The Twin

chapter 1. The Family That Never Ages The first time I realized something was wrong with my family, I was fifteen years old. Looking back, the signs had always been there. The curtains that stayed closed even on the brightest summer mornings. The strange visitors who only arrived after sunset. The locked doors throughout our mansion. The way my mother never ate dinner with me, despite insisting that family meals were important. And then there were the photographs. Hundreds of them lined the walls of Valentine Manor, showing generations of my family's wealth and success. But there was one thing I never noticed until that night. Nobody in those photographs ever seemed to get old. My father had taught me to walk without making noise when I was little. At the time, I thought it was a game. Now, I wasn't so sure. I crouched behind the enormous marble statue overlooking the main foyer. Three people stood below. My father, Alexander Valentine, wore his usual charcoal suit. Even at midnight, he looked as though he'd just stepped out of a business meeting. My mother, Vivienne, stood beside the fireplace in a long burgundy dress, her dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. The third man was unfamiliar. He was tall and thin, with silver hair and a black coat soaked from the rain. "Fifteen years," the stranger said. "You've had fifteen years to prepare him." My father folded his arms. "And I've spent every one of them keeping him alive." The stranger laughed bitterly. "Alive? Alexander, you know what happens when his blood awakens.My mother stepped forward. "Enough." "No. You cannot keep pretending he's ordinary.""My heart began pounding. My blood? What was that supposed to mean? My father moved so quickly that I almost missed it. One second he was standing near the fireplace. The next, he had the stranger pinned against the wall. A loud crack echoed through the foyer. I flinched. "Speak about my son again," my father said softly, "and you won't leave this house." Something about his voice frightened me more than the violence. My father never lost his temper. Not when I crashed his expensive sports car into the garage wall last summer. Not when I got suspended for fighting. Not even when I accidentally set fire to his antique desk trying to make a science experiment.But now? He looked ready to kill someone. The stranger stared at him without blinking. "You can threaten me all you want. It won't stop what's coming." My father released him. "Get out." The man adjusted his coat and turned toward the front door. Before leaving, he looked back. "When the boy turns eighteen, you won't be able to hide him anymore." The front doors slammed shut. I remained frozen behind the statue. Eighteen.Three years away. What was supposed to happen when I turned eighteen? "Alexander," my mother whispered. "I know." "He heard us." My entire body went cold.My father slowly lifted his head. His eyes moved toward the staircase. Toward me. I ducked behind the statue. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then my mother said, "Let him sleep. We can talk tomorrow." I didn't wait to hear anything else. I ran back to my room.And for the first time in my life, I locked my bedroom door. By morning, the storm had passed. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the breakfast room, illuminating the polished dining table and expensive paintings.My father sat at the far end, reading something on his tablet. My mother stood beside the counter, arranging fresh fruit onto a plate. Everything looked normal. Almost too normal. "Good morning, sweetheart," she said when I entered.Morning." She kissed my forehead. Her skin felt unusually cold. It always did. I pulled out a chair. "Did you sleep well?" she asked. "Yeah." A lie. I'd barely slept at all. "Your history exam is today, isn't it?" "Tomorrow." "Oh, that's right." She smiled and placed a plate in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast, and strawberries. My usual breakfast. My father lowered his tablet. "You're quiet this morning." "I'm tired." "Stayed up studying?" "Something like that." He watched me for a moment. I picked up my fork. "Did we have company last night?" I asked. My mother's hand stopped moving. Only for a second. But I noticed. My father took a sip from his coffee cup. "An old business associate." "He sounded pretty upset." Silence. My mother looked toward my father. "You were awake?" he asked. "The thunder woke me up." "And you heard our conversation?" "Some of it." His expression remained calm. "What exactly did you hear?" I shrugged, pretending it wasn't important. "Something about a business deal. And somebody yelling." My father leaned back in his chair. "Unfortunately, some people don't understand how business works." "Right." I stabbed a piece of bacon with my fork. "Who was he?" "Nobody you need to concern yourself with." That was my father's favorite answer. Whenever I asked about the east wing of the mansion, it was nobody's concern. Whenever I questioned why our security guards carried weapons, it was for my protection. Whenever I asked why my parents never seemed to have childhood photographs, they changed the subject. I'd always accepted their explanations. Until now. "Can I ask you something?" My father raised an eyebrow. "Of course." "Why don't we ever visit Grandma or Grandpa?" My mother's smile faded. My father set down his cup. "What brought that on?" "Nothing. Just wondering." "You know our families passed away many years ago," my mother said gently. "All of them?" "Elijah." "What?" "Finish your breakfast. You're going to be late." There it was again. Another question nobody wanted to answer. I looked from my mother to my father. For the first time, I wondered whether I actually knew either of them. After school, I went looking for answers. My parents had left for a private meeting, and most of the household staff were busy preparing for another evening event. Valentine Manor was enormous. Three floors, two underground levels, twenty-seven bedrooms, and enough hallways to get lost in. I'd lived there my entire life, yet there were rooms I'd never entered. Especially my father's private study.The study sat at the end of the western corridor, behind two enormous oak doors. Usually, it was locked. Today, it wasn't. I stood outside for several seconds, listening. Nothing. I pushed the door open. The room smelled of old books, polished wood, and something else. Something metallic. A massive desk stood in front of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A fireplace occupied one wall, and portraits of unfamiliar people hung above leather chairs. I'd been inside before, but never alone. I walked toward the shelves. History books. Medical journals. Ancient languages. A collection of leather-bound volumes with titles I couldn't pronounce. Then I noticed a narrow cabinet beside the fireplace. Its glass doors displayed several framed photographs. One showed my father shaking hands with a former president. Another showed my mother standing beside a famous actress. But the third photograph made me stop. It was black and white. A group of elegantly dressed people stood outside a grand building. The men wore old-fashioned suits. The women had long dresses and elaborate hairstyles. At first, I assumed it was a photograph of my grandparents. Then I looked closer. My breath caught. Standing in the center were my mother and father. Not people who resembled them. Not distant relatives. My actual parents. My father's sharp jawline. My mother's unmistakable smile. Even the small beauty mark beside her left eye.