Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

1739 - The Beginning of the End

At the risk of sounding cliché, it had been a cold dark night. For some reason, it was when my new baby brother decided to make his grand entrance into the world.

The winter of 1739 had been unrelenting, a bitter season that gnawed at the land and left hardship in its wake. Crops had suffered beneath early frosts, and what little harvest remained was barely enough to sustain the countryside. The roads, coated in ice, had turned treacherous, making travel near impossible without risk of injury. Even the local innkeeper, known for keeping his fires burning past midnight, had been forced to ration coal, leaving many to suffer through the chill.

The vicious, biting winds sliced through clothes, cutting deep beneath the skin to chill to the bone. Snow piled against the castle walls, thick and unyielding, muffling all sound except for the howling gusts. With each blast, the flames in the torches lining the corridors flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows against the stone.

I watched the world beyond the window, following the thick white flakes as they drifted down from the pitch-black sky. The wind caught them, scattering them violently, sending them spiraling into the night’s abyss. Hours had passed since sunset, and Mother had felt the first pangs of labor.

Suppertime had come and gone, yet she remained locked inside the birthing room with only a handful of women tending to her. The midwives had boiled linens and prepared an infusion of valerian root to ease her pain—a rare luxury granted to the noble class. Common women often relied on harsher remedies, or worse, sheer endurance. Even with these efforts, childbirth remained a precarious battle between life and death.

This baby would be their eighth child. I was the sixth.

With five older brothers and one younger, I hoped for a sister—a shift in the family’s dynamic, someone delicate in a world that was anything but. A sister would mean a different kind of responsibility, one that was more than just blood. It would be a reason to protect in a way none of us had ever had to before.

We were close, though, my brothers and me.

It had been many years since we escaped from our island home in the Atlantic Ocean. That was before I was born, and my brothers barely remembered the place we once called home.

We were all told the same story—a brutal attack by slayers. But beyond Father and his trusted adviser, no one recalled the details of what had happened. It was something that never sat right with me.

If everyone had survived the attack, why did no one else remember it?

The question lurked in the back of my mind, surfacing at times like this, when everything was too still, too quiet. But asking again wouldn’t change anything. No one would have an answer.

So instead, we prayed that nothing would happen to our mother or the new baby.

Then, a soft, mewling cry reached our ears. We exhaled in unison, relief settling over us.

Our relief would be short-lived.

Micah opened the trapdoor he'd found while exploring the castle and led us through the passage to the next room. From behind the tapestry that hid us from sight, we watched the scene unfold.

The door burst open, striking the stone with a force that sent a tremor through the floor. The iron latch rattled against the wood, the hinges groaning under the sudden strain. Father strode into the room, the heavy soles of his riding boots thudding against the floor with sharp finality. His long wool coat flared with his movement, the stiff fabric barely shifting under the weight of dampness clinging to its edges. The scent of cold iron and aged firewood clung to him, mixing with the lingering fragrance of lavender and boiled linens from the birthing room.

None of us moved. The silence weighed heavy, pressing down as if the walls themselves braced against the impending storm of his fury. Micah’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the tapestry, his grip stiff, his breath slow—too slow. My own pulse climbed, the familiar sting of apprehension tightening my chest.

Father’s hand shot out, locking around the throat of one of the women tending to Mother. Her gasp barely escaped before his grip tightened, robbing her of the chance to protest. Her hands flew to his wrist in a desperate attempt to free herself, the fabric of her bodice shifting as she strained against the pressure.

The second woman rushed forward, skirts rustling against the stone as she fell to her knees. "Please, my Lord—let her go!" Her voice carried the distinct cadence of country dialect, rougher in tone than those of the courtly ladies who frequented the estate. She reached for his arm, trembling fingers fumbling over the fine embroidery of his doublet. "Lady Catherine is too weak. We did everything we could, but she wasn’t strong enough—another child was too much for her."

Micah held his breath beside me, rigid with tension, his fingers curled into the tapestry. None of us moved.

“My Lord, please,” the woman begged, her voice raw with desperation. “Taking my sister’s life will not bring back your wife.” She adjusted her stance, as if bracing for his fury, but her hands trembled. “She remained as strong as possible, Lord Valencia. We have done all that can be done—short of asking that she be transformed into a Vampire.”

Father’s expression twisted, his features hardening as rage coiled through him like a tightening vice. His free hand lashed out, striking her across the face with brutal precision. The force of the blow sent her staggering, the sharp crack echoing against the stone walls. Candlelight flickered violently in response, the flames guttering as the air in the room shifted with the weight of his fury. The newborn whimpered in the silence that followed.

“What nonsense!” he spat, voice edged with a venom that made my pulse jump. “You dare blame your incompetence on things that do not exist, woman? My patience is not to be tested.”

She lifted her head slowly, rubbing at her bruising cheek. Beneath the firelit glow, something darker flickered in her gaze—an unspoken knowing, a silent defiance. “You speak as though we do not know what you are, Lord Nikolai.” Her voice hardened, her words sharpened into something meant to cut. “To bear eight children in eight years can break even the strongest of women, let alone one born human. You asked too much of such a delicate creature.”

“Silence.” Father’s tone snapped across the space, slicing through the air like the edge of a blade. “I will have neither your blasphemy nor your heretic practices.”

She did not lower her gaze.

And that alone made my pulse spike.

Micah’s face twisted into an angry scowl. He knew something was wrong, but he was as powerless as the rest of us now.

Father hurled the woman against the far stone wall, the force of her body hitting the unyielding surface with a sickening thud. My stomach tightened as the impact echoed through the chamber, disrupting the stillness of the air. Her limbs slackened immediately, her breath escaping in a shallow gasp before her eyes lost their spark entirely. The scent of burning tallow from the nearby candles mingled with the metallic sting of blood, thickening the atmosphere with a suffocating heaviness.

Father turned, his gaze sharp and calculating as it settled on the girl cradling the newborn. She stood rigid, her thin frame trembling beneath the weight of expectation. The linen wrap encasing the infant was gripped tightly in her hands, her fingers trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. Firelight flickered across her pale skin, throwing shifting shadows over her wide, fearful eyes.

“Bring me the child,” Father commanded, his voice devoid of patience.

The girl swallowed hard, her movements hesitant as she forced her feet forward. Each step felt agonizingly slow, her slippers barely whispering against the cold flagstones as she fought against her instinct to retreat. She lifted the infant toward him, arms outstretched in submission before she quickly withdrew, keeping her head bowed.

Father took the babe, his expression darkening as his eyes roved over the fragile form. The sneer creeping across his face carved harsh lines into his already sharp features.

“What was the name she gave the child?” His tone was controlled, but it carried an undertone of distaste.

“Lady Catherine called him Peter, Lord Nikolai.” The girl’s voice barely carried above a whisper, and she flinched as he reached for her.

Suddenly, Father raised his hand.

She barely had time to react. A choked gasp tore from her throat as the force of his strike sent her hurtling backward. Her body collided with the iron bolts embedded in the stone wall, the impact reverberating through the chamber with a sickening crunch. The heavy fabric of her woolen gown, dyed deep burgundy for her station, absorbed the crimson spreading across her torso, the color darkening as blood seeped into the weave. Her cap slipped from her head, lace edges trailing against the cold stone as she went completely limp.

It was clear—undeniable—she had been impaled from the sheer force of the blow.

“Mary,” the woman cried out, her voice raw with grief.

The chamber held its breath. Even the fire, guttering in the iron sconces, seemed to shrink beneath the weight of what had just transpired. The scent of tallow wax, singed wood, and fresh blood thickened in the air, pressing against us like an unspoken condemnation.