"Allen, for heaven's sake, stomp your boots properly! I don't want you tracking half the moor's slush into this beautiful foyer," his mother, Morgan le Fay, called out from the doorway. Her voice was sharp but carried the familiar warmth of a parent who had spent too many hours traveling through a blizzard.
Allen stood in the entryway, mechanically kicking his heels against the stone step. His hands were numb, but his mind was racing. That face in the window... it hadn't looked like a reflection or a trick of the light. It had looked like a predator watching its prey from a high vantage point. He glanced back at the dark driveway one last time before the heavy oak door groaned shut, sealing him inside with the flickering shadows.
From the dining room, he could hear the deep, booming resonance of his father's laugh. Owen was clearly in high spirits, likely regaling the others with some exaggerated tale from the Ministry or a memory of a childhood prank he and Josephine had pulled decades ago.
Allen hesitated at the threshold of the dining hall. Part of him wanted to blurt out what he'd seen—the girl, the window, the impossible speed of her movement—but he looked at the joy on his father's face and the exhaustion in Daisy's eyes. They would just tell him his imagination was overactive from the "Incident" earlier in the year. He took a deep breath, smoothed out his damp robes, and stepped into the light.
The dining room was a masterclass in oppressive grandeur. The walls were a deep, mossy green that seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it. Above them, a chandelier of wrought iron and hundreds of dripping wax candles hung like a crown of thorns. The room was fiercely lit, yet the corners remained stubbornly dark, as if the shadows themselves were resistant to the fire's intrusion.
A long, mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, laden with silver platters that gleamed under the candlelight. The food was decadent—piles of roasted meats, glazed vegetables, and fruits that looked almost too perfect to be real. Metal goblets sat at every place setting, filled with a deep, ruby-red wine that shimmered with an inviting, almost hypnotic glow.
If Allen didn't know any better, he'd think he had walked onto the set of a historical drama about a 15th-century royal banquet. The only things missing were the pointed hats and the court jester.
Owen's eyes were bright, reflecting the hundreds of tiny candle flames. He looked younger than he had in months, clearly rejuvenated by the proximity to his sister and the ancient stone of his family's past.
As Allen took his seat in a high-backed chair that felt like a throne, Aunt Josephine stood up. She tapped her metal goblet with a long, pale fingernail. The sound was sharp, like a needle scratching glass.
"It has been far too long since these walls heard the sound of laughter," Josephine said, her voice silky and strange. "Owen, Morgan... thank you for bringing life back to this old heap of stones."
She raised her goblet and took a long, thirsty draught of the wine. As she lowered the cup, Allen noticed a thin, dark streak of the red liquid escaping the corner of her mouth, trickling down her chin like a slow-moving wound before she wiped it away with a lace handkerchief.
"It must be incredibly isolating, Josephine," Morgan le Fay said, her voice laced with a mother's pity. "Living in a place this vast and... well, this remote. Don't you find the silence a bit much?"
Josephine blinked, her blue eyes appearing almost translucent in the firelight. "Silence is a matter of perspective, Morgan. This manor has a long memory. It isn't just a house; it's a chronicle of everything our bloodline once stood for. I find it much more interesting to listen to the whispers of the past than the chatter of the present."
Allen watched her closely. Her words felt layered, like she was speaking in a code he hadn't quite cracked yet. While the rest of the family dug into their meal with gusto, Allen found his appetite failing him. Every time he glanced at the portraits on the wall, he felt like their stern, unmoving eyes were judging the way he held his fork.
After dinner, the family began the slow trek back toward the sleeping quarters. The warmth of the dining room evaporated the moment they stepped into the corridor. The long row of torches mounted on the walls flickered as they passed, casting elongated, dancing shadows that looked like ghostly figures trailing behind them.
The paintings here were different from the ones in the main hall. These were wizards and witches from a much older era, dressed in stiff, ornate garments that looked uncomfortable to even look at. Not a single person in the portraits smiled. They looked down at the Harris family with expressions of cold, aristocratic disdain.
"God, this place gives me the creeps," Daisy whispered, shivering. "I'm just glad Emily is out for the count. I don't think she'd handle these hallways well at night."
They all looked at Albert, who was carrying a sleeping Emily. The little girl's head was tucked into his shoulder, her breath coming in soft, rhythmic puffs.
"I'll get her settled," Albert murmured, his voice low so as not to wake her. He peeled off toward the girls' wing, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood.
Lenn followed shortly after, giving a stiff nod to the siblings. "Rest while you can. We have a lot of 'socializing' to do tomorrow."
Daisy turned to Allen, her eyes wide and a bit frantic. "It's still early, and I'm definitely not ready to be alone in that room yet. Come sit with me for a bit?"
Allen nodded. He could see the genuine unease in his sister's face. "Sure. I'll walk you back. Besides, you'll love your room once you see the view."
"The view of a blizzard and a graveyard?" Daisy muttered, clutching her coat tighter around her. "This house is basically a giant stone trap. It's huge, yeah, but it feels like it's waiting for something."
As they walked, Allen stopped for a moment to run his hand along a massive stone pillar. "You know, technically, this architecture is fascinating. This section of the house has to be at least three hundred years old."
He traced the curve of an archway. The manor was built in a cross-vaulted style, with porticos and columns that felt far more European than the local British manor styles of that time.
"How on earth do you know that?" Daisy asked, pulling on his arm to keep him moving.
"The classical orders," Allen explained, his mind flashing back to the architectural history books he'd devoured in his past life. "The proportions, the symmetry... it's classic Palladian style. It's the kind of design you see in the late Renaissance. This isn't just a house; it's a monument to the 17th century."
Daisy rolled her eyes. "Great. So we're staying in a museum. A scary, freezing museum."
They reached Daisy's room, which was an mirror image of Allen's. It had the same grand bay window, though the interior was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf packed with ancient, leather-bound volumes.
"Okay, I take it back," Allen said, his eyes lighting up as he approached the shelf. "Your room is way better. Look at these titles."
"Read whatever you want," Daisy said, opening her wardrobe and sighing at the heavy, mothball-scented air inside. "Just stay here until I finish unpacking."
Allen moved his fingers across the spines of the books. The wood of the shelf was carved with intricate, swirling patterns that confirmed his earlier estimate—definitely 17th-century craftsmanship. He pulled out a few titles on herbology and ancient charms, but then his hand stopped on something that felt out of place.
Tucked into the very corner of the bottom shelf was a slim notebook covered in black, pebbled leather. It didn't have a title on the spine. It looked uncomfortably similar to the diary of Tom Riddle—a comparison that made Allen's stomach do a slow flip.
He sat down in a nearby wooden chair and opened the cover. The pages were yellowed and brittle, covered in a cramped, elegant hand.
"Runic script?" Allen whispered to himself.
He leaned closer to the candle on the side table. He had studied runes, but these were written with a fluidity that suggested the author used them as their primary language. He began to flip through the pages. Most of it seemed to be a collection of spells—standard stuff, really. Shield charms, heating spells, minor transfigurations. Nothing that screamed "Dark Arts."
But then he turned back to the title page.
There was a single word written in the center, translated from the runes into seven distinct letters: TREMERE.
Allen felt a coldness wash over him that had nothing to do with the winter draft. He remembered Professor Binns's lectures—usually so boring they could induce a coma—but there were certain names that even Binns spoke with a hint of gravity.
The Tremere Clan. One of the thirteen great lineages of vampires.
According to magical history, the Tremere weren't born as vampires. They were originally a cabal of human mages, powerful sorcerers who were so terrified of death that they used alchemy and stolen blood to transform themselves into something eternal, yet cursed. They were the "Warlock Vampires," feared for their ability to blend high magic with the thirst for blood.
Allen looked at the notebook in his hands. Why was this here? Was it the diary of a wizard who was obsessed with vampire lore, or was it the property of something much more dangerous?
He thought about Aunt Josephine. He thought about the wide-brimmed hat she never took off, even indoors. He thought about her pale, porcelain skin and the way her eyes seemed to catch the light in a way that wasn't quite human. He thought about that "rosy" wine that she drank with such desperate thirst.
Could this ancient manor, hidden in the shadows of the peaks, be a nest? And if so, what did that make his aunt?