Chapter Four: The New Moon Ritual
1400 Words
A new moon night.
No moon.
The sky was like a pure black ribbon, studded with stars—more than on any moonlit night. The Milky Way stretched across the sky like a luminous river, extending from one horizon to the other.
Eileen stood at the lighthouse door, organizing her gear. A silver dagger—concealed in her boot. A bottle of holy water—hanging from her belt. Marcus's revolver—four silver bullets remaining. She gripped the gun, feeling the lingering warmth of the grip—the wood, shaped like Marcus's hand, smoothed by years and sweat.
She raised the pistol to her eyes, looking through the sights at the distant lake. The barrel gleamed coldly in the starlight. She pulled the trigger—a dry shot—and heard the crisp sound of the hammer striking.
Four silver bullets.
Enough. Not enough. She didn't know.
"Ready?" Hasin approached.
He stood behind her, holding a book with a parchment cover—Eileen recognized it as the notebook he'd retrieved from the sea. The pages were crumpled, but the writing was still legible.
"No," Eileen said. "But you have to go anyway."
"That's enough." Hasin patted her shoulder. "Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's going forward despite fear."
"Did you make that up yourself?"
"No. It's from the ancient Greeks."
"I thought they'd say something wiser."
"They would say something wiser too. But I think this one suits your situation better." Eileen smiled—a brief, bitter smile.
She went to Victoria's room and knocked.
"Vicky?" The door opened.
Victoria stood in the doorway. She wore a deep blue dress—a dress Eileen had never seen before and didn't know where she'd gotten it—her hair was braided, and a small silver cross adorned her neck. Her face was serene—a serene that transcended fear and tension.
It was as if she had accepted some kind of ending.
"Are you ready?" Eileen asked.
"Ready," Victoria said.
Her voice was soft, as if confirming something she already knew. Eileen noticed Victoria's hands trembling slightly—just a hint, deliberately suppressed. Her fingertips were white from clenching her fists so tightly.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure." Eileen looked into Victoria's eyes. Brown. Warm. Her own.
But something lay beneath. Something she had never seen in Victoria's eyes before—not fear, not sadness. Something akin to relief. Like—
As if she already knew the ending.
"I love you," Eileen said.
"I love you too," Victoria said.
They hugged—not a panicked hug, but a hug that felt like a final embrace.
Victoria's arms were tighter than Eileen remembered. Her chin rested on Eileen's shoulder, her lips close to Eileen's ear, and she whispered—
"Whatever happens—don't blame me." Eileen froze.
"What do you mean?" She tried to push Victoria away to see her face properly, but Victoria's arms held her like iron clamps.
"Nothing." Victoria released her hand. Her face regained its calm smile. "Let's go." They turned and walked into the night.
Dorian was already waiting by the boat. He had changed into a clean black shirt, and his hair was tied back up. He stood by the water, his white hair fluttering in the night wind, like an extension of the lighthouse itself.
He glanced at Victoria—a glance filled with complex emotions. There was scrutiny. There was sadness. And something else Eileen couldn't decipher.
"Let's go," he said.
The small boat glided across the lake in the darkness. There was no moonlight, only starlight. The lake was as still as a mirror, and the oars rippled as they plunged into the water, like shattered stars in a pool.
No one spoke.
The sound of oars was the clearest—wooden oars cutting through the water, droplets falling, then the next stroke. The rhythm was as steady as a heartbeat. Eileen sat at the bow, her hand on the leather pouch at her waist. The silver box was inside; she could feel its warmth—the heart inside was beating, slowly synchronizing with her own.
Victoria sat in the middle of the boat. Her gaze remained fixed on the lakeshore—the direction of the Cairngorms, the direction of Blood Peak. Her lips moved slightly, as if she were silently reciting something.
Dorian steered at the stern. His movements were light, almost mechanical. But his eyes never left Victoria's back.
Eileen noticed—Dorian's expression was one she had never seen before.
Not anger. Not sadness.
It was fear.
A vampire who had lived for nearly five hundred years—in fear.
When she reached the lakeshore, Mora was already waiting there. She rode a black horse, leading two others—one chestnut, one grey.
Mora wore a dark cloak, its hood pulled low, revealing only half her face. Her horse paced restlessly in the night wind, but her hands were steady.
"Silas is waiting for you," she said.
Her voice was calm—but beneath that calm lay a tension, like a string stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
"Let's go," Eileen said, mounting her horse.
Her mounting movements were much more practiced—just days ago she was a London lady who could only ride park ponies. Now she could mount with one hand in the dark, the other gripping the reins.
Change.
She felt the change happening. Her body was adapting to this new world. Her blood was surging—Elizabeth's blood.
They rode through the night. The Cairngorms stretched out in the darkness like the spine of a giant beast. A wind blew from the mountains, carrying the scents of pine and rock—and something more primal. The scent of animals. The scent of blood.
The mountain path grew increasingly difficult.
At first, there was a path—a dirt track worn smooth by shepherds and woodcutters. But after less than half an hour, the path vanished. In its place was a slope covered in gravel and wild grass, where the horses had to carefully choose their footing with each step.
Mora led the way. She moved with the agility of a cat among the rocks, finding the safest route even in the darkness.
"How much further?" Eileen asked.
"An hour." Mora didn't turn around. "If no one breaks a leg."
"Do you come here often?"
"This is Silas's territory," Mora said. "I'm his second-in-command. Of course I've been here."
"How long have you been with him?" Mora was silent for a moment.
"Fifty years." Eileen took a breath.
"You look—"
"Not like you've lived that long?" Mora turned, a bitter smile appearing beneath her hood. "The werewolf's curse doesn't just turn you into a beast. It also slows aging. I'm not pureblood—I was transformed. But even so, I live much longer than ordinary people."
"Then you—"
"I was transformed at eighteen," Mora said. "I still look eighteen. But my soul—is old." She fell silent again.
Hooves clattered over the gravel.
"Why are you following him?" Eileen asked.
Mora didn't answer.
Hooves clattered over the gravel. The night wind blew from the mountains, carrying the scent of pine resin and damp rocks.
After a long time—so long that Eileen thought she wouldn't answer—Mora finally spoke.
"Because he saved me." Her voice was soft, almost drowned out by the wind. “In my deepest despair—he gave me a choice. To live. Even if it's as a monster. Living is better than dying.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know,” Mora said. “But at least I’m alive.” She paused—as if gathering her thoughts.
“When I was eighteen—my family died. The plague. I was the only survivor. But I had no will to live. I stood on the edge of a cliff—ready to jump.”
“And then Silas appeared?”
“No.” Mora shook her head. “His pack of wolves found me. They didn’t attack me—they sat around me. Right there—on the edge of the cliff—and stayed with me all night.”
“The next morning—Silas came. He sat next to me. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there. Until sunset.”
- Writer
