Author's Note: This novel is set in 2018, around the time I started writing the first few chapters of Bright Eyes. (I didn't get to write much back then, though. I was majoring in Accountancy, and uni wasn't easy.) There'll be chapters that are set in the past and in other places outside of Ravenwood as well, like this one. Headers at the beginning of certain chapters will indicate where and when the events occurred. No header means 2018 or "present day" in this story. Enjoy! xx

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Somewhere in Florida
June 22, 2018, 11:26 P.M.

There were two men outside, both tall and pale and dressed in black clothing. In the dead of night, away from the touch of dim streetlights (for they wished no eye to catch sight of them), they said nothing, and looked up at the structure before them—a dilapidated building, once a hotel, left abandoned decades long ago. Abandoned—that was what the humans thought. That was what the humans were told. But the men knew better.

One of the men nodded to his companion. His companion smiled, flashing his crooked teeth. Then they moved noiselessly to the front door, ready to meet an old friend.

A man with brown skin and dark hair lay across a threadbare couch. In hand was a bottle of wine. On the floor sat several others, drained from prior nights.

"Mourning, I presume," said a voice in the shadows.

The man sprang to his feet in a heartbeat, toppling a few bottles on the filthy, carpeted floor. One hand still held a bottle; the other now held a dagger.

"There is no need to fear, brother," said one of the pale men, stepping out into the light.

"Valdemar," muttered the brown-skinned man.

"And must I request you put that dagger away," said a voice close to the man's ear. A pale hand touched the blade, pushed it down. "Tsk, tsk. I certainly believe you must never greet a guest, more so a brother, in such an awful, threatening fashion."

The brown man smiled. "Tell me, Claus," he said, "shall I regard you and your brother as guests when you come uninvited?"

"Uninvited?" questioned the man named Claus. He stepped back, ran a hand over his smooth, light blond hair, then he smiled, brandishing his crooked teeth. "Oh, how foolish of me to call ourselves guests. No, no. The Master has assigned us—"

"—as your temporary partners," said Valdemar, handing the man a piece of parchment, "whilst he searches for someone"—he paused a moment, searching for the right word—"more compatible."

"And by your words 'more compatible', you mean someone of my own tribe?" said the brown-skinned man, putting the dagger back into its sheath. He pulled the parchment out of Valdemar's grasp, and began to read.

"Precisely," said Claus.

The man slumped back down onto the couch, and read the rest of the letter. Then he took a swig of wine, looked back down at the bottle in his hand, and said, "The wine here—not as strong, not as potent as the ones in our tribe. My sorrow still remains, not washed out."

"Our deepest condolences, brother," said Valdemar.

"He was a good brother," said the brown-skinned man. "Reckless, but good and loyal." He shook his head in grief memory. "We should have known."

"Pardon my curiosity, brother," said Claus, "but I wish to know what transpired in the event, what caused such a disaster, what your very eyes have witnessed."

The man glared at him for a moment, looked back down at the bottle, then he said, pointing at something in the shadows, "There is a table over there. Chairs also. Turn the light on. Take your seats. I shall get us more wine." The man stood. "Then we shall talk."

And with that, the men moved. Claus and Valdemar walked over to the table, switched on a small chandelier, and took their seats around a dining table. The brown-skinned man went into the kitchen, and came out with a new bottle of wine and three glasses. He set the glasses down on the table, poured each one a sufficient amount. He gave a glass to each of the pale men, and held one as his own.

For a while, they sat in silence, under the dim light. Then the man spoke:

"We first caught sight of the boy in the year past. I remember my brother and I decided that very day that it was to be our final search around town. And if we find nothing, we must then travel to the next town, for there is no good in wasted time.

"The boy and his friends were in the town square when we descried him. My brother was the first to recognize the boy. He pointed him out to me, told me to look past the way he fashioned his hair—for his hair at present is shorter, yet as incalcitrant as it ever was. And, yes, the resemblance was the kind that struck the very senses—his face, his height, the essence of the boy's youth sculpted into his features, a living creature of the portrait they had painted in days past."

The man took a sip of his drink. "We followed him, then," he continued, "around the town square, on his journey back home. How we hoped that day that it was truly the boy himself, that this we had not done in vain."

"And so it was him," said Claus, without question.

The brown-skinned man grunted in confirmation. "In the flesh."

The man Valdemar took a sip of his wine, then asked, "What proved it?"

"Simple," said the man. "He saw us." He sipped some more wine, then said, "He is not of their kind. The bones, the flesh—yes. But the one that dwells within . . . "

"There is no need to state the obvious, brother," said Claus. "It is common knowledge."

The brown-skinned man glared at the pale, blond man, who simply smirked in response.

"Pardon Claus," said Valdemar. "He lacks manners."

"That be true." And with that, Claus raised his glass, tipped it in the direction of the man who sat across him.

The man's glare did not leave Claus's unperturbed expression. "Mark my words," he muttered, "that pride of yours will be the death of you."

"May we return to the subject at hand?" said Valdemar, strictly. Then to Claus, "This time, without interruption."

Claus heaved a dramatic sigh. "Oh, brother, brother," he said. "You always kill the bliss."

Ignoring Claus's remark, Valdemar said, "He saw you." A pause as he took another sip. "How?"

"We followed him on his journey home," said the man. "We rode the Lynx—"

"The Lynx?" asked the blond man.

"It is what the people call it—one of many huge, metallic carriages that go through the town, carrying people to places."

"Interesting. Did you find it rather—"

"Claus!" Then to the brown-skinned man, Valdemar said, "Continue."

"It was on the Lynx," said the man, "that the boy caught sight of us. He was seated with his friends when he took notice of me and my brother. His eyes wandered a moment, taking a glance away from his friends, then he caught us in the act—our eyes fixed on him, fascinated still as we traced every similarity the boy had to him. We doubted at first, perceiving it as a coincidence, even a possible trick of the eye. And so we kept our gaze upon the boy, to see if he had truly noticed, that it is not by mere chance that he too kept his sights upon us—and behold, we saw the discomfort upon his face, that our eyes had stayed on each other's for quite too long.

"I remember, the girl beside him called for his attention, asking him what had caught his eye, what caused him such an unease. He whispered something to her. She glanced in our direction, then, but shook her head and laughed. 'I see no one,' she said, drawing the attention of their other friends. They too looked at us a moment, and laughed at the boy, ridiculing him for such an awful jest. The boy insisted that we were there, and that his friends, not he, were the ones concocting the jest."

The man shook his head and smiled. "Little does he know, little does he know." He took a sip again, emptying his cup. Then he poured himself another. "The boy stepped off the Lynx soon afterwards, and my brother and I trailed behind him. He took no notice of us at first: we were quiet, and we were careful. As we walked down the streets, however, there was a change in the way he carried himself, a tension building up within—fear, caution. He might have sensed our presence by then. For, in my opinion, we too might have radiated a certain energy for him to sense, just as his very being did. I think it an affect of withdrawal, of not being with people of your own kind, and so the soul emanates a strange essence, dissonant of everyone else around."

They all took a sip, put their glasses down.

"Did he try to escape?" asked Valdemar.

"Absolutely," said the man, without skipping a beat. "The boy quickened his pace. And when he noticed that my brother and I did the same, he sprinted down the street, us following behind.

"The boy ran straight ahead until he turned at a cross. We caught his shift in direction and moved swiftly. We, however, did not move fast enough: a huge carriage, larger and longer than a Lynx, sped past before our eyes, and I had to pull my brother back, away from the thing before it could collide into his form. And when the thing had gone, there was no sign of the boy. We lost him—or so we thought."

The brown-skinned man drank a bit of his wine.

"But we still sensed it, a sliver of his Essence, faint yet undeniably present. It lingered in the air, like a waft of smoke. We knew he had not gone far. And so we allowed this inner sense to guide us, to lead us to the boy. We walked on until we came upon a house, where we felt it, his Essence potent, and we knew then that the boy was close. So we hid ourselves, and waited."

The man paused momentarily, then continued, "Hours had passed and the sun had set, the boy emerged out of hiding, from one of the houses, thanking the old woman for permitting him to hide in her home. And so he walked on from there, and we followed, this time more carefully, more discreetly, keeping a good distance. The boy was still cautious, yes, but we were careful, and he no longer caught sight of us, even as he stepped into his home.

"From then on, for many months, my brother and I stood by his house, hidden from view, and watched how his daily life went about. The boy seemed to sense our presence, like a lingering disturbance—as when he arrived home from school, he would look around, searching for something that perturbed him, that was watching him—but we remained unseen, and he would look away, then, believing it to be a trick of his mind. We observed and thought, weaving ideas into plans, that we were to capture him and take the boy to—"

"Him, of course," interrupted Claus. "And you would have been handsomely rewarded, if your plan did succeed, which it did not." The blond man took a sip of wine.

The brown-skinned man gave Claus a treacherous glare, and with that, Valdemar said, "Brother, I think it is about time you leave this table, and leave us to talk." He shook his head. "Have I not warned you of your lack of manners?"

Claus rose from his seat, raised his glass, and said, "You always do." Then he left, making his way over to the shadows and out of sight.

"So these plans of yours," said Valdemar, "what became of them?"

The man took another drink. "We chose one, the plan we perceived the best, one we thought we wisely conceived." He shook his head. "But we never expected what was to come." The man's eyes fell upon the glass, deep red—like blood—glistening beneath the electric light. "My brother . . . " A couple of tears slid down the man's cheek, in mourning, out of guilt and anger.

"When spring had come, we decided to proceed with the plan. The boy and some of his friends decided to join what they call a 'School Talent Show'. The night of the School Talent Show, we stood in wait outside his home, the street dimly lit, quiet, empty. Hours later, a carriage arrived—although what came to view was a smaller, yellow and white carriage, not the large, gold one we knew they owned. Yet we saw the family was indeed on it, so we set to work."

The man drank again.

"My brother stole a certain weapon, you see, what these people call a pistol. And we intended to mask the boy's capture as another one of these incidents we have heard of these past years. We wanted no witness, no one to come looking for him. Hence, we decided that we must kill the boy's family."

The brown-skinned man paused a moment, waiting for a response. But there was none from the man Valdemar. He did not seem amused, nor did he give even the slightest sign of validation. He simply took a sip of wine, using his glass to hide the irate expression crossing his features. It was their way, after all—the brown-skinned man must know that. What must be done must be done. However—

"As I was saying," he continued, "when the boy and his family arrived, my brother and I were standing in wait by their front door, weapon ready in my brother's hand. As expected, his family caught no sight of us, nor did the carriage driver. But the boy did, and we heard him in panic, shouting at his parents, at the carriage driver, warning them. But too late." The man clicked his tongue. "My brother had taken his aim. Two shots, each at a wheel. And two shots straight at the window, the second a direct hit to the driver's temple, killing him." The man placed a hand on his glass, folded his fingers around it. "And with that, we walked over to the carriage, to where the family was."

The men took another sip, the raise of their glasses, its touch to their lips almost synchronized.

"Before we could come close, the family tried to escape. We heard the opening of doors, saw the tremble of the carriage. My brother"—the man raised a hand above his head, his fingers wrapped around an imaginary object—"took aim"—the man pulled the imaginary trigger, once, twice—"at nothing in particular, up into the air, to scare them.

"The family hid behind the carriage, terrified obviously, whilst we took our steps until—"

The man paused. There was a strange look to his eyes—fear, sorrow—and the hand that held the glass of wine trembled slightly.

"I felt it," the man said, in almost a whisper. "Until I felt it."

Valdemar leaned closer to the table, towards the brown-skinned man. "What did you feel, brother?"

"Wind," the man muttered. "A gust of wind, so sudden, so strong that we halted in our steps." He looked up, his eyes fixed on the light that hung above them. "An intruder." There was a pause, and he looked back down at Valdemar, his eyes wide with fear. "The boy was not alone." The man held his glass and drank his wine, almost choking upon taking a swig. He coughed, then repeated, "He was not alone."

"The boy was with his family. Of course he was not alone. Even a fool would—"

"Brother, you do not understand. I do not speak of the boy's family." The man looked at Valdemar, his eyes wide with fear. "It was him. He was there. He knew. He knew all along. He knew we were coming for the boy."

Valdemar, after taking a sip, placed his glass back upon the table, and though he showed no sign, he felt it—a fear that grew and crawled up within him. And out of fear, they could never speak his name, as was the practice of the brotherhood.

Valdemar swallowed a lump in his throat, and said, "The wind." He paused, a finger tracing the rim of the glass. "What happened after that?"

The man took a breath, deep and solemn. "He would not listen," he said, shaking his head at the memory. "I warned him." Another sip, his hand shaking as he put the glass back down. "I warned my brother, but he would not listen. He said that it was merely wind and nothing more, nothing to fear." A moment's silence, and the man's eyes began to brim with tears. "He was wrong."

Valdemar's expression hardened. Then he leaned forward, and said, his tone serious, "What happened?"

"I"—the man took a breath—"Valdemar, I was a coward." Tears streamed down the man's face. "My brother walked on, toward the family, whilst I—" The man paused, wiping his tears away. "I hesitated, and so I stood behind and waited until the deed was done." The man looked at Valdemar, then at the wine that gleamed beneath the electric light. "My fault," he muttered.

He held the glass again, raising it to his lips. But as the man brought it back down to the table, he paused midway, and gazed down at the cup and its content—deep red, the brazen color of death, a mockery. The man's eyes then burned with anger, with guilt, and he threw the glass across the room, into the shadows.

The glass shattered, to the man's satisfaction. And then he said, "Brother, I wish to do my brother right, to rid me of this guilt. I want the boy captured and brought to the Master. I want the boy dead—his blood for my brother's blood."

"And that we will only achieve if you tell me more," said Valdemar. " I must know the details, brother, to strategize, to take further precaution. You know full well that we must be more careful, after what had happened."

"Of course, of course," said the man. He slid a palm down his tear-stained face. "Of course, must be more careful, yes."

There was a moment of silence between them, the brown-skinned man collecting his thoughts, reining in his emotions, finding where he had left off, and the man Valdemar then saying, "Your brother walked over to the carriage, to the family, and what came after?" And it was then the events of the story fell back into place.

"Yes, yes," said the brown-skinned man. "My brother walked over to the other side of the carriage. I, out of cowardice, halted nearby and waited. We expected to find the family behind the carriage, and my brother was to kill them all, save the boy. However, when my brother stood behind the carriage and set his eyes on where the family would have been, he cursed and yelled, 'They have escaped,' for no one was on the other side, you see—or so we thought." A pause. "Someone spoke, then, all too suddenly—a man standing behind my brother, asking why he was troubled, if he was looking for something. Yet there had been no sign of his arrival—no footsteps, no voice beforehand, not even a silhouette prior to his appearance."

The man's eyes stared straight into Valdemar's, and his voice shook when he said, "It was him." The man couldn't keep his hands still, Valdemar noticed. "I knew, I felt it, a strange radiance, unseen, that emanated from the very man that stood before my brother. It was familiar to me, for my father served in the dambana, and in my childhood, I was often there with him, expected to serve as well. I know his presence when I feel it, and I stood there in silence, a distance away, terrified and motionless."

The brown-skinned man took a breath. "Then my brother, unaware of who the man was, said that he had heard loud noises and that he had seen a family in trouble and that he had merely come to help. But what a fool my brother was! The man then said, 'If you had come to help, why do you hold a weapon in your very hand?'

"At that moment, there came a muffled sob, a little girl's. My brother moved quickly, then, before the family could escape. He aimed at the side of the carriage, and shot. I saw the flare, heard the deafening crack. I thought my brother had killed at least one of them. And so I moved in haste, walked over to the carriage and my brother and the family huddled on the ground. Yet, before my eyes, the family was unharmed. The man's hand, however"—the brown-skinned man shook his head, the image coming to mind—"his palm covered the end of the weapon, his blood dripping onto the ground." A pause. "As if he was mortal." The man sat in silence after those words, puzzled at the very thought. But then he soon shook the thought out of mind, not wishing to dwell on such a time, finding no desire to comprehend. He continued, "And before I could—"

The man breathed in, then, fighting back his tears. "Before I could save him, he—" The man took another breath. "He tore the weapon away from my brother's grasp, threw it onto the ground, and placed his filthy, bloodied hand on my brother's face, and my brother . . . " A pause, the grave look in his eyes returning. "Fell. Dead at his touch."

Valdemar drank the last of his wine. "My condolences," he said.

The man shook his head, reached for the bottle, and pulled out the cork. Valdemar held out his glass, and the man poured wine in till the bottle was empty.

"He looked at me, then," the man continued, putting the cork back into mouth of the bottle. "Looked straight into my eyes, and said, 'Let this serve as a warning to you and your brothers.' And with that, filled with fear, knowing I was no match against him, I fled. I was a coward to run. I should have moved, reached for the weapon on the ground, and, knowing that he bleeds, I should have killed him then and there. However, I was a coward and sunk deep into this misery, into grief, drinking my sorrows and the nights away to no avail.

"However"—the man paused, remembering—"I have spent the past days gathering new information on the family, their plans, their future whereabouts. I have even managed to retrieve my brother's weapon, stolen it from the authorities." His eyes blazed with determination, then. "And with it, brother, I shall—"

Something shot through the air like lightning, a deafening crack, a cloud of blood. The brown-skinned man fell onto the floor, the filthy carpet soaking up the pool of blood that had begun to form.

"He was a good and loyal brother, but reckless, reckless, reckless," said a voice in the shadows, his thumb stroking the weapon in hand.

"Be a gentleman for once, would you, Claus?" said Valdemar. "The poor man had not even finished."

"What use is it for him to even finish?" said Claus, coming into the light. "I have done what the Master has asked of us. Clever of me to concoct such a plan: he did not suspect a thing. Furthermore, brother, there is no need to be so anxious, for I"—he smiled a big smile, then, displaying his crooked teeth—"have found what we need." With one hand, he produced a folder filled with several sheets of paper, placed it down on the table, whilst his brother sipped some wine.

Valdemar placed the glass down, picked up the folder, scanned the sheets. The corners of his mouth turned up into a satisfied smile. "Wonderfully executed. I must say, despite your lack of manners, you never disappoint me, brother."

"And how convenient," said Claus, tapping a long finger onto a word, a place, "that he and his family have decided on such a town."

"Precisely the town where the Master has assigned us."

"Precisely where another one of them is rumored to be."

"Perhaps," said Valdemar, turning his sights to Claus, "where the rest of them are as well."