THE BRINK OF BEAST AND MAN

Chapter 1: A Hunger in the White House

The wind whispered through the Appalachian peaks, a haunting symphony that spoke of ancient secrets buried beneath the canopy of twisted oaks. President Donald Graves stood on the worn footpath, his breath curling in the frigid air, his heart hammering with anticipation. He had come seeking closure, but what he found instead was the echo of a past that refused to be forgotten.

Celeste emerged from the shadows like a phantom. Her golden eyes glowed in the moonlight, her presence both ethereal and menacing. "You shouldn’t have come, Alexander," she murmured, her voice a blend of longing and warning.

He took a step forward, his fingers itching to touch her, to confirm she was real. "I had to see you," he confessed, his words laced with the weight of years lost to uncertainty.

Before he could say more, the world around them shifted. The moon crested the horizon, and Celeste gasped, her body convulsing. Bones cracked, skin stretched—her transformation began. In her final moments of control, she whispered, "Forgive me."

Pain exploded through Grave’s shoulder as her fangs sank deep into his flesh. His vision blurred, the scent of blood and earth flooding his senses. He crumpled to the night, darkness swallowing him whole.

Through a conscience that seemed far away, a view from beneath the crimson azure yonder, she could feel a twist that tainted the glorious taste of the blood of the president of the united states. She wanted more flesh, more blood, yet… more love… A kind of love that spirals beyond romance, boiled into a burning passion to save a man, to save an age.

The joy that was supposed to succeed this moment was marred by nostalgic embers from a raging inferno that threatened to burn her heart out.

Days later, as the White House stood like a temple of power, its alabaster bones gleaming under the watchful gaze of a sleepless moon. Within its hallowed walls, President Jonathan Kepler was unraveling, thread by thread, like an ancient tapestry succumbing to time’s relentless pull. His body ached as though the weight of the republic had woven itself into his sinews, tightening with every breath.

The fever clawed at him, a restless animal pacing in his blood. Three nights had passed since Celeste—his midnight sin, his celestial betrayal—had sunk her fangs into his flesh, branding him with a hunger that gnawed like a starved beast. The bite, hidden beneath layers of silk and power, pulsed like a second heartbeat, each throb a whispered promise of the monstrous symphony lurking beneath his skin.

His senses had sharpened into weapons. The muffled conversations of his Secret Service agents outside his door were as clear as if whispered against his ear. He could hear the slow decay of paint cracking on the walls, the soft shuffle of a janitor’s mop three floors below. The air itself spoke to him in scents—fear, sweat, the tang of metal.

A sharp knock fractured the night’s fragile stillness.

“Mr. President?”

The voice of David Holloway, his ever-diligent chief of staff, sliced through the thick air like a scalpel. Graves pushed himself upright, his movements too fluid, too effortless—like a marionette animated by unseen strings.

“Come in,” he growled, his voice a rumble from a throat not entirely his own.

Holloway stepped inside, eyes scanning the room with the precision of a man accustomed to solving crises. But this crisis was beyond human comprehension.

“Are you alright, sir? You missed the morning brief. The press is getting restless, and your cabinet is concerned. Katie Scotland from State also called, requesting an urgent brief.”

Graves inhaled deeply, catching the nervous tremor in Holloway’s pulse. The scent of unease curled around him like smoke. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. The hunger inside him snarled.

“I’m fine,” he said, the lie slithering from his lips like a serpent.

Holloway’s gaze lingered a second too long. Did he see it? The shift beneath Graves’ skin, the way his pupils devoured the light?

“I’d suggest a short break, but we have a foreign affairs meeting in an hour. I need you at your best.”

Graves forced a nod. “I’ll be there.” The words were hollow, melting in his mouth like old parchment.

As Holloway exited, Graves turned toward the gilded mirror in the corner. The man staring back was himself—yet something else entirely. His skin stretched too tightly over his bones, his pupils black pools swallowing the gold of his irises. The moon, hidden behind layers of steel and security, still called to him, whispering his name like a forgotten lover.

Then—spraaakack!!!-- a crash downstairs. The sound sent a ripple through him, a predator’s thrill vibrating through muscle and marrow. His head snapped toward the door before his mind had even processed the noise. Instinct roared: prey.

His body moved before reason could tether it, his strides soundless, unnatural. The scent of fear thickened as he descended, his senses carving through the night like a blade through silk.

Two Secret Service agents rushed ahead, weapons drawn. The leader’s voice crackled through his earpiece, urgent and clipped. “Sierra One to Base, we have a breach. Unknown threat. Lockdown in effect.”

Graves barely registered the command as his body propelled forward.

“Commander, secure the President!” another agent barked. “Code Ironclad! Repeat, Code Ironclad!”

The agents formed a protective wedge, moving in calculated efficiency, their eyes sweeping the corridors like hunting falcons. But Graves had already scented the fear, already heard the desperate final gurgles of a dying man.

The moment he laid eyes on the corpse, time stilled.

A man, dressed in dark clothes, lay splayed across the marble floor like a discarded marionette. Blood, rich and metallic, had painted the once-pristine tiles in gruesome strokes. His throat—no, his life—had been shredded as if by the fangs of some rabid thing.

Graves’ breath hitched. The world wavered, distorted.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the agents whispered. “That’s not a knife wound—”

Another agent knelt beside the body, pressing two fingers to the man's wrist. "No pulse," he muttered, though it was obvious the victim was beyond saving. The gaping wound was too precise, too savage. Not the work of a blade. Not even the efficiency of a trained killer. This was something else.

Graves took a shaky step forward, inhaling deeply. The scent of blood sent a shiver down his spine. It was intoxicating. His throat burned with a thirst he could not name. The hunger in his veins snarled, writhing like a caged beast.

Then came the realization.

He knew this scent. It was not just blood. It was prey. Fresh. Living prey, moments ago.

“Mr. President, we need to get you out of here,” the lead agent urged. His voice was firm, but beneath the authority lay something else. Something akin to terror.

Graves barely heard him. His gaze dropped to his own hands—shaking, powerful, his nails no longer mere human keratin, but something sharper, something lethal.

Had he done this?

The beast inside him stirred, stretching its limbs within his skin.

His mind reeled, spiraling back to that night in the Appalachians. The cold wind. The moon rising over the jagged peaks. Celeste’s golden eyes, alight with sorrow and something far more dangerous. The agony of her bite, the way his blood had burned as the infection took root. He had tried to forget. To bury it beneath the demands of his office.

But the hunger was growing. The beast was waking.

A sudden, guttural snarl echoed from the hallway.

The agents snapped their weapons toward the darkness. “Movement detected!” one shouted.

Then, from the shadows, something moved. A blur of motion, impossibly fast. The air grew thick with the scent of musk and something primal. A growl rumbled through the walls, low and deadly.

Graves' pulse pounded in his ears as the agents raised their weapons.

And then, from the darkness—

Something leapt.