Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“Please join me in welcoming back to Oxford this year’s recipient of the research fellowship. As many of you know, she earned her doctorate here in the history of science, and after publishing two award-winning books, she was appointed to a position at Yale as one of the youngest people ever to receive such an honor. We are delighted to have her with us again. Dr. Diana Biskup.”
“Thank you very much. Alchemy. In the seventeenth century, it was the most important natural science and a precursor to modern chemistry. It was believed that all elements of nature, living or not, underwent the same stages. Although these illustrations are often considered allegorical, they depict chemical processes. The Bodleian Library houses a unique collection of manuscripts by Elias Ashmole, a seventeenth-century antiquarian, astrologer, and alchemist. I intend to continue my research on the role alchemy played in the seventeenth century and how it influenced great scientists such as Isaac Newton and Robert Boyle. Thank you.”
Applause broke out. During the lecture, Diana had unsettled a few individuals. She paid them no attention and continued. The head of the department approached her.
“Stimulating.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll soon have a vacancy. I’m putting together a shortlist of candidates. Would you be interested?”
She hesitated. It would be a perfect opportunity, but sudden changes did not sit well with her daughter.
“Very much so, but I don’t want to stress my child with sudden changes.”
A faint smile appeared on the woman’s face.
“I heard. Congratulations. If you change your mind, we’ll need to evaluate your work. Judging by today’s performance, are you ready for publication?”
“I’ve almost finished.”
“If you change your mind, let me know by October.”
Diana gave a slight nod.
“Of course.”
She said, smiling. As soon as the conversation ended, she stepped outside. She grabbed her phone and answered before it had a chance to ring again.
“Sarah? Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned.
“Everything’s fine—well, except your daughter has completely worn me out.”
She snorted.
“You complained that the house was too quiet, and now you’re complaining?”
“Yes, because she’s a little devil.”
“Don’t listen to her!” Em shouted from somewhere in the background. Diana could hear her bustling around the house before she came closer to the phone. “Tell me, did anything interesting happen?”
“Well, I got an offer.”
“That’s great, Diana,”
Em said.
“I didn’t take it.”
“What?! Why not?”
Sarah exclaimed.
“You know why. Anna doesn’t handle change well. And Knox is still sniffing around. I’m starting to get tired of him—it must be crossing some kind of line by now.”
“Knox is greedy. The only thing he wants is magic.”
“I know. It’s just exhausting. He’s trying to dig up something he shouldn’t. I must go. I’m about to head into the library—I’ll call tomorrow.”
She ended the call.
“Hi, Sean,” she said, walking up to the desk.
“Welcome back. I heard you dazzled them with your lecture today. Not an easy feat, considering how little time you’ve spent here. I assume you’ll be publishing your work soon. What do you need?”
Sean stepped forward to take her request. Diana tore a slip of paper from her notes.
“Ashmole 37, 92, 183 and…”
“782? No problem,” he finished for her.
“Yes. You know, we should grab a drink sometime soon,”
Diana said. She liked him. They weren’t particularly close, but Sean was the kind of person you could talk to about anything.
“Yes, yes, we should. I’ll bring these right away.”
“Thanks.”
Diana went to sit at her usual place. Sean rolled up the slips and placed them into a tube. Sometime later, the lift delivered the manuscripts.
Diana immediately felt that something was wrong.
Over the past five years, her magical abilities had improved. She still didn’t have full control over them, but it was better than before. The plan had been simple: focus on her career. But then she had become pregnant, and everything had changed. She hadn’t been able to follow that plan—not when the father was, most likely, something else entirely. Something that went against the laws of the Congregation.
The pregnancy itself had gone well, at least until the end. Complications arose, and she gave birth a month early. The delivery had been difficult, but despite it all, her daughter was perfect. A healthy baby.
The problem was—they didn’t know what she was.
In time, her abilities began to show. She was faster than other children. That was when Diana started to suspect that the father might have been a vampire. The problem was that vampires reproduced through resurrection.
That was why Knox could never find out.
A tingling sensation spread across her skin.
A witch.
“Diana Bishop.”
Of course.
“Gillian Chamberlain. What a surprise.”
A witch could not lie to another witch. It had always irritated her—especially when she tried to hide something from her aunts, when she tried to deceive them. This time, however, she wasn’t lying. It truly was a surprise.
Not a pleasant one.
The only people who knew about her pregnancy were her aunts, her doctor… and Gillian.
Gillian had connected the dots when, a month after Diana’s daughter was born, Knox had come to her aunts’ house, demanding to know the father’s name. In truth, Diana didn’t fully know. There were several possibilities—especially since the child had been born prematurely.
She had told him what she could.
That the father of her child was not a witch.
He had tried to force a lie from her, but it hadn’t worked.
From that moment on, Diana had begun limiting her contact with her “friend,” carefully and deliberately, so that Gillian wouldn’t grow suspicious.
And she had done it very well.
“I could say the same. It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.”
She smiled faintly.
“Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
“I can only imagine. A child is a lot of work. How long are you staying?”
“Not long. I need to finish a few things and then I’m heading back to Madison,”
She said, opening her laptop.
“I’m going to the Mabon celebration with the rest of the coven. Would you like to join us later?”
Diana sighed.
“I can’t, sorry. I have a deadline I can’t miss,” she said, a hint of feigned regret in her voice. “Maybe we’ll catch up another time.”
She was certain of it. Gillian Chamberlain always showed up wherever she did. Always.
“Maybe. See you.”
“Bye.”
The moment she lost sight of her Sean appeared with the books.
“Here you go, the Ashmole manuscripts,” he said, placing them on the desk.
“Thank you.”
Diana set the first manuscript in front of her. To an ordinary historian, it was no different from the hundreds of other volumes housed in the Bodleian Library. Old. Worn. Unremarkable.
But Diana knew something was wrong.
She glanced around as she heard whispers. No one was there except her. Gillian had just left, which meant she was alone, aside from Sean and perhaps a couple of people somewhere in another part of the library.
She could feel the magic inside it.
Her fingers trembled as she unclasped the small brass fastening.
The manuscript let out a soft sigh.
She ignored it.
She turned on her laptop and opened a new file. The familiar routine steadied her. She typed in the name and number of the manuscript, along with the title from the catalogue description.
All that remained was to open the book.
Even though she had undone the clasp, the cover resisted. It clung stubbornly to the pages beneath, as if fused to them. She placed her hand flat against it.
This wasn’t magic.
A tingling sensation spread across her palm, the same prickling she felt when a witch fixed her gaze on her. She lifted her hand, hoping that now the book would yield.
This time, it did.
The first page was made of coarse paper. On the second, a sheet of parchment bore the words:
“Anthropologic, or a Treatise Containing a Brief Description of Man” written in Ashmole’s hand. The neat, rounded letters were as familiar to her as her own handwriting.
The second part of the title— “in two parts: first Anatomical, then Psychological”—had been added later, in pencil.
That handwriting, too, felt familiar.
When she turned the page, the parchment seemed unnaturally heavy. It was the source of the strange smell. She immediately noticed that three pages had been cut out of the volume.
The light suddenly went out.
She looked around again. Still alone.
Her gaze returned to the manuscript—and this time she saw it.
Words crawling across the page. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
She reached out and touched one of the illustrations.
The letters began to move onto her hand.
They slid across her skin, writhing, shifting too quickly to read. Panic surged. Instinctively, Diana pressed one hand over the other.
A sharp hiss escaped her lips as she shot up from her chair, stumbling back a step.
A heartbeat later, she looked down.
A burn.
Shaped exactly like the illustration.
Diana snapped the manuscript shut.
The light returned instantly.
For a moment, she stood frozen, forcing her breathing to steady. When it finally did, she closed her laptop and slipped it into her bag.
Gathering the manuscripts, she walked over to Sean.
“Finished already?” he asked when he saw her.
“Not quite. I’ll reserve these three for Monday,” she said, indicating the selected volumes. “I’m done with this one for now.” She handed him Ashmole 782. “See you later.”
She said her goodbye and headed toward the exit.
The air pressed in around her. Goosebumps rose along her skin. For a moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to turn back and take the Ashmole manuscript with her.
She shook her head and kept walking.
A sudden nudge.
She turned, but after a moment, continued forward.
Then she stopped.
“Dad?”
She turned around again—only to find nothing.
Empty space.
She frowned, glancing around. It could have been her imagination, couldn’t it?
She couldn’t see her father. How could she? He had died when she was a child.
She forced herself to move forward. For a brief second, she locked eyes with someone. A man. He immediately looked down at his phone.
By the time she steadied herself, she was too far away to get a proper look at him. But one thing was certain.
She knew him.
Or rather—she should have known him.
It wasn’t just a familiar face. It was something deeper, something that tugged at her memory like a loose thread she couldn’t quite catch. That was what unsettled her most. Diana had never had trouble placing people before. Even if she met someone once, briefly, she remembered.
But him?
She knew him… and yet she didn’t.
The contradiction followed her all the way back to the hotel.
And so did the feeling of being watched.
To her surprise, it wasn’t just anyone.
A vampire.
She took a shower, then went out for a run. Routine settled over her like a protective layer—it usually helped.
Usually.
From time to time, she could feel eyes on her. Demons. Witches. Humans.
And something else.
That same presence.
The vampire.
She didn’t know what he wanted from her—and she preferred to keep it that way.
The next morning, she woke earlier than usual. A long shower, then out the door.
The moment she stepped onto the street, something felt… off.
Instead of taking a taxi, she chose to walk. Maybe it would clear her head.
It didn’t.
The sensation of being watched clung to her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. What bothered her most was not knowing who it was.
She reached her destination quickly.
Before she could knock, the door opened.
For a split second, her hand hovered awkwardly in the air—then she laughed.
“I keep forgetting about that,” she said, pulling her friend into a hug.
Isabelle snorted.
“I’ve noticed. Come in.”
The moment Diana crossed the threshold, she spotted Anthony.
Isabelle’s boyfriend.
A vampire.
Isabelle herself was a demon born into a human family. It happened more often than people thought. Demons appeared in human bloodlines without warning, leaving confusion—and often fear—in their wake. Sudden visions, emotions, instincts… it could easily feel like losing your mind.
“Diana,” Anthony greeted.
“Hey,” she said, stepping forward to hug him as well. “How are you?”
Anthony was considered a relatively young vampire—by vampire standards. Around four hundred years old. Which, admittedly, sounded ancient… unless you were a vampire.
A vampire and a demon together weren’t common, but it wasn’t unheard of either. The Congregation didn’t exactly approve, but clearly not enough to intervene.
“Good. Are you here for gossip, or something else?” he asked.
“A bit of both.”
He chuckled.
“Of course.”
The three of them moved to the table and sat down. Papers were spread across it.
“What’s this?” Diana asked.
Isabelle and Anthony exchanged a glance.
“What?” Diana pressed.
“Well…” Isabelle began.
Diana looked at Anthony.
“Say it.”
He sighed, choosing his words carefully.
“The last time I was at your place in Madison, I noticed something. So, I decided to investigate it.” He paused, watching her reaction. “Your daughter carries a trace of her father’s scent.”
“So?” Diana replied.
Anthony exhaled slowly.
“Just tell her,” Isabelle cut in. “Dragging this out won’t help.”
“Alright,” he said. “I met your daughter’s father… years ago.”
“When you say years, do you mean years, or years?” Diana asked.
He didn’t answer.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh, Goddess… wait. That’s impossible.”
She sank into her chair.
“That’s why I did some digging,” Anthony continued. “There’s a story—just a rumor, really. A witch who had a child with a vampire. But nothing confirmed. I’d have to look deeper, and that would attract attention.”
Silence settled over the room.
Then something clicked.
Diana straightened slightly.
Now she knew.
The man outside the library.
“You know who it is, don’t you?” Isabelle said softly.
“I mean… not exactly,” Diana replied. “But I think I saw him yesterday.”
Anthony let out a quiet, knowing huff.
“You think?”
“Oh, come on,” she shot back. “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember much from that period. Especially considering the circumstances.”
Isabelle leaned forward.
“Wasn’t that around the time we met?” she asked.
“Yes,” Diana said. “And you remember perfectly well we weren’t exactly in the best state back then.”
A slow smile spread across Isabelle’s face—like someone who had just opened a door to a story that was about to get very, very interesting.
“Good times.”
“Really?” Anthony cut in.
“Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m never jealous.”
Isabelle laughed, the sound light but knowing.
“Wait,” she said, turning back to Diana. “What do you mean you met him?”
Diana met her gaze.
“When I left the library. I was going to tell you what happened.”
“Besides potentially running into the father of your child?”
Diana rolled her eyes. Anthony stood up and stepped out, giving them space—even if they all knew he would still hear everything.
She told Isabelle everything.
The lecture. The offer. The manuscript—how it looked, how it smelled. She showed her the burn and described, in careful detail, what had happened when she opened it… when she touched it.
Isabelle’s expression shifted from curiosity to something sharper. Concern, edged with recognition.
“Call your aunts,” she said immediately. “If this is what I think it is, you don’t want a repeat of that.”
Diana didn’t argue.
She called.
And went straight to the point.
Her aunts already knew, even before she spoke, that this wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. She didn’t need to see their faces to imagine them—confusion, shock, disbelief, all tangled together.
Sarah spoke first.
Or rather shouted.
“What?!”
“That’s impossible!”
“Apparently not,” Isabelle replied evenly.
At the beginning, Sarah hadn’t approved of Isabelle at all—especially not with a vampire at her side. But over time, she had come around. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Emily, on the other hand, had welcomed them with open arms from the start.
“How do we even know this is real?” Sarah continued. “These are assumptions. We have questions and no answers. Diana, you must avoid that vampire at all costs. Even if he is your daughter’s father.”
“I can try,” Diana said quietly, “but I doubt it’ll make much difference.”
“Diana’s right,” Anthony added from somewhere nearby. “If that vampire wants to speak to her—or do anything—she won’t be able to stop it.”
Diana fell silent for a moment.
If she was right… if it really was him…
Then he must have recognized her.
That would explain the feeling. The constant awareness of being watched.
“And the book?” she asked.
“No one can know you requested it,” Sarah said immediately. “If Knox finds out, we’ll have a problem.”
Diana muttered something under her breath.
“What was that?” her aunt pressed.
“When I got the manuscripts, Gillian was leaving the library. There’s a chance she knows something.”
“Damn it,” Isabelle cursed softly. “She still hasn’t let you go?”
“Well,” Diana said dryly, lifting her tea, “we tempted fate. Now it’s our turn to deal with it. I should get back soon. I’ll be in Madison by Wednesday at the latest—I need to finish writing.”
“Weren’t you supposed to meet Chris on Wednesday?” Isabelle asked.
“I’ll call him. Either we reschedule or meet before I leave. I’m almost certain he’ll agree—he’d do anything to learn more about other creatures.”
Sarah huffed.
“His questions are getting exhausting. Let us know if anything changes… and if you see that vampire again, you come straight back.”
“I will.”
They talked a little longer before ending the call. In the background, Diana could hear her daughter.
She didn’t speak to her.
Not over the phone.
It wasn’t worth the risk.
She said her goodbyes and headed back to the hotel.
This time, the air felt… quiet.
Too quiet.
No watchful presence. No invisible gaze brushing against her nerves.
And that was the problem.
She relaxed.
Just a little.
Enough.
The moment she stepped into her room, she knew something was wrong.
The air felt different. Heavy. Watching.
She tossed her coat onto a chair, placed her bag on the table, set the key down beside it.
And then—
She felt it.
Eyes on her.
Cold.
Like ice pressing into her skin.
She turned.
The vampire stood in the corner, half-swallowed by shadow. She couldn’t see him clearly—just the outline, the stillness, the weight of his presence.
He tilted his head slightly.
Studying her.
Measuring.
Then—
A blur.
Gone.
A streak of movement slipping past the door.
She almost missed it.
Almost.
Diana stepped forward quickly and shut the door.
Something lay on the floor.
A card.
She picked it up, turning it between her fingers.
White. Simple. Precise.
Black letters.
Professor Clairmont
Biochemistry.
***
Silence ruled the church like a patient monarch.
Only a quiet murmur broke it—the soft rhythm of prayer, beads slipping one by one through a man’s fingers. The faint click of the rosary would have been nearly inaudible to anyone else. The world outside, too, would have vanished for ordinary ears.
But he heard everything.
The distant hum of the city seeped through stone walls as if they were made of paper. Footsteps. Engines. Voices blurred into a restless tide.
And beneath it—
Something else.
When he finished his prayer, he rose and turned toward the exit. A few steps carried him forward before something stopped him. Not a sound exactly. Not a sight.
A pull.
He turned, scanning the empty church. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
Still, the feeling lingered.
He stepped outside.
It followed.
His phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“You feel it too?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
The word came out tight, restrained.
“Our blood… it’s reacting to something.”
The line went dead.
He didn’t need more.
Miriam felt it too.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, gripping the iron gate for a moment as the sensation surged through him—intoxicating, electric, like standing too close to lightning.
Then—
A sudden burst of wings.
Birds scattered into the sky, startled by something unseen.
He moved instantly.
The Bodleian Library rose ahead of him, ancient and watchful.
Whatever had happened… it had happened there.
He slowed, senses stretching outward, threading through the air. Voices drifted toward him—confused, questioning.
A breeze shifted.
And with it—
A scent.
Familiar.
Impossible.
He followed it.
She stood ahead, scanning her surroundings, disoriented. For a heartbeat, she looked straight at him.
That was enough.
Recognition struck like a blade.
She passed him.
He turned, watching her go, the past snapping into place with brutal clarity. For a moment, he stood still caught between memory and certainty.
Then he followed.
All the way to the hotel.
Once he knew where she was staying, he returned to his laboratory.
Orders first.
Someone to watch her.
Then research.
Her life was… open. Documented. Visible. Too visible. It didn’t fit.
There was a gap.
A stretch of time where she had disappeared.
The only trace led to her aunts.
Nothing more.
Not yet.
He returned to the library—this time through less conventional means.
Whatever she had read, he would find it.
The lab door opened.
“Matthew? Have you been here all night?” Miriam asked, stepping inside.
“It’s a witch,” he said, taking a slow sip of wine. “A powerful one, judging by her lineage.”
“Who?”
He turned toward her.
“The woman I sensed at the Bodleian. She’s a direct descendant of Bridget Bishop.”
Miriam stilled.
“Do you think she cast the spell yesterday?”
“I don’t know. But she was studying an alchemical manuscript. An Ashmole manuscript. And for years, she’s kept a low profile. Rarely left Madison. Her aunts live there.”
Miriam frowned.
“Or maybe she just wanted to be with her family. You’re reaching. You’ve been chasing that manuscript for decades. And now you think a witch just… found it? When you couldn’t?”
Matthew’s gaze drifted to the screen.
A photograph.
Diana.
“Maybe it was never lost,” he said quietly. “Maybe it was waiting.”
“For her?”
“We need to find out why she spent so much time with her aunts.”
“You think it’s connected to the manuscript?” Miriam paused. “Or… to what happened six years ago?”
Silence.
That night lingered in him like a scar that refused to fade.
He had woken alone.
For a moment, he thought it had been a dream—until he found her coat in his room.
After that, control had been… difficult.
He remembered fragments. Heat. Hunger. Her.
Then nothing.
He had searched.
Found nothing.
Until now.
Hours later, he stood inside her hotel room.
Searching.
Every corner. Every surface.
No manuscript.
The door opened.
He stilled.
She entered, unaware. Set down her things. Moved through the space with quiet familiarity.
He watched.
Measured.
Waited.
Then she turned.
She couldn’t see him clearly—only the outline, the suggestion of something in the shadows. But he noticed the way she tried. The subtle shift in her posture.
Aware.
Careful.
He tilted his head slightly.
And then—
Another scent.
On her.
Familiar.
Unwelcome.
His expression hardened.
He knew that scent.
He hadn’t encountered it in years.
Anthony Edwards.
So.
That complication had a name.
He moved.
A blur. Gone before she could truly see him.
Outside, the night wrapped around him as he pulled out his phone.
“Yeah?” Miriam answered.
“Do you have contact with Edwards?”
“Not for a few years. Why?”
“I need to talk to him.”
A pause.
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises. Anthony’s been keeping a low profile.”
The call ended.