Chapter 7 — “Old Ghosts”

  Resurrection Arts Gallery, Manhattan — Late Evening

  Sofia DeReyes entered the main hall of Resurrection Arts, her eyes narrowed and lips clenched, struggling to maintain the elegant poise her immortal life had helped shape over centuries. She moved effortlessly down the popular Manhattan art gallery’s corridor, her black velvet coat brushing over the polished floor behind her.

  Sculptures of bronze, marble, and resin lined the passageway, each prominently displayed on Romanesque pedestals, bearing silent witness to centuries of inspiration and, in some cases, insanity. Along the walls, framed canvases hung, each painting carefully selected by Sofia herself for its aesthetic beauty and ability to provoke thought or emotion.

  The gallery existed in its own peaceful universe, where every brushstroke and chisel mark conveyed meaning. The building’s interior resembled a cathedral made of glass and stone, blending sleek, modern design with timeless grandeur.

  After hours, it was her sacred space, quiet and untouched by the noise of the streets, the rumble of traffic, or life’s daily distractions. Where the city outside sparkled with a network of vibrant neon and LED displays, here within its walls, dim overhead lights produced a soothing, amber glow that cast soft shadows across the marble floor. Under the lamplight, her dark hair reflected hints of blue-black as it fell in gentle waves over her shoulders and down her back.

  “Se?ora DeReyes?” a warm voice called softly from behind her.

  Sofia turned to see the gallery’s director, Allison Deveroux, crossing the hall, a tablet pressed loosely against her chest. In her early thirties, she was professional, stylish, and fully human; one of the few Sofia trusted. Her steel-blue blouse complemented her fair skin and blonde hair, which she kept neatly tied at the nape of her neck.

  “All tasks are finished for the evening,” Allison said, walking alongside her. “The team has set up and cataloged the new exhibits. Security protocols are in place, and I’ve sent out the press release for tomorrow’s unveiling.”

  Sofia nodded. “Thank you, querida. You’re always thinking ahead.”

  “I try,” Allison said, a faint flush tinging her cheeks.

  “Before you leave,” Sofia added, “could you please dim the front gallery another level. I want the space to be softer tonight.”

  Allison blinked. “Expecting company?”

  “No,” she said. “But someone is expecting me.”

  Sofia’s gaze shifted toward the far end of the gallery to an exclusive exhibit room cloaked in shadows, lit only by a single track light above a marble archway. Even now, she could feel the air in that area growing heavier, charged with something old and familiar.

  Allison glanced at her, seeming to sense the hidden unease behind her stillness. She opened her mouth to speak, but remained silent.

  “Of course,” she finally said. “I’ll lock up when you’re ready.” With her usual quiet efficiency, she nodded politely and headed back to the administrative areas, glancing over her shoulder once to offer a concerned look before disappearing into the office.

  Sofia stood alone, embracing the silence. Her Nightborn senses reached out, probing the shadows for any signs of an immortal presence. Then something brushed against her aura like a whisper of dead leaves; a presence, piercing as a blade to her throat, and cold as moonlight on a forgotten grave.

  Then he stepped into the light.

  Her sire, Stefan Jaranovich. Tall. Immaculate. An otherworldly beauty carved from alabaster and cruelty. His long, white-blond hair framed a face too perfect to belong to a mortal, with cheekbones as sharp as marble and lips curved into a mischievous, predatory smile. His suit—black silk layered over a high-collared shirt—fit him like a second skin, and the pale gloves on his hands almost seemed to glow in the dim light.

  Sofia’s posture stiffened as she stepped forward. “Stefan,” she said in a velvet tone. “I did not invite you.”

  His smile widened, unfazed by her icy demeanor. “You never do, my sweet Sòfia. And yet here I am... and here you are, always sensing when your sire calls.” He moved closer, the shadows bending around him as if obeying an old allegiance.

  “State your business,” she said.

  “No greeting?” he tsked. “No embrace for your maker? Centuries together, centuries apart, and this is what remains?”

  “What remains is what you left behind,” Sofia said coolly. “And what I rebuilt without you.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Stefan’s laugh drifted into the air like smoke. “You still have a tongue as sharp as a fang. I’ve always admired that about you.”

  She chose not to respond.

  “You are being spoken of in the Circle,” he said, his expression devoid of emotion.

  Sofia felt her old instincts stirring, but she kept a neutral expression.

  “Oh?” she murmured. “What’s the latest gossip from the undercroft tonight?”

  Stefan brushed past her, his fingers softly touching the polished frame of a painting showing a moonlit forest. The gesture was almost tender — until he spoke.

  “They talk quietly about your bloodline.”

  Sofia froze.

  “Of the child you forged with the moon’s chosen,” he continued. “Of what lies between vein and fur.” His eyes glittered. “Of Seraphine.”

  Sofia’s self-control faltered briefly. She stiffened and held her composure until it returned even stronger.

  “The Circle is restless,” Stefan said, voice lowering. “They look for culprits, threats, scapegoats. They see an imbalance in the city. Blood spilled where no vampire claimed a kill. Savage wounds that mimic our kind... and do not.”

  He faced her fully, shadows behind him spreading like wings. “And you, cherished successor, are at the center of a dangerous equation.”

  Sofia stepped forward, her chin raised high, eyes cold and piercing. “I swear, if you’ve involved her—”

  “I haven’t touched your precious daughter,” Stefan interjected, raising a hand. “Not yet. I came to warn you. The Council will demand answers, and they might decide the hybrid girl is the spark they need.”

  “You will leave this place,” Sofia said in a tone calm and cold as a frozen sea. “Now!”

  Stefan bowed gracefully. “As you wish.”

  As he slipped back into the shadows, his voice echoed around her. “Give Seraphine my regards.”

  Sofia lingered long after Stefan’s voice faded. The surrounding silence felt even sharper, as if the gallery itself was holding its breath. Her hand moved to her chest, pressing gently against the spot where fear and fury intertwined beneath her ribs. It had been a long time since Stefan’s presence had touched her so directly. Too long.

  She turned and walked toward her sanctuary within the gallery, passing beneath a sculpted archway and down a short hallway to her private office. It was a space meant for creation, contemplation, and hiding things she couldn’t show anyone, even Maxx.

  The door closed behind her with a hiss, muffling the sounds of the gallery outside. Inside, the air carried a subtle scent of sandalwood and old books. The office combined old-world charm with modern elegance, featuring dark mahogany shelves, Renaissance sketches behind glass, and carefully chosen artifacts from centuries of travel. A Persian rug spread across the floor like spilled wine, filling the space with the aromas of jasmine tea and aged parchment.

  Sofia set her bag down on the desk a little too hard, causing the surface to shake. Her hands, usually steady as marble, flickered with a brief tremor. She managed to still them by placing both palms on the edge of the desk, her head bowed as if weighed down by secrets she hoped would never be revealed.

  Seraphine.

  Stefan’s insinuation echoed like a whisper close to her ear. Her daughter’s existence had long been fragile—born of moon and vein, a miracle, a threat, a catalyst, and a bridge between two worlds that had never peacefully coexisted. Now, amid the subway murders and councils circling each other like duelists in fog, every shadow seemed to have teeth.

  Sofia closed her eyes, then reached into her coat and pulled out a slim, obsidian phone wrapped in silver filigree. Her thumb hovered over Maxx’s contact for three long seconds. She hated to worry him. He already carried enough weight—kingdoms abandoned, family stretched thin, and danger lurking like wolves in the snow.

  Still, there were things even Maxx DeSilva needed to hear. She made the call. It rang once.

  His voice was low, steady, and grounding. “Sofia?”

  Her breath caught at his tone. Even through the static, she could hear the shift in him, the instinctive alertness he reserved only for her.

  “We need to talk,” she said, her voice soft.

  “What happened?”

  “Stefan.” The name tasted like old blood on her tongue. “He was here. In the gallery.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Are you hurt?” Maxx finally asked.

  “No,” she said. “Only shaken.”

  A breath, too faint for a growl and too coarse for a human, filtered through the receiver. Sofia pressed her free hand to her forehead.

  “He told me she was in danger,” she said.

  “Who’s in danger?”

  “Seraphine,” her voice tightened. “He implied she would draw the Council’s attention—that they would come for answers. For blame.”

  Another silence, this time even longer.

  “Sofia,” Maxx finally said, “I’m on my way.”

  “No,” she said. “Not yet. I don’t want Stefan thinking he can provoke a reaction from you. That was part of his game tonight.”

  “And what exactly was he playing at?” Maxx asked.

  “Fear,” Sofia whispered. “A warning. Or a threat disguised as one. He’s stirring the Circle, and he wants me unsettled.”

  “Sounds like he succeeded.”

  Sofia’s breathing caught in her throat. “Maxx, I just…I needed to hear your voice.”

  “I’m glad you called to let me know.”

  She closed her eyes. A tremor ran through her from the relief of finally letting go of the tension she’d been holding inside since Stefan arrived.

  “I don’t want Seraphine involved,” she said. “Not in this. Not in the Council’s paranoia. She’s too young for their scrutiny.”

  “She’s strong,” Maxx said. “Stronger than we ever were at her age.”

  “Strength doesn’t protect innocence, and she still has it, Maxx. I want her to hold on to it as long as she can.”

  He didn’t argue. She could always count on him to remain silent when her voice adopted that specific tone—fear amplified by maternal instinct.

  “I’ll tighten security,” he said. “Quietly. And we’ll talk more when you get home.”

  Sofia opened her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Tonight. I’m leaving soon.”

  “Sofia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t face him alone again.”

  “I never intended to,” she whispered before hanging up and allowing the silence to settle once more.

  Beyond the office door, the gallery was quiet; the long-brewing storm’s shadows disappeared. Sofia adjusted the front of her coat, straightened her posture, and wiped away the last signs of vulnerability from her face. She stepped out, embodying the calm, confident image of Resurrection Arts.

  Allison looked up from the security console when Sofia came over. “Everything all right?”

  Sofia paused, then offered a peaceful, composed smile. “Of course, querida. Lock up for the night.”

  And together, they closed the gallery doors behind them, leaving only echoes of Stefan’s warning lingering in the darkness like a chill no lamp could chase away.