice.
"According to this record," he says, voice steady but heavy, "these texts detail the rapid experiments done under Dahlia's supervision."
Theo raises an eyebrow. "Dahlia—the nurse-turned-demon?"
Nathaniel nods. "Formerly Dorothy. She was a nurse and pharmacist before... before all this."
Kingsley leans forward, his tone edged with disbelief. "A nurse became a demon? How does that even work?"
Dracula rises slowly, the movement regal and deliberate. "It works through desperation—and ritual."
The group's eyes follow him as he crosses toward the table, candlelight catching on the rings that adorn his pale fingers. "When a soul craves power more than it fears damnation, it invites the ritual of transformation. A blood vow, sealed by what you might call the Breathless Light. The Pectus family was poor—stripped of nobility, forgotten by man. But greed," he says, voice deepening, "is the most dangerous hunger."
Edison frowns. "So they sold their souls?"
Dracula's smile is cold. "They traded them. Souls are never lost—they are exchanged."
Pauline scans her notes, her pen hovering. "Then Darbie must have been the one who started it. It says here she led the ritual."
Maisie looks up, her voice soft but trembling. "But why her? What could have driven a twin to do that?"
Pauline studies the words on the page, then glances at Nathaniel. "Context clues. Poverty. Envy. They were desperate to rise. The Pectus family's estate was collapsing. They turned to forbidden rites for wealth—and got it. But when that wasn't enough..."
Nathaniel finishes, his tone low and sharp. "They raided Dracula's castle."
A silence follows—one that throbs with history.
The Count's face hardens like marble. "Indeed. My family was not their enemy, merely their ladder."
Theo shakes his head, almost in awe. "So the Pectus family turned demon, renamed themselves the Gravenholts, and tore down Dracula's line in the process. That's... biblical."
"Blasphemous," Dracula corrects.
The candle nearest them flickers as though the room itself shudders at the memory.
Nathaniel flips another page, and his breath catches. "I didn't know... that Eris was once called Eunice."
Theo raises his brows, feigning surprise. "Oh right—you were her 'love' back then, weren't you? How did you two even meet?"
Pauline leans closer, curious. "I'm wondering the same thing."
The light in the room dims as Nathaniel stares into the ink-stained page. The candles seem to bend toward him as if the air itself expects an answer.
He inhales. "It was 2023."
The Flashback — London, 2023
Rain. Endless rain against the cracked windows of a dormitory flat. The night Nathaniel Cross lost himself.
Pauline had rejected him that day—her words kind but final. The world blurred. His notebooks, his projects, his ambitions—all felt weightless. So he drank. One bottle, then another, then a blur of laughter he didn't remember and silence that he couldn't forget.
Then came a message.
A stranger's name on his phone: Eris Gravenholt.
Her profile photo was a mystery—porcelain skin, soft brown hair, a faint smile that seemed both warm and distant. She said she'd seen his work online, admired his sketches of bridges and clocktowers. She said he looked lonely.
At first, she was a comfort. Innocent. Curious.
Then, one night, she confessed.
Nathaniel smiles faintly at the memory, though the pain behind it is still raw. "She told me she loved me before I even knew her favorite color."
Theo whistles softly. "That's fast."
Nathaniel continues, eyes distant. "I thought she was just eccentric. We went out at night—she said she preferred the moonlight. She never ate much. Said she was anemic. Her skin was so pale... I didn't think much of it."
Pauline's voice drops. "But you started noticing things, didn't you?"
He nods. "Her reflection was faint in mirrors. Sometimes, I'd catch her eyes glowing faintly red when she thought I wasn't looking. And then there was her temper."
Maisie listens, clutching her sphere tighter.
"She was... spoiled," Nathaniel admits, each word like an open wound. "Everything she saw, she wanted. Every shop window, every jewel, every dress. And I—I kept giving. I was working part-time, nearly broke, and she didn't care. She'd pout, cry, threaten to leave."
Theo mutters, "A walking red flag."
Nathaniel's jaw tightens. "When I couldn't take it anymore, I broke up with her."
A pause. The room stills.
"But that night," he whispers, "I woke up... to pain."
Pauline lowers her gaze, already knowing.
Nathaniel touches the side of his neck unconsciously. "She was standing over me. Her eyes—crimson. Her lips—dripping with blood. My blood."
The candles flicker violently. Even Dracula's expression softens, a shadow of pity crossing his ageless face.
Nathaniel's voice breaks for the first time. "She said I belonged to her. That love was eternal, and eternity meant bleeding for her."
He closes the book and breathes out. "That's when I realized what she really was. And what she turned me into."
Silence swallows the room. The only sound is the faint hum of the Cup of Nosferatu beneath the floor.
Pauline speaks first, her tone gentle. "The bite part... I knew that. And how she drained you financially. But I didn't realize how deep it went."
Theo, usually so flippant, says nothing. Edison sets his notebook aside. Kingsley merely crosses his arms, jaw tight with anger—not at Nathaniel, but for him. Maisie looks on the verge of tears.
Nathaniel straightens, the faint scar on his neck catching the light. His voice steadies into something harder—sharper.
"I'm done running from her shadow. From what she made me. If these records are right, then the Gravenholts have poisoned centuries. It's time someone ended it."
Theo nods slowly. "You're talking about balance."
"Yes," Nathaniel says. "The equilibrium. Every curse has its counterforce. Every night has its dawn. The world's been bleeding for too long because of them. If I can end that—then I'll finally have peace."
Edison exhales. "And maybe the others they've hurt too."
Pauline places a hand over her chest. "Then we'll do it together."
Maisie's sphere glows softly, as if agreeing. "For everyone they've cursed."
Kingsley smirks faintly. "For the record, I'm in too. Someone has to watch your back when you decide to jump into hell."
Theo grins. "Count me in. I can't let you guys have all the fun dying gloriously."
Nathaniel laughs under his breath, a sound half relief, half disbelief. "You're all insane."
Theo replies, "Takes one to know one."
Even Dracula's lips twitch in amusement. But then his tone turns solemn.
"You are brave," the Count says, "but not yet ready."
They all turn to him.
Dracula descends the dais, the hem of his robe whispering across the stone. "You hold knowledge now—power of the mind. But power of the flesh and blood still sleeps within you. If you go out unprepared, the Gravenholts will unmake you before you take your first step."
Theo frowns. "So what are you suggesting? A vampire boot camp?"
Dracula's eyes gleam faintly. "Something like that. I will train you—to master the fragments of your gifts, and to awaken what lies hidden in your veins."
Nathaniel nods slowly. "You're saying... we all have powers."
Dracula gestures to each of them. "Theo—your humor conceals an empath's perception. Edison—your logic grants you the eye of analysis, the ability to see through illusion. Kingsley—discipline is your shield; you command resistance. Pauline—your faith amplifies light. Maisie—your heart binds the veil between spirit and matter. And you, Nathaniel..."
The room stills.
Dracula's gaze pierces into him. "You are the bridge between life and death. The human who drank from darkness yet did not drown. You are anomaly—and key."
Nathaniel feels his pulse echo with something ancient, something stirring beneath his ribs.
He lowers his head. "Then I'll master it. Whatever it takes."
Dracula steps closer. "Then so it shall be. At dawn, we begin."
The group disperses to rest, but Nathaniel lingers. The fire in the grand hearth crackles, throwing gold across his features.
He stares at the Cup of Nosferatu embedded in the marble floor—the faint light within it pulsing like a heartbeat. It almost feels... alive.
He kneels before it, whispering softly, "I'll finish what you started. Balance will return. For my blood... and yours."
The Cup pulses once, brighter than before, as if in answer.
Outside, thunder growls across the horizon, and dawn's light struggles to pierce the heavy clouds.
Nathaniel rises, his shadow long and sharp against the stone.
Tomorrow, the training begins
And somewhere in the hidden corners of the world, something ancient begins to stir—watching, waiting, whispering his name.
To be continued...