Page 7 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

“Together or separate?” Duke asked.

“Together,” Con said. “You’ll learn faster when you fail as a unit.”

Duke grinned, the first hint of challenge lighting his features. “That a promise?”

Con’s smile was a slow, dangerous thing. “A certainty.”

They circled each other, the soft scrape of boots and whisper of sand filling the quiet. Duke moved first—fast, pivoting low, his spear driving toward Con’s side in a textbook feint meant to test reaction. Con didn’t even blink. He caught the shaft mid-strike, twisted, and used the momentum to pivot Duke off balance.

Before Duke could recover, Darius was already moving. His strike came from behind, silent and precise, aimed at Con’s shoulder. Con ducked beneath it, spinning with an ease that blurred the motion, his weapon cutting through the air in a clean arc that would’ve shattered ribs if it had been real steel.

The twins recovered instantly, years of synchronized training showing in the way they read each other’s cues. Duke went high, Darius low, alternating thrusts and sweeps in perfect rhythm. The crack of wood on wood rang through the hall, punctuated by quick breaths and the shuffle of boots on sand.

Con parried every strike—minimal movement, perfect control. His spear moved like lightning, deflecting, redirecting, punishing. At one point, he caught both weapons at once, twisting them in a cross pattern that forced the twins to stumble apart.

I couldn’t help but smile. They were good. Better than most fledglings. Their bodies had adapted quickly to vampiric speed, but their minds were still human-trained—disciplined, coordinated, methodical. They fought to win, not just to impress.

But Con was something else entirely. He didn’t just fight. He read the cadence of their breathing, the subtle twitch before a strike, the small hesitation between brothers deciding who would lead the next move. And when he saw an opening, he took it.

In one fluid motion, he spun, disarmed Duke with a flick of his wrist, and used the butt of his spear to sweep Darius’ legs out from under him. Duke lunged to compensate, but Con sidestepped and caught him by the shoulder, twisting him down beside his brother.

Both men hit the mat with a thud that shook the sand loose beneath them.

For a long heartbeat, nobody moved. Then Con stepped back, spear balanced easily in his hand, and gave a short nod. “Better than most,” he said. “But you lead with your pride. That’ll get you killed faster than a bad aim.”

Darius looked up, winded but grinning. “Guess we needed the reminder.”

Duke sat up beside him, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s faster than he looks.”

“He always is,” I said, pushing off the railing. “But you held your own longer than I expected. That’s a start.”

Con leaned on his spear, watching them with the slightest trace of satisfaction. “We’ll work on your coordination, stamina, and strike patterns. If you’re serious about joining the death dealers, you train until you stop thinking and start surviving.”

Duke grinned, eyes bright despite his bruised ego. “Then we start now.”

Con arched a brow, but the smile that tugged at his mouth was real. “Then welcome to the hunt.”

As the three of them reset their stances and the first crack of spears meeting rang out again, I stood watching from the edge of the ring—feeling, for the first time that night, a flicker of something I hadn’t felt since Rene had begun to fade.

Hope.

The steady clash of spears carried through the cavernous facility, a deep, relentless rhythm that vibrated through the massive space. The smell of oil and exertion thickened the air as the twins lunged and spun in perfect synchrony.

I shifted closer to the railing near the observation platform, arms crossed, eyes glued to the sparring match below. Con was untouchable—calm, relentless, his movements fluid and exact. He didn’t waste a single motion. The twins were fast, faster than most fledglings I’d seen, their human discipline bleeding seamlessly into their new vampiric reflexes. But they still couldn’t touch him.

Footsteps echoed down the stairwell behind me—measured, confident strides that could only belong to seasoned death dealers.

Val and Quinn emerged first, both dressed in combat leathers, their movements carrying the effortless poise of warriors long accustomed to danger. Val’s dark hair was slicked back, the gleam of his weapons belt catching the light. Quinn, always immaculate, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a recruitment campaign—tall, impossibly handsome, his pale-blue eyes taking everything in with quiet calculation.

“Didn’t expect to find Constantine playing with fledglings,” Val said, his tone teasing as he came to stand beside me.

I smirked. “Playing isn’t the word I’d use. More like dismantling.”

Quinn’s gaze flicked toward the ring, his lips twitching in amusement. “Nobody likes a show-off.”

“He doesn’t need to,” I said. “They’re good. Better than they should be at this stage.”

Val tilted his head, studying the spar. “Darius and Duke. Rene’s last sponsorship.”