Page 18 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

I turned just as two figures emerged from the side corridor. Alain and Kellan—young by vampire standards, both barely a century turned, but loyal to the core. They had always been among the first to greet me when I visited, and both had made their admiration… evident.

Alain reached me first, his smile bright and a little too eager. He was tall, with copper-brown hair and eyes the color of new steel. His jacket was unbuttoned at the throat, showing the scar that still marked where he’d been turned—a badge of pride, not vanity.

“Welcome home,” he said, dipping his head in a gesture that was almost a bow but not quite formal enough to be proper. “It’s been far too long.”

“Not by my choice,” I replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you both.”

Kellan lingered a step behind, his dark-blond hair tied back, his posture looser than Alain’s but his gaze far more intense. His eyes, an icy-blue that caught the chandelier’s light, flicked toward Con for the briefest moment before returning to me. “You brought company.”

“Constantine Vonhof,” Con said evenly, offering a polite nod that managed to sound both respectful and final.

Kellan’s mouth twitched into a grin. “We’ve heard stories.”

Con’s brow lifted slightly. “I’m sure you have.”

I cleared my throat before that line of curiosity could go any further. “Gentlemen,” I said, “have our rooms been prepared?”

Alain nodded quickly. “Yes, Cassara. The east wing’s been cleaned and stocked. We’ve kept everything ready since your last visit.”

“Good,” I said.

Kellan stepped closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “And will you be joining us in the training hall again while you’re here? We could use the reminder of how much we can learn from you.”

I couldn’t help a small laugh. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Kellan.”

“Maybe not, but it’s worth trying,” he said, his grin widening.

Beside me, I caught a flicker of movement from Con—a subtle tightening of his jaw, the slightest narrowing of his eyes. It was gone in an instant, but it had been there. He didn’t like the attention.

“Enough,” I said lightly, stepping past them. “We’ve had a long flight.”

Alain inclined his head again, though I saw the disappointment flash across his features. “Of course.”

As they retreated down the hall, their voices fading into the distance, I glanced toward Con. He hadn’t moved, but his gaze followed them until they disappeared.

“Jealous?” I teased, unable to resist.

He didn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t get jealous.”

“Right,” I said, brushing past him toward the staircase. “That makes two of us.”

The warmth of the foyer followed us as we moved deeper into the mansion, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the marble. The hum of Shadow Thorn’s wards thrummed beneath my skin—a living heartbeat that matched my own.

Home again, I thought.

But even surrounded by familiar walls, I couldn’t shake the unease curling through my chest—the awareness of Con behind me, quiet and watchful, and the knowledge that both of us were walking a thread dangerously close to breaking.

The soft echo of our footsteps carried through the marble hall, the scent of sandalwood and snow clinging to the air. The last of the attendants had melted away to their tasks, leaving the foyer quiet except for the distant crackle of the fire burning in the grand hearth.

I was halfway up the staircase when the sound of quick steps came from the corridor to our left—light but eager, with that telltale rhythm of someone young who hadn’t yet learned how to mask enthusiasm.

“Cassara!”

I turned as a young man all but skidded to a stop before me. Liam Harrow, one of Shadow Thorn’s couriers—barely seventy years turned, handsome in that bright, untested way that made the new ones seem almost human still. His sandy hair fell into his eyes, and he clutched an envelope in one hand.

“It’s good to see you,” he said breathlessly, a grin spreading across his face. “This came for you an hour ago.”

He held the letter out, the heavy cream paper sealed with the shimmer of a blood mark. My name was written in looping script across the front, the kind of elegant hand that had once been practiced daily with quill and ink.