Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

The First Crack

As each of my brothers reached adulthood at twenty-one years of age, they stopped physically aging. Their bodies held onto their traits like living wax sculptures, frozen in time, yet undeniably alive. Their hearts, once steady and strong, slowed to a mere beat every half an hour, a rhythm too faint to be called natural.

Our blood flow followed suit, sluggish and reluctant, giving us a paler complexion than those we lived among in Mexico—the place we settled after moving from England. It was a silent marker of what we had become, an unavoidable trait that kept us on the edges of society, never quite blending in.

But the slow decline of our humanity had another consequence. It made us thirst for blood, an undeniable craving, rich and deep. The sweet, sweet taste lingered on our tongues long after the deed was done, a reminder that no matter how much time passed, our nature would never change. We carried that burden as we moved through the years, every passing moment tainted by a haze of mistrust toward our own father.

Almost a hundred years after we left the old castle in England, Father arranged the marriage of our Aunt Annabella's daughter, Sarah. It was a union born of both convenience and Fate, as the red-haired Latino Werewolf Father handed her over to was, by all accounts, her destined Mate.

You see, Aunt Annabella, daughter of Abuelo Raymundo, was the first hybrid to carry both Vampire and Werewolf blood in her veins—a rarity, a challenge to the laws of nature itself. But she had perished in the supposed attack, her existence cut short before she could fully embrace what she was meant to be. That left Sarah under Father’s not-so-nice care, a fragile piece of our family caught in the same web of control that ensnared us.

Before her death, Annabella had taken a final precaution, suppressing her daughter's Vampire abilities and turning her into a full-blooded Werewolf. Whether out of fear or necessity, she sealed away part of Sarah’s identity, creating a dormant link that would not awaken until the time was right.

Sarah had been against the wedding, but he'd left her no other choice. He had already given the Werewolf Alpha his word, backed by an excessive dowry, ensuring the agreement could not be undone. Furious, she delivered a prophecy that would haunt him for generations. "Your reign of terror will end when my line bears a male child. As I say, so shall it be!"

We could do nothing but watch as Father monitored her bloodline, making certain that the Rio Roja remained bound to him. His control over them was absolute, driven not by loyalty but by his own paranoia.

For six generations, only daughters were born into Sarah’s lineage. With each passing year, his anticipation soured into frustration. Every male presence in the family came through marriage, not birth, rendering their bloodline untouched by the prophecy’s promise. No matter how hard they tried, none bore a son.

Eventually, Father dismissed the warning, convinced that fate had failed to deliver the foretold heir. He had spent decades waiting for something that never came, only to abandon his vigilance—just as history prepared to prove him wrong.

Father eventually found a new woman to control, and his bloodline expanded from eight to thirteen. His influence only deepened, spreading through the generations like a silent force that none of us could escape.

I lost track of time after our beloved cousin spoke her prediction. I had thrown myself into Alchemy, desperate to uncover its secrets, clinging to knowledge as the years passed in a blur. Then, just when he had dismissed the prophecy, convinced it would never be fulfilled, Sarah’s grandson drew his first breath.

Nine years after Abuelo Raymundo woke in secret, a red-haired boy arrived at the gates of our closed-off community, not alone but accompanied by several others. He carried himself with the powerful stance of an Alpha, moving with an effortless command that demanded respect and, in turn, offered it where it was due. There was no hesitation in his presence, no uncertainty in his actions. He executed his ideas with flawless accuracy, each movement deliberate, calculated, and unwavering.

Yet, despite his authority, he was no tyrant. With unshakable resolve, he protected the four younger children who had come alongside him, shielding them not out of obligation, but from a responsibility so deeply ingrained it had become a part of him. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, a presence that spoke not of dominance, but of unwavering care.

He had a heart that reminded me of my dear, sweet cousin Mariana—her kindness and devotion woven into his very being. Like her, he sought peaceful resolution, never choosing force where understanding could be found. He honored her memory not just in words, but in action, visiting the people she once called family as if ensuring that her spirit remained alive through him.

I'd heard about his comrades from my younger brother, Peter. He had come to my lab, eyes bright with mischief, his hair standing on end from the constant habit of running his fingers through it.

"Hunt!"

I glanced up briefly before adjusting the Bunsen burner I was using to create a new anti-venom. As I jotted down my observations of how different temperatures affected the reaction, I sighed. "Yes?"

"He’s here!" Peter squealed, his youthfulness infectious. "Aunt Annabella’s male heir has come. That he’s here right when we needed him the most? For the first time in centuries, I want to hope again, Hunter. I want to believe we finally have a chance to live free of this oppression."

“What makes you think he is who he claims to be?” I asked, already skeptical of the news.

Peter grinned widely, undeterred. “Because he looks like Abuelo, but with Mariana’s eyes and hair. Sarah said the tides would turn when he was born, not that he would be the one to end Father’s dark reign.”

Although I wanted to argue, his reasoning held weight. “Yes, I agree. She claimed her male heir would mark the beginning of the end—not that he, specifically, would be the one to bring Father down. A catalyst for change, not the force itself. Perhaps Father’s downfall will come from within, or maybe it will be delivered by the hands of the Royals.”

“You need to get out more, big brother. Stop talking to the four walls of your lab and try conversing with actual people once in a while,” my younger brother said, a smirk creeping across his innocent features, his mischief barely contained.

“I think not,” I stated, adjusting my posture as I poured a glass of wine. “Talking to others only invites more of Father’s discerningly troublesome bloodshed. He fears we will meet our Fated match, and that unpredictability is both his greatest asset and his greatest fault.”

Shaking his head at me, Peter scowled. Without another word, he strode toward the altar I kept specifically for him to practice his scrying ability. His lips moved in a quiet mutter as he held his hand over the Blessed water resting in the carved Black Alder bowl.

“I’ll leave the channel open for you,” he said at last, his tone carrying both exasperation and understanding. “That way, you can at least see things without showing yourself.”

“Whatever for?”

He smiled, the mischief momentarily replaced by something steadier, more sincere. “This is me giving you space with an option to watch the chaos unfold from this room. You’re always working to make the world a better place for us, so let me do this for you.”

I wanted to object—to keep the distance intact, to dismiss his reasoning—but the weight of his gesture held me still. Instead, I nodded wordlessly as he left the room. Minutes later, curiosity finally got the better of my sanity, and I found myself watching the children and men who were visiting the compound.

That’s when I saw Logan for the first time.

Despite his small size, his presence was undeniable. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself—it was the way others responded. A child Alpha was rare, but he owned the title well. Those with him followed his commands without hesitation, their immediate obedience proving that his rank wasn’t merely symbolic—it was absolute.

Logan proved his fearlessness when he stood against the guards at the gate. He didn’t act out of recklessness, nor from pride—it was for his friends. Still, the ease with which he challenged authority spoke volumes about who he was.

The true test of his strength came when he faced my father. The first time, Dorcas attempted to use her powers on the boy, but he would not be swayed. Whatever magic she wielded, whatever force she attempted to bend him with, Logan remained unmoved.

When he was shown to our Grandfather’s room at the compound, Father made a fatal mistake by approaching the two little girls. Both were magic users with unmistakable Werewolf ties—traits he despised so completely that he had nearly forced the entire Breakwater clan into extinction.

At that moment, I understood Peter’s excitement. Logan was more than a boy, more than an heir—he was the embodiment of hope and resilience in its strangest form. His presence carried a weight that was impossible to ignore, something that shifted the very air around him.

I recalled how even Mariana had displayed an odd immunity to magic. It never consumed her, never bent her will—it deflected off of her, unable to take hold, as if something within her refused its pull entirely. And now, with Logan standing before us, I realized that both she and her son had already begun showing signs of Vampirism.

Yet, they were not complete. Their true nature would remain dormant, locked away in an unnatural sleep, until they were gifted the blood of an ancient—until the spell that bound their Vampire in eternal rest was finally shattered.