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She headed inside, where the familiar comfort of the stone cottage greeted her. The fire she'd left smoldering in the hearth cast a warm glow across the small living room. Mercy smiled to herself as she glanced around at the space she'd made her own. Shelves lined with books, a soft armchair in the corner, and the wide windows that gave her the view she cherished. There was a peace here, a sense of being both connected to the world and separate from it.
But today, restlessness gnawed at her. She wasn’t just a watcher; she was a protector—and protectors needed to act.
After a quick shower to rinse the salt and wind from her skin, she dressed and headed for her Range Rover—a gift from those at St. Piran’s. It wasn’t combat training or a mission, which always allowed her to release the tension she so often carried, but her trips to the library where she worked as the librarian always managed to soothe her. Mercy loved the place. Not justfor the books—though she adored those—but for the people who gathered there. The library, small though it was, served as a hub for the village. It was more than just a place to check out books; it was a haven for those who sought knowledge, a comfy nook for those who wanted a quiet corner to read, and a gathering spot for families and friends to share stories and cups of coffee or tea.
Mercy’s favorite part was the children. They flocked to her every time she came in, eager to hear the stories she told or to explore the new books she recommended. She had a way of making the world of books come alive, of turning the simple act of reading into an adventure. For her, there was no greater joy than seeing a child’s eyes light up as they discovered a new tale or a character who spoke to them.
The abbey, despite its otherworldly role, helped supply pastries and cookies for the library's tea and coffee corner, and it was a warm, welcoming space that felt far removed from the dangerous, hidden world she navigated as a Shadow Sister.
As she drove the narrow, winding road toward the village, Mercy found her mind wandering back to her earlier thoughts.What would it take for the others to see me differently?Perhaps it was time to stop waiting for permission. Maybe she needed to take matters into her own hands. She could still do the reconnaissance, but when the time came, she’d be the first to leap into the fight, to prove with actions what words never could.
By the time she pulled into the village, the weight in her chest had eased, though the determination remained. She parked near the library, the familiar building sitting at the heart of the small town square. She hurried up the stairs, turning the key in the lock and stepping inside. Once there, she was greeted with the scent of paper, tea, coffee, and the faint aroma of freshly baked pastries. The abbey had its own key, and people came and went as needed.
As parents and children began to filter in, drawn by the promise of stories and snacks, she felt the tension of her morning slip away. Here, she didn’t have to prove anything. Here, she could simply be.
But even in this peaceful corner of her life, the fire of her resolve burned brightly. She would find a way to show them all—especially Brie—that she was ready for more than just surveillance.
CHAPTER 2
HUNTER
Crickley Hill
Gloucestershire, England
Neolithic Period, 3300 BC
Hunter crouched low, his muscles tense as the first rays of dawn barely kissed the horizon. He had never seen a sky so gray, so foreboding. The air at Crickley Hill was thick with the stench of blood and smoke, and every sound—a branch breaking, a bird's call—sent a tremor through his body. The battle had already raged for days, yet the earth beneath him bore no sign of relief. In the settlement's earthen ramparts, defenses once thought impenetrable now lay crumbled, the flint arrowheads and shattered bodies scattered across the ground as grim testament to the invaders' fury.
He gripped his spear tighter, its shaft carved by his own hands, though he had never imagined using it against such creatures. These were no ordinary invaders; they moved under the cover of night, swift as shadows, with eyes gleaming like red embers and fangs that dripped with the blood of his kin. The elders called them “blood-drinkers,” demons that lived beyond the veil of life and death. But Hunter knew them by the devastation they left in their wake—vampires.
The first wave had come without warning, emerging from the dense woods with a silence unnatural for any living thing. They had fallen upon his people with a ferocity, unlike any enemy he'd ever faced. Warriors twice his size had been dragged into the darkness, their screams lost to the night. Hunter had watched his brothers die, their lifeblood feeding the ravenous hunger of the invaders. He’d fought alongside the remaining warriors, his body slick with sweat and grime, flint arrows flying from his bow until none were left. But nothing could stem the tide.
As the daylight receded, Hunter could feel the weight of the coming night press against his chest. The creatures were more powerful under the cloak of darkness. But so long as he still drew breath, he would fight. It was what he had been born for, trained for. His father had told him, on the eve of his first battle, that a warrior’s life was not his own—it belonged to the land, to the people he defended. Now, as the last defender of Crickley Hill, that truth had never been more real.
The earthen ramparts groaned under the strain of the invaders' assault. Hunter glanced toward the settlement’s entrance, where the fighting had been fiercest. The ground there was littered with the fallen, but the flint arrowheads still glinted in the fading light, a silent call to arms. He could feel the weight of history pressing on him—generations of warriors who had fought before him, their spirits watching over this sacred ground. He would not be the one to let it fall.
As the shadows deepened, Hunter rose to his full height, his spear ready in hand. He knew the night would bring another wave, but he would be waiting. This battle was not over. Not yet.
Hunter had stood on the ramparts until the last breath of light disappeared, bracing for the onslaught. The night came alive with movement, the unnatural rustle of leaves as the vampires crept from the shadows. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but his grip on the spear never wavered. This was his last stand. He had accepted it.
When they came, they moved like wisps of smoke, swift and silent, their glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. Hunter fought with everything he had left, spear striking true, but it wasn't enough. One by one, the others had fallen, and he was surrounded. A monstrous figure lunged at him, its fangs bared, and before he could react, he felt a sharp, searing pain in his neck. The world blurred around him, and the sounds of battle faded as the creature drained the life from him.
Hunter knew he was dying. His vision darkened, his body growing cold as his blood was stolen by the vampire’s insatiable hunger. His final thoughts were not of vengeance, but sorrow—he had failed his people. The last defender of Crickley Hill had fallen.
But then, against all reason, he woke.
The light of dawn pierced through his eyelids, and he sat up abruptly; there was an emptiness in his chest. He should have been dead. His hand instinctively went to his neck, finding the puncture wounds there—already healed. The taste of something foreign lingered in his mouth, metallic and bitter. His senses were heightened, every sound amplified, every scent sharp and overwhelming. Panic seized him as he realized the truth.
He had become one of them.
A sharp gasp escaped his lips, and he scrambled away from the bodies of the fallen around him, recoiling as if they might rise as well. But they didn’t. He alone had been spared—no, not spared, cursed. His reflection in a puddle of water showed pale skin and lifeless eyes that no longer held the warmth ofthe living. The sun above didn’t burn his flesh as he’d been told it would, but the light felt wrong—too bright, too pure for the abomination he had become.
Horror washed over him. His thoughts raced back to the stories, the legends of the blood drinkers who had once been men, now twisted into something unholy. He was one of them now, bound to the same hunger that had claimed so many of his kin. The memory of the vampire’s bite flashed through his mind, a reminder of how easily it had stolen his life and twisted it into this nightmare.
"No…" Hunter whispered, backing away from the village. He couldn’t stay there. Not like this. He was a monster.
For days, he wandered the woods, his mind a storm of anger and grief. The hunger gnawed at him, and more than once, he nearly gave in, nearly fed on the living. But he refused. He wouldn’t become the very thing he had fought against. As the days passed, Hunter’s horror turned into something colder, sharper. Purpose.
