Impossible.
And instantly recognizable despite not having encountered it in decades.
A dhampir.
My senses sharpen, vampire instincts snapping to full attention as I scan the treeline. There, disturbed underbrush, broken in a pattern too deliberate to be animal. I move silent, following the trail with predator focus, every nerve alert.
Boot prints in the soft earth near the eastern boundary. Size seven, maybe eight. Deep impressions suggesting tactical boots, someone who knows how to move. The prints lead to a vantage point overlooking the clubhouse, stop at a spot where someone clearly spent time observing.
Surveilling.
A cigarette butt is still faintly warm when I crouch to examine it. American Spirit, barely smoked, crushed deliberately rather than casually discarded.
Dust patterns on a fallen log show where someone rested a rifle, not aimed, just positioned.
Watching, not hunting.
The distinction matters.
Then I see it.
Pinned to an oak tree at perfect eye level, a silver blade driven deep into the bark, holding a photograph in place. I recognize the blade immediately, hunter’s weapon, blessed silver, the kind that would burn like acid if it pierced vampire flesh.
A calling card and warning all at once.
The photograph shows a vampire I know.Knew.Konstantine, one of the rogue bloodsuckers who’s been causing problems in our territory for the last three months, running feral, killing indiscriminately, refusing to acknowledge the King’s authority.
We’ve been tracking him.
In the photograph, he’s dead.
His heart torn out with brutal efficiency, body positioned against a warehouse wall, eyes still open in final shock. The kill is fresh, I can tell from the blood patterns, the way his skin hasn’t fully grayed yet.
No note.
No explanation.
Just the picture and the blade.
Whoever did this wanted me to know.
Wanted me to see their work.
Wanted me to understand that they could move through our territory undetected, execute our problems, and leave evidence of their skill like a business card.
Bold and goddamn dangerous.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to see a security alert, perimeter camera, eastern boundary. I pull up the footage, to see a figure moving like liquid death through the frame, all tactical gear and controlled violence. She’s taking down another rogue vampire, this one I don’t recognize, her movements economical and devastatingly effective. Blade work that speaks of decades of training. Gun handling that suggests muscle memory so deep it’s become instinct.
Then she turns.
Just for a second, looking directly at the camera like she knows exactly where it is—like she wants to be seen.
The face that looks back stops my breath.
Female. Mid-twenties in appearance, though with dhampir that means nothing. She could be fifty, could be two hundred. Dark hair pulled back severe, tactical makeup doing nothing to hide the fact that she’s beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful.
Dangerous.