Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

Ancient Truths...

For the next few days, we sat down with the Elders. While helping nurse them back to health, we introduced ourselves. Their faces turned ashen, fear hanging thick in the air.

Micah, confused by their reaction, asked them to tell us what had happened leading up to the Clan’s sudden disappearance. He reminded them that most of us had not been born at the time, which seemed to put them more at ease.

As they shifted uncomfortably, the weight of centuries settled over them. Their garments—each a reflection of a bygone era—told their own silent stories.

The first man, appearing to be from the late 1400s, wore a doublet of deep burgundy velvet, its once-intricate embroidery now frayed. His hose had dulled over time, and the slashed sleeves revealed the soft linen beneath. A wide-brimmed hat sat beside him, its feather long gone, leaving only the empty ribbon loop where it had once been fastened.

Next to him sat a woman, the fullness of her gown marking her as from the early 1500s. The rich green fabric, stiff with layers of brocade, framed a square neckline edged with delicate gold thread. Her hair was bound in a crisp gable hood, its starched edges emphasizing the sharp angles of her face, making her look both regal and severe.

A Council member from the late 1600s adjusted the folds of his heavy wool coat, the broad cuffs lined with worn fur. His once-pristine lace cravat sagged slightly, yellowed with age, though the silver pin fastening it still gleamed under the dim lighting. He glanced down at his tall leather boots, their folded tops cracked, betraying centuries of wear.

Beside him, a woman dressed in the soft elegance of the early 1700s kept her hands folded over her full skirts, the patterned silk displaying delicate floral embroidery. Her bodice, laced tightly, tapered into a graceful shape, contrasting the sharpness of her powdered wig, which framed her pale face in stiff curls.

The next man, unmistakably from the late 1700s, wore a fitted tailcoat in deep navy. His waistcoat, once bright, had faded, though the careful stitching of its embroidered patterns remained intact. The loose folds of his cravat hinted at years of refinement, and the polished silver buttons of his coat gleamed under the dim light.

The last woman, dressed in a gown reminiscent of the Regency era, sat with practiced composure. The empire-waisted muslin fabric clung gently to her frame, the soft ivory hue nearly blending into the shadows. Her hair, loosely arranged, was pulled into a delicate knot at the nape of her neck, with only a few curls escaping to frame her sharp eyes.

Each of them was from a past none of us younger Vampires could compare with, from places we had been conditioned to avoid. Each brought into the fold of Abuelo’s Lordship to serve as his voices of reason and respectability.

After hearing our version of events, they spoke—hesitant at first, their voices laced with an unease that had settled deep over time. What they revealed shattered everything we thought we knew. Our father had been dishonest. There was no attack. Not from anyone outside the Clan. There had never been a group of Slayers bent on destroying us. The stories we had been told since childhood—warnings of enemies lurking beyond our borders—had all been lies.

And the Wolf pack nearby? The one called Shadow Storm? It had always been there, yet it was once under the rule of a tyrant, and, later, his tyrant son. The last heavy-handed man to lead the pack was Henry’s father, Christopher Dane, but their current leadership showed just how acceptance and growth, personal and professional, could change everything.

A realization settled over us, cold and undeniable. The history we had been raised on had never been truth, only a carefully constructed deception meant to bury what had truly happened.

Now, my brothers and I knew for certain. Our past wasn’t lost—it had been deliberately hidden.

"Seems the boy was more troublesome than we originally assumed," one of the males said cautiously, his intonation revealing his 1400s French heritage.

A female stood. Her name was Enya, and she hailed from southern Scotland. Her eyes narrowed in a frown as her skirts swirled around her ankles while she paced absently. Though covered in dirt and dust, they were shockingly intact, as if the chilling, bone-deep cold of the underground had preserved them. The fabric moved stiffly, weighed down by the years spent in stillness, yet the colors had remained surprisingly vivid beneath the grime.

She stopped, her sharp gaze flicking toward us before she finally spoke. "What’s happened tae Lord Raymundo? We were in his service, an’ that wee brat sealed us away when we took our rest for the year."

"Pardon us, my Lady," Stanley said, rising to his feet. "Perhaps it would be best for us to hunt before we go further into this. Micah?"

"Agreed," he answered. "I would be hard-pressed to force answers out of people we just woke up. They need new clothes, and we need a way to get blood to them. They haven't been out in two hundred years, and there have been many changes."

"What sort of changes?" another female asked.

I pushed off the wall. "As my brothers have stated, we should feed to avoid unnecessary conflict. Empty stomachs can lead to frustration, and none of us want this meet to go south, either. We want the truth, something we're obviously not going to get with our sire."

She moved toward the door, but before she could take more than a few steps, it swung open.

Logan walked in with a scowl, his frustration evident in the tightness of his jaw. "I need help."

"So why are you scowling?" Vincent asked lightly, humoured by Logan’s youthful yet complex stance.

Our little cousin growled, his posture tense. "I'm hungry, but not for food. Mom and Dad can't bring themselves to help me, and we can't keep going to the blood bank in town. The Humans will start questioning things beyond their comprehension. On top of that, I’m not even sure how to feed, so I need to be taught before I bite someone I shouldn’t."

Her hand went over her heart, fingers pressing firm like she was holding onto something deeper than shock. Her breath shuddered, words thick with years of sorrow and hard-won wisdom.

"Goddess have mercy… He’s the spit of Ray! Near perfect, ’cept for that red hair." Her voice trembled, a slow shake of the head following, as if the truth was sinking in, heavy and deep. Her dark brown ringlets swayed as she fought to understand the facts right in front of her. Her red-ringed brown eyes misting with centuries of pain and passionate battles for freedom. "My Lords… who this boy?"

Micah smiled, his expression calm but holding a flicker of knowing. "He's our cousin. The only male heir of Lady Sarah Valencia, daughter of Lady Annabella, who, in turn, was the daughter of Raymundo Valencia and his Second Chance Mate, Avalon Ruiz of the Rio Roja."

"That is enough! These lies must be cleared up, and I will start!" Master Christian said as he rose to his feet, movements sharp with indignation. His voice carried a deep, raw bitterness, the weight of old grievances pressing into every word. "We will hunt, yes, but what you just said is naught but a crock of blatant lies! Second Chance Mate? What Second Chance, I ask you?"

"Are those not facts?" I asked, matching his tone, unwilling to let his fury overshadow the truth.

"No!" he snarled, fists tightening at his sides. "Ava was not his Second Chance, but his True Mate. Raymundo loved his wife, but not as one would love their True Mate. Your bastard father was always a conniving child, however, he was nothing more than a brazen brat doted on by his mother while his elder brother was cast aside."

Enya nodded solemnly, her gaze dark with old resentments. "Ach, that woman was off her head! She truly believed wee Nico would be crowned the King o' all Vampires."

Another council member nodded, muttering his agreement. "Avalon was a dear, sweet woman, but she was terribly afraid of Master Nikolai. She once complained that he threatened to push her over the stairs—this while she was pregnant with Lord Raymundo's daughter. Whatever happened to Anna and Marcus?"

Micah’s voice was measured, but his words carried the gravity of history. "Our Uncle was killed by unknown forces, but his powers somehow skipped Father and went to me instead. Our Aunt suffered the same Fate, but not before Father took her child and killed her Mate."

"They ain't never gon’ go to the aggressor of the host, Child," Harriet breathed out, her gaze catchin’ the firelight, the glow dancin’ in her red-ringed eyes. "But I do believe ya’ll knew that already, didn’tya?"

I felt the colour drain from my face, knowing that she was right about one thing. Had Father not been the aggressor, then his siblings’ powers would have gone to him instead.

The Elders nodded, their expressions unreadable, weighed down by contemplation.

"It seems that things have come full circle. Tell me, is Nikolai still standing? Does he still rule our Coven?" Bertram asked, his tone hopeful.

Justin snarled, frustration thick in his voice. "Hell no. Logan showed up out of nowhere, which made Father lose his ever-obsessed crap. Then, Grandfather died, our father blamed Logan, and, when we tried to show the truth, we were cast out as rebels. While some still clung to Father's beliefs, most saw through his failures. Three-quarters of the Clan sided with us. With Micah being the eldest, we decided he should be the one to lead our family into a new era."