St. Anne's Church was exactly where the show had placed it.
I circled the building twice, mapping the perimeter, noting the witch wards Marcel had installed. They were decent—strong enough to deter casual investigation, layered enough to alert the coven if someone tried to break through.
For a normal vampire, this would be impenetrable.
For me?
[Ward analysis in progress...]
[Type: Ancestral protection magic]
[Strength: 7/10]
[Weakness detected: Frequency fluctuation at dawn/dusk transitions]
[Recommended approach: Timing + dimensional phase-shift]
I waited until the precise moment of twilight—that liminal space between day and night when magical boundaries thinned. Then I shifted my dimensional frequency just enough to slip through the wards like they didn't exist.
The attic stairs creaked under my feet. I moved silently anyway, old habits from realities where silence meant survival.
Davina was painting.
She sat at an easel near the boarded window, candlelight flickering across her face, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. The painting was abstract—dark colors swirling around a point of light—but I recognized the emotional weight behind it.
Loneliness. Fear. Hope, buried deep.
She didn't turn around.
"Marcel doesn't send people at this hour." Her voice was calm. Controlled. The voice of someone who'd learned to hide fear behind composure. "And you're not one of his regulars."
"No."
"So who are you?"
"Someone who wanted to meet you." I moved into the candlelight, keeping my distance, letting her see me clearly. "Someone who knows what you're carrying. What the witches want from you. What Marcel is planning to do with you."
That got her attention. She turned, brush still in hand, and studied me with those ancient eyes.
"You're different." It wasn't a question.
"Very different." I sat on the floor, making myself smaller, less threatening. "I'm not here to use you, Davina. I'm not here to make demands or extract promises. I just wanted to see you. Talk to you. Let you know you're not as alone as they want you to believe."
"Why?" Suspicion, but underneath it, hunger. The desperate need for connection that isolation created.
"Because I've been where you are. Trapped. Used. Treated like a weapon instead of a person." I held her gaze. "And because you deserve better than what's coming."
"What's coming?"
I hesitated. Telling her too much too soon could backfire—could change the timeline in ways I couldn't predict. But wasn't that why I was here? To make things interesting?
"The Harvest," I said. "The witches are going to complete it. Four girls will die. Most of them won't come back, no matter what the ancestors promise."
Davina's face went pale. "That's... that's not what they told us. They said resurrection. They said we'd be stronger."
"They lied." I kept my voice gentle. "The ancestors are old, and old things forget that mortals aren't playthings. They want power, and they don't care who pays the price."
Silence stretched between us. The candles flickered, responding to emotions Davina couldn't quite control.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because knowledge is power. And you deserve to know what's being planned before they force you into it." I stood, moving toward the door. "I can't save you from what's coming. Not yet. But I can help you prepare. Give you tools. Teach you to protect yourself in ways Marcel can't control."
"And in return?"
"Nothing." I paused at the threshold. "Just... keep painting. Keep creating. Don't let them make you forget that you're more than a weapon."
I left before she could respond, slipping back through the wards as dawn approached.
[Connection established: Davina Claire]
[Trust level: Minimal, but curiosity established]
[Quest progress: 3/5 key players identified]
[NOTE: This changes everything]
---
Every Friday, new updates new chapters🤫