Claimed by the Vampire Who Hired Me

The job offer had been an enigma from the start, delivered via a crisp, cream-colored envelope with no return address. The fee proposed was astronomical, enough to keep my small restoration workshop afloat for years. The client’s name was simply Kael, and the task was to assess a private library at his estate just outside the city. Curiosity, and a desperate need for the funds, had won out over my caution.

Now, standing before the massive oak door of Blackwood Manor, I felt a tremor of doubt. The house was a gothic masterpiece of spires and shadows, looming against the bruised twilight sky like a forgotten beast. It didn’t look like a home; it looked like a tomb. The door swung inward before my knuckles could even graze its surface, opening into a cavernous foyer steeped in silence and the scent of old paper, beeswax, and something else… something cold and mineral, like a deep cave.

He was standing across the room, by the sweep of a grand staircase, one hand resting on the carved newel post. I hadn’t heard him approach. He seemed to have materialized from the deep shadows that clung to the corners of the hall. He was tall and lean, dressed in simple, dark clothing that did nothing to hide the powerful lines of his body. His face was a study in sharp, elegant angles—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. But it was his eyes that held me captive. They were a pale, piercing grey, and they watched me with an unnerving intensity, a stillness that felt ancient and predatory.

“Miss Elara Vance,” he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that resonated in the profound quiet, sending a strange shiver down my spine. It wasn’t a question.

“Mr. Kael,” I managed, my own voice sounding thin and inadequate. I felt a blush creep up my neck under his unwavering gaze. It was a purely physical reaction, a sudden, inexplicable heat that pooled in my stomach, unsettling and thrilling all at once.

He gestured toward an arched doorway. “The library is this way. I trust you will find the collection to your liking.”

He led the way, his movements fluid and utterly silent on the marble floors. I followed, my sensible heels clicking loudly in the stillness, each step feeling like an intrusion. The library was breathtaking—two stories of floor-to-ceiling shelves, groaning with leather-bound volumes. A rolling ladder was propped against one wall, disappearing into the upper shadows. Despite the grandeur, the room was cold, the air heavy and still. Kael moved to stand near the massive, unlit fireplace, turning to face me. He didn't speak, simply watched as I approached the nearest shelf, my fingers itching to touch the spines. I could feel his eyes on me, a tangible pressure on my skin, tracing the line of my neck, the curve of my spine. It was unnerving, yet a deep, primal part of me didn’t want him to look away.

I forced my attention away from him and to the task at hand, my professionalism a thin shield against the unnerving atmosphere. I began on the lowest shelf, my movements practiced and efficient as I pulled out each volume, assessed its condition, and made careful notes in my ledger. For hours, the only sounds were the soft scratch of my pen and the whisper of turning pages. Kael remained by the fireplace, an unnervingly still sentinel in the gloom. I could feel his gaze on me, constant and unblinking, yet every time I risked a glance in his direction, he seemed lost in thought, his pale eyes fixed on the cold hearth.

It was a book bound in dark, cracked leather with no title on its spine that gave me pause. It felt ancient, the vellum pages brittle beneath my fingertips. As I opened it, I saw that the margins were filled with frantic, spidery script in a faded brown ink that looked disturbingly like dried blood. The language was a variant of Old Norse, one I had only encountered in obscure academic papers. My pulse quickened with scholarly excitement. But as I began to translate the spiky, aggressive lettering, a cold dread snaked its way up my spine, eclipsing my curiosity.

Sun-shunned kindred… a feud of ages… the Lycoris betrayers must pay the blood price…

My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't history; it felt like a raw, personal account. The writer spoke of "night-dwellers" and "endless thirst," of a war fought in the alleys and shadows of the human world. It was the stuff of dark folklore, written with a terrifying conviction.

“An interesting find.”

Kael’s voice came from directly behind me. I hadn't heard him cross the vast expanse of the room. I jumped, spinning around so quickly the ancient book nearly slipped from my hands. He was so close I could see the faint, dark ring around the pale grey of his irises. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on the text.

“The dialect is unusual,” I said, my voice unsteady. “The content… it’s disturbing. Do you know who wrote this?”

“The ravings of a man who lost a great deal,” Kael said, his voice a low murmur. He reached out, his long, cool fingers brushing against mine as he pointed to a phrase. Blóðskuld. Blood debt. “Some families carry their grievances for a very long time, Miss Vance. Generations can be consumed by the quarrels of their ancestors.”

His explanation was too simple, too evasive. The way he said it, the deep, resonant finality in his tone, suggested a personal knowledge that went far beyond academic theory. A primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced through my scholarly interest. The shadows in the room suddenly seemed deeper, the silence more profound. He was not just a wealthy recluse with a rare book collection. He was a part of the story written in these margins; I could feel it with a certainty that defied all logic. I looked from the frantic script to his placid, ancient eyes, and for the first time, I felt truly afraid.

I pulled my hand back as if his skin had burned me. “It’s getting late,” I said, my voice tight. “I should go. I have enough notes to begin a preliminary report.”

Kael inclined his head, a gesture of cool dismissal. His pale eyes never left my face, and I had the distinct impression that he could hear the frantic, panicked beating of my heart. He didn't escort me to the door; he simply watched me back away from the table, his form a pillar of darkness against the backdrop of ancient, whispering books. I didn’t turn my back on him until I was in the foyer, and I fled into the night, the heavy oak door closing behind me with a sound of deep finality.

The drive back to the city was a blur of streetlights and deep shadows. I kept glancing in my rearview mirror, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. The empty road behind me seemed menacing. Every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision—a plastic bag caught in the wind, the rustle of leaves in a gutter—made me jump. The unease that had settled in my bones inside the manor had followed me out, clinging to me like the chill night air. I told myself it was just my imagination, overstimulated by that macabre book and Kael’s unsettling presence.

By the time I parked on the quiet street in front of my apartment building, my heart had almost returned to its normal rhythm. The familiar sight of the brick facade and the warm glow from a neighbor’s window was a comfort. It was just a creepy house, I told myself. A strange, reclusive client. Nothing more.

I gathered my bag and my ledger from the passenger seat and stepped out onto the pavement. The night was still and silent. As I walked up the short path to the main door, my foot nudged something soft. I glanced down, expecting a clump of wet leaves or a discarded newspaper.

It was a raven.

It lay on the top step, its body limp, its feathers a slick, inky black under the porch light. Its head was cocked at an unnatural angle, and one glassy eye stared up into nothing. For a moment, I was just confused, saddened by the sight of the dead bird. Then I saw it.

Pinning the bird’s chest to the welcome mat was a long, slender pin of polished silver. It was driven straight through its heart, the metal gleaming cold and cruel against the dark feathers. A wave of ice-water shock washed over me, so intense it made me gasp for air. This wasn't an accident. It wasn't a coincidence. This was the period at the end of a sentence I hadn't even realized was being written. The shadowy figure I’d glimpsed in a shop window’s reflection, the feeling of being watched—it was all real. This was a message, delivered to my doorstep. And I understood, with a sudden, gut-wrenching certainty, that the ancient, bloody feuds from Kael’s book were not confined to the pages of history. They were here. And now, so was I.