Thirst

1995, BERKSHIRE The D’Amadeo sanctuary had stood for three centuries beneath the heavy fog of North London, a fortress of marble, velvet, and unspoken immunity. Tonight, it smelled of iron, vintage wine, and hedonism. Inside the grand ballroom, the coven was celebrating. Crystal decanters sat on long mahogany tables, filled with deep crimson drained from their latest, carefully selected victims. The atmosphere was thick with low, melodic laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the relaxed, predatory hum of elite immortals who believed their secrecy was absolute. At fifteen years old, Samil D’Amadeo sat at the edge of the high dais, his fingers tracing the gold-leaf crest on his chalice. He was still three years away from eighteen—the locked-in age where a born-vampire’s growth would permanently freeze. His features carried a youthful softness, though his dark eyes already held the sharp, heavy stillness of his bloodline. He watched his parents, the heads of the coven, moving gracefully among their guests. They were gods in this underground world. They were safe. He watched with a smile at his parents who had begun dancing gracefully to the Italian melody playing. His mother caught him looking, her smile soft, her rosy red orbs gleaming. She winked at him and blew a kiss at him. He grinned and caught her kiss and put it to his heart like a physical thing, where a silver locket given to him by his parents rested. And then the candle chandelier went off, erupting confused murmurs. Then, the heavy oak doors exploded inward. The sound wasn't just wood splintering; it was a localized shockwave of pure, crushing magic. The music stopped instantly. Through the smoke strode the witches. They didn't wear robes or mystical gowns; they looked like executioners. At the front stood a man with amber eyes like a cold flint. In their hands, they gripped heavy, silver-plated daggers and jagged knives etched with glowing runes. Torches flared to life, their flames burning an unnatural, sickening violet—the color of witch-fire. The place was illuminated once more. “Witches!" "Vampire filth," a voice echoed, laced with a hatred so potent it made the air hard to breathe. “It's about time you all got what's coming to you! For Trina!" The vampires scrambled, their fangs dropping, speed blurs cutting through the room. But the witches had anticipated everything. They didn't just fight; they dominated. Protective wards shattered under waves of telepathic telekinesis. A witch raised her hand, and three vampires slammed into the marble walls, their bones snapping before they could even scream. Samil watched it all happen like he was in a haze, almost frozen. He didn't know when he left his protective uncle's hold to try to fight. A witch was attacking his mother and his father had almost been stabbed. "Samil! Stay back!" His father’s voice pierced the chaos. Samil lunged forward, but a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder. It was his uncle, pulling him backward into the shadows of the gallery. "Let me go!" Samil snarled, his small fangs baring, his heart hammering against his ribs, hyperventilating. “I have to fight! They're hurting mom and dad!” "Look!" his uncle hissed, his voice trembling with a terror Samil had never heard before. "Look at what they are doing!" Through the smoke and the screaming, Samil watched in frozen horror as a circle of five powerful witches surrounded his parents on the dais. The air grew suffocatingly hot. His mother threw up a barrier of pure telepathic force, but a witch stepped forward, her dagger glowing blindingly bright. With a brutal, practiced swipe, she tore through the barrier. Samil tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat. Right there on the gilded stage, before Samil's wide, shattering eyes, the witches raised their blades. In two swift, horrific strokes, his parents' heads were severed from their necks. Before their bodies could even hit the floor, a torch was tossed onto the dais. The unnatural violet fire caught instantly, roaring hungrily, consuming the entirety of the sanctuary. Within seconds, the leaders of the D’Amadeo coven were reduced to a pile of gray, unfeeling ash. "No!" Samil choked out, tears of blood welling in his eyes. He tried to fight his uncle's grip, but the older vampire was stronger, dragging him toward the fireproof, hidden servant tunnels The sanctuary became a slaughter house, the vampire m******e of 1995 by the witches. Out of the one hundred and two vampires present that night, only thirty-two managed to break through the lines and scatter into the freezing London rain, bleeding, broken, and unmoored. As his uncle pulled him into the dark alleys of the city, Samil looked back at the glowing orange sky. The soft, fifteen-year-old boy died in that alley. In his place, a cold, hollow core of burning hatred took root. He was the coven head now. And he would hunt them all down.