Chapter 1 🩸 addimission is by blood
Blackmoor Academy.
The name alone carried weight. A place whispered about in covens and cursed in hunter circles. A school that didn't exist in government databases, that didn't send out acceptance letters—only summons.
Alec Arrington didn't get summoned. He arrived.
The black gates opened like they feared him. Behind them: a towering cathedral of obsidian stone and arched windows that glowed red with the last light of dusk. Students—if they could be called that—lounged across the stone courtyard like fallen royalty. Pale skin. Sharp eyes. Too beautiful to be anything but dangerous.
Alec stepped out of the matte-black car before the driver could open his door. The air smelled like pine, rain, and something sweeter—blood, maybe. His boots clicked on the cobblestone like punctuation marks. Statement: he had arrived. Exclamation: you should be worried.
He looked like sin carved into human form. Midnight-black hair that curled just enough to be rebellious. Golden skin that shouldn't exist on a vampire, but Alec was different. Eyes the color of wet mercury, always half-lidded like he was bored by the world. Which he was.
His tailored coat—dark velvet lined in crimson silk—fit perfectly over broad shoulders. Beneath it, his body was all lean power: the kind of strength that came not from gyms, but from centuries of inherited perfection. Every line of him was art, wealth, hunger, and threat.
The headmaster was waiting.
"You're late, Mr. Arrington," said the man in front of the great iron doors. His voice was dry. British. Like parchment soaked in wine.
Alec smiled. Not politely.
"I arrived when I meant to."
The headmaster narrowed his eyes. "This is your final chance, you understand. You've been expelled from Valemont. Cast out of Saint Argento. Blackmoor is not a reform school. It's a crucible. Survive it, and you'll become something worthy. Fail…"
"I don't fail," Alec interrupted, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "People just fail to contain me."
The headmaster's lips thinned into something that might have been disapproval, or might have been fear. It was difficult to tell in the bleeding twilight.
"Inside," he said finally, and the great iron doors of Blackmoor swung open without his touch.
Alec's boots carried him forward into the cathedral-school. The air changed at once—colder, sharper, as if the stones themselves breathed secrets. Shadows clung to vaulted ceilings like webs spun from night. Candles guttered in sconces, each flame black at its heart.
The entry hall was grand in the way of mausoleums: beautiful, vast, and faintly suffocating. A marble floor reflected the crimson light spilling from stained glass windows. Carved into the walls were faces—serpents, saints, demons—each one watching him with eyes of gemstone.
Other students drifted through the hall, moving like predators rather than children. They smelled him before they truly saw him. Whispers trailed in his wake.
"Arrington…"
"Didn't Valemont burn after he left?"
"I heard Saint Argento's head boy tried to duel him. No one's found the body."
Alec ignored them. Let them chatter. Let them fear.
---
The headmaster's steps echoed up the staircase ahead. "Blackmoor tolerates no weakness," he said, not looking back. "Every pupil here is heir to an ancient line. Vampiric royalty, sorcerous prodigies, children of the blood moon. You are not special here."
Alec smirked. "Then you've been terribly misinformed."
The headmaster stopped so abruptly Alec nearly collided with him. He turned, voice low and sharp.
"You will bleed for this place before the night is over. Admission is by blood. Refuse, and Blackmoor itself will devour you."
For the first time, Alec's smile reached his mercury eyes. "Good. I'd hate to be bored."
---
They ascended higher, through winding corridors that seemed to bend in ways geometry should not allow. Behind heavy doors, Alec glimpsed pieces of Blackmoor:
A dueling hall where two figures clashed with blades that burned with ghostly fire.
A library of endless height, ladders crawling up into fog where more books slept in the dark.
A dining hall set like a throne room, where chandeliers dripped silver wax and students drank from crystal goblets that did not smell of wine.
Everywhere, the hum of hunger. The promise of power.
And everywhere, the stares.
---
When they reached the upper landing, someone was waiting.
A girl.
She leaned against the stone balustrade as though it belonged to her, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade's edge. Her hair was white—not the silver of age, but the stark brilliance of snow under moonlight. Her skin was pale enough to glow, and her eyes… her eyes were the blue of ice cracked over deep water.
"Headmaster," she said, not looking at the man. Her eyes fixed on Alec. "You didn't tell me our newest arrival would be… him."
Alec tilted his head, lips curving. "You've heard of me."
The girl's smile was all fang. "Everyone has. Which is why I hope you're half as dangerous as they say. Blackmoor is starving for entertainment."
The headmaster's sigh was heavy. "Miss Duvall, this is not your concern."
"Everything is my concern," she replied, voice silken and venomous. She pushed off the balustrade, stepping close enough for Alec to catch the scent of frost and iron. "Especially when someone like him arrives. I'll be seeing you, Arrington."
She vanished into shadow, silent as falling snow.
The headmaster muttered something that sounded like a prayer. Alec just grinned wider.
---
By the time the moon rose fully, the entire first-year assembly had gathered in the Chapel of Thorns.
It was no ordinary chapel. Columns were made of bone. Vines of black briar curled up the walls, their thorns wet with what could only be blood. At the far end stood an altar carved from obsidian, etched with runes that shifted when looked at too long.
One by one, the new arrivals stepped forward, sliced open their palms, and let crimson drip onto the altar. The stone drank greedily, the runes glowing faintly as each student was bound to Blackmoor.
When Alec's turn came, the room hushed.
He stepped forward, took the ceremonial dagger, and pressed the blade to his palm. Blood welled up, quicksilver-dark, shimmering strangely in the torchlight. He let it fall onto the altar.
The stone hissed.
Instead of glowing, the runes writhed. The altar trembled. A jagged crack split across its surface.
Whispers turned to gasps.
The headmaster paled.
And Alec—Alec only laughed. Low. Dangerous. Thrilling.
"Looks like," he said, lifting his eyes to the assembly, "Blackmoor can't contain me either."The altar crack still smoked as Alec strolled away from it, twirling the ceremonial dagger between his fingers like it was nothing more than a pen. The other students whispered, some horrified, some intrigued.
"Problem?" Alec asked the headmaster, his smile all teeth and trouble.
The headmaster pressed his lips thin. "You will learn, Mr. Arrington, that mockery has consequences here."
"I was counting on it." Alec tossed the dagger back onto the altar, where it landed point-down in the crack he'd left. "Otherwise this school really would be boring."
Laughter rippled through the students, the kind laced with cruelty. Some smirked in appreciation. Others looked at him like he was already marked for death. Alec didn't care. That was half the fun.
---
The students were dismissed in clusters, wolves returning to their packs. Alec walked alone—by choice—until he noticed someone lingering near the back of the chapel, slow to leave.
A boy.
He was slight, with dark curls that kept falling into his eyes. His uniform hung on him a little loose, like it had been made for someone larger. And he carried his books the way one carried a shield, tucked close to his chest.
A pair of other students—older, crueler—bumped into him on purpose. His books scattered across the floor.
"Watch it, Hale," one of them sneered, baring the edge of a fang. "Or maybe you want me to spill something else of yours."
The boy—Hale, apparently—stammered an apology and bent to gather his things. His hands shook. He didn't look anyone in the eye.
Pathetic, Alec thought. Absolutely pathetic.
And yet… his gaze lingered.
Something about the boy's quietness was different from the others. Not arrogance disguised as silence, but something fragile, like glass. Like he was surviving here by sheer will, and barely that.
The bullies shoved him again. "Careful," one hissed, "you might not have enough blood to waste."
Alec sighed, loud enough to draw eyes. "Really? This is what passes for entertainment at Blackmoor? Two meatheads picking on a string bean?"
The bullies turned, startled. "Stay out of this, Arrington. He's not your concern."
"Wrong." Alec strolled closer, every step lazy, deliberate. His smile sharpened. "Everything boring is my concern."
He stopped just short of them, eyes glinting silver. "Now pick up your fangs, tuck in your tails, and scamper off before I get hungry."
The older students hesitated, then slunk away with muttered curses.
Hale gathered the last of his books, keeping his head down. "You didn't have to do that," he murmured.
Alec crouched in front of him, tilting his head until their eyes finally met. Mercury against soft brown.
"Maybe I didn't." Alec's voice dropped, velvet over steel. "But watching you get trampled was killing my mood. And I value my mood highly."
The boy's cheeks colored faintly. He looked away first, mumbling something that sounded like "thank you."
Alec smirked, straightening. "Don't thank me yet. I might decide you owe me later."
---
But as he walked away, Alec caught himself glancing back. Just once.
Hale was struggling to balance his books again, awkward and small in a place that demanded sharp edges. He looked like prey.
And Alec, against every instinct he had honed to keep the world at arm's length, found himself thinking—
Maybe I don't want to watch him be eaten alive.
---
Blackmoor's bells tolled midnight, deep and sonorous, shaking dust from the rafters. By then, Alec was already gone.
The Academy locked its gates at night with chains older than kingdoms, but Alec had never cared for locks. He slipped past them like shadow, moving down into the pine-thick valley until the spires of Blackmoor were swallowed by trees.
At the bottom of the hill, his car waited.
It wasn't just any car. Midnight-black, sleek as a predator crouched to strike, its polished chrome caught the moonlight like a blade. A Maserati, customized beyond recognition—low growl of an engine, tinted windows, leather seats the color of spilled wine.
The kind of car you didn't drive. You unleashed.
Alec slid into the seat, turned the key, and the engine purred awake like a living thing. The night belonged to him again.
---
Town was twenty minutes away: a cluster of lights and laughter, humanity spilling itself out in taverns, neon clubs, and smoky back alleys. Blackmoor students were forbidden to feed there. Too risky. Too tempting. Too messy.
Which was exactly why Alec came.
He leaned against the hood of his car outside a bar, velvet coat draped open, crimson silk catching the glow of streetlamps. No uniform, of course. He'd burned it the day it was issued. Instead, black shirt half-buttoned, silver chain glinting at his throat, boots polished to a lethal shine.
People looked. They always did.
He was the kind of beautiful that hurt to notice—danger wrapped in charm, arrogance made flesh. When he smiled at the girls lingering near the bar's entrance, they flushed. When he looked past them to the boy strumming guitar on the corner, the boy faltered mid-chord, staring back like Alec had stolen his breath.
Perfect.
Alec didn't hunt like others. He didn't lurk or stalk. He invited.
A laugh, a glance, a whisper—and someone always followed. Tonight it was a club kid with glitter across his cheekbones and a pulse hammering beneath thin skin.
They slipped into the alley. Alec leaned close, voice velvet-smooth. "You look like sin dressed up pretty."
The boy shivered. Alec's fangs brushed skin.
Warmth. Blood. Life flooding into him like stolen fire. Alec groaned low in his throat, savoring it, drinking until the boy swayed, dazed. Then he pressed two fingers to the punctures, sealing them with a trace of compulsion.
"You'll forget," Alec whispered. "All you'll remember is the best night of your life."
The boy staggered back toward the club. Alec licked the last trace of blood from his lips, silver eyes gleaming.
Forbidden? Yes. Worth it? Always.
---
By dawn, he was back at Blackmoor. He parked the car beneath the shadow of the gates, stepping out as though he owned not just the Academy, but the world. He strolled into the courtyard while the other students were still dragging themselves from their coffins and rooms.
Gasps followed him. Not just for the car, not just for the way he never once wore the uniform, but for the sheer audacity of him.
Alec Arrington didn't care about rules. Didn't care about legacy.
His father wanted him to rule someday, to take his place as head of the Arrington vampire dynasty, one of the most ancient and feared. Alec had no interest.
He wanted music, chaos, freedom. He wanted to form a band, not an empire. To play under neon lights, blood on his lips, songs like spells on his tongue.
The world could burn, and Alec would be there in the ashes, guitar in hand, laughing.
---
But later that day, in class, his gaze slid—unwanted, uninvited—toward the same boy he'd saved in the chapel.
Julian Hale sat two rows ahead, shoulders hunched, notebook neat, trying not to be noticed as others whispered cruel jokes behind him. His pen shook when he wrote. His throat worked nervously every time a voice sneered his name.
Alec smirked, lounging in his chair like he owned it. He spun a silver ring on his finger, eyes half-lidded. He'd never admit it. Not to himself, not to anyone.
But when one of the older students flicked a ball of paper at Julian's head, Alec's mercury gaze sharpened, razor-bright.
He didn't move. Not yet.
But his smile promised violence.
Because Alec Arrington didn't care about anyone.
Except maybe, just maybe… he did.
The classroom reeked of dust and old magic. Students hunched over desks carved with runes, pretending to listen while Professor Harrow droned on about vampire dynasties.
Alec Arrington wasn't pretending. He wasn't listening at all.
His boots were propped on the desk. His coat hung loose, velvet pooling at his elbows, crimson silk catching the candlelight. His notebook was empty except for a few sketches: guitars, drum kits, the rough outline of a band logo.
Blackmoor wanted him to memorize bloodlines. Alec wanted riffs that could shatter glass.
"…and the Arrington line," Harrow continued, "one of the most ancient families, destined to—"
"—bore us all to death," Alec muttered under his breath, loud enough for the front row to hear. A ripple of snickers followed, quickly silenced by Harrow's glare.
The professor's voice sharpened. "Mr. Arrington, perhaps you'd like to explain why your family's duty is irrelevant?"
Alec leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Because I'd rather play lead guitar than play emperor. Empires crumble. Music doesn't."
Gasps. A few suppressed laughs.
Harrow's face turned the color of spoiled wine. "Detention. Tonight."
"Can't," Alec said smoothly, twirling his silver ring. "I've got a gig."
There was no gig. Yet. But the smirk on his face dared anyone to call him out.
---
After class, Julian was the last to leave. His books slid from his arms again. A group of boys snickered.
"Clumsy little mortal-lover," one hissed. "No wonder you can't keep up."
Julian bent to gather his things, shoulders curled in on themselves. His hands shook.
Alec watched from the doorway, yawning. He told himself to walk away. Not his problem.
Then one of the bullies kicked Julian's notebook down the hall. Pages tore, scattering like wounded birds.
Alec's boots clicked against the stone before he'd even decided to move.
"Funny," he drawled, plucking the notebook off the ground. "You three look like you've got a death wish."
The bullies stammered excuses. They knew better. Everyone at Blackmoor knew better than to cross Alec Arrington.
"Go on," he said softly, mercury eyes gleaming. "Run before I make good on it."
They fled.
Julian reached for the notebook without looking up. "I didn't need—"
"Yes, you did," Alec cut in, pressing it against his chest. "You just won't admit it."
Julian blinked, startled. His cheeks colored faintly. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," Alec said instantly. Too fast. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away, smirking like it was all a joke. "I just hate bullies. They're bad for my mood."
But as he walked off, he found himself thinking about Julian's hands, shaking against the leather cover of his notebook.
---
That night, Alec didn't go to detention.
He went to the abandoned theater on the edge of town, cigarette smoke curling from his lips, guitar balanced on his knee. The strings were tuned sharp, the sound raw, alive. He played loud enough to shake the cracked chandeliers.
One by one, others found him.
Seraphine Duvall, pale and sharp, her voice a blade that could slice through silence.
Cassian Veyr, broad-shouldered and reckless, fingers drumming like thunder.
Luca Moreau, quiet and strange, violin case in hand, eyes hiding storms.
Misfits. Rebels. Not rulers, not heirs.
Alec strummed a final chord, grinning at them with fangs flashing. "What do you say? We make some noise. A vampire band. Something Blackmoor will never forget."
Seraphine's lips curved. "You're insane."
"Exactly," Alec said, eyes gleaming. "And it'll be beautiful."
---
Back at Blackmoor, Julian studied alone in the library, candlelight soft against his face. His books were spread in neat rows, notes scribbled in the margins. He looked fragile, but determined.
Alec wasn't there. But somehow, in the hollow of his chest, Julian lingered like a song Alec couldn't stop replaying.
And Alec hated it.
Almost as much as he needed it.
🩸 Chapter Three: Noise and Nightmares
Blackmoor's nights were never silent. The walls groaned like old gods shifting in their sleep, and the wind through the spires carried whispers that didn't belong to the living.
But in the abandoned theater beyond the gates, the only sound was music.
Alec's guitar wailed against the shadows, strings screaming under his hands. Each note cracked through the dust, filling the empty stage like lightning trapped in sound. His coat was tossed over a broken chair, silk shirt clinging to him as he played like the world itself was his enemy.
"You're insane," Seraphine Duvall muttered, leaning against a shattered pillar. Her white hair glowed in the dark, voice dripping with amusement.
"Obviously," Alec said, not looking up. He flicked the silver chain around his neck, grin flashing. "That's why you're here."
Cassian Veyr beat the rhythm on an overturned drum with his fists, grinning like a wolf. "Hell, I'm in. Let's burn this school down one note at a time."
Luca Moreau tuned his violin in silence, gaze far away, like he was already hearing the melody Alec hadn't played yet.
They weren't a band yet, not really. Just misfits who hated the chains Blackmoor tried to fasten around their throats. But in that moment, with the strings humming and the rhythm pounding, they were more alive than any dynasty could make them.
Alec strummed one last chord, letting it echo into the rafters. His smile was sharp, silver eyes gleaming.
"This," he said, lifting his guitar, "is the only empire I'll ever rule."
---
The next morning, he was late to class. On purpose.
When Alec finally strolled in, boots clicking against the stone, his hair mussed from the night's rebellion, every student turned. He wasn't in uniform, of course. Black silk shirt half-unbuttoned, velvet coat swinging behind him, silver rings glinting on his fingers. He looked like he'd stepped out of a painting of sin and hadn't apologized for it.
Professor Harrow's jaw tightened. "Mr. Arrington. Again."
Alec dropped into his chair, sprawling. "What can I say? Time flies when you're creating art."
Laughter rippled through the room. Harrow's face turned purple.
But Alec's eyes — lazy, bored — drifted two rows ahead.
Julian Hale sat hunched over his notebook, head bowed, scribbling notes furiously like they might shield him from the world. His shirt collar was crooked, ink smudged across his wrist. He looked like he hadn't slept.
When Harrow turned to the board, one of the older boys flicked a paper dart at Julian's back. Another whispered something cruel. Julian kept writing, shoulders tightening, pretending not to hear.
Alec's smirk sharpened. He leaned forward, voice low but cutting enough to carry.
"Careful," he drawled, mercury eyes gleaming. "Keep throwing paper, and I might mistake you for children. And children don't last long here."
The room went silent. The bullies stiffened, paling. Nobody dared answer.
Julian froze, his pen stalling mid-word. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder — not at the bullies, but at Alec. Their eyes met for the briefest flicker.
Brown. Warm. Fragile.
Alec leaned back again, lacing his fingers behind his head like nothing had happened. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Something boring about dynasties."
---
That night, Alec didn't hunt in the town. Not immediately.
Instead, he sat in the band's theater with his guitar across his lap, fingers strumming mindlessly. Cassian had left, Seraphine had vanished, Luca had melted into shadows. He was alone.
And every time he closed his eyes, he saw Julian — the way his hands shook when he gathered his books, the way he flinched at whispers, the way he still tried to keep up even when the world shoved him down.
It irritated him. Got under his skin. Alec Arrington didn't care about anyone. He couldn't. Caring meant weakness, and weakness meant chains.
So why did the thought of Julian's soft, careful smile make his chest ache?
He strummed harder, strings biting into his fingers. The music grew violent, a scream against the silence.
When it wasn't enough, when the ache only burned hotter, Alec grabbed his coat and keys. He needed blood. He needed noise. He needed anything but this.
The Maserati roared to life beneath the moon, carrying him down into town. Neon lights bathed his face as he stepped from the car, coat flaring, silver eyes gleaming with hunger. Humans stared. They always did.
By dawn, Alec was back in his room at Blackmoor, blood on his tongue, exhaustion in his bones. He collapsed into the velvet armchair by the window, staring at the cracked stained-glass panes.
And still, behind his eyes, Julian lingered.
Alec cursed softly into the empty air.
Because for the first time in centuries, Alec Arrington wasn't afraid of dying.
He was afraid of feeling.
🩸 Chapter Four: Blood and Betrothal
The letter arrived at dusk, carried by a raven with wings blacker than coal. It landed on Alec's windowsill, eyes like embers, a wax-sealed envelope clutched in its beak.
Alec barely glanced up from the chords he was strumming on his guitar. He flicked the latch, took the envelope, and ripped it open with one long nail.
His father's seal bled across the parchment in crimson ink. The handwriting was elegant, merciless.
> You will wed Lady Mei Lin of the House of Zhao at the winter solstice. Your union will solidify our alliance with the eastern dynasties. Your rebellion ends here, Alec. This is not a request. It is destiny.
Alec's lips curved into something between a sneer and a laugh. He crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fireplace, where it caught flame instantly.
"Destiny," he muttered, strumming a violent chord that rang through the room. "My destiny is noise, not a crown."
Still, the firelight flickered against his mercury eyes, betraying the storm inside.
---
Mei Lin arrived the next night.
The Academy courtyard stilled when her carriage rolled through the gates — carved from ebony wood, lanterns burning blue, horses with eyes like pearls.
She stepped out dressed in silks that whispered like water, her black hair cascading to her waist. Her skin was porcelain, her gaze sharp, lips painted crimson as blood.
She was beautiful. Untouchable. A perfect match for an empire's heir.
"Arrington," she said, inclining her head with poise that could shatter glass. "I am told we are to be bound."
Alec leaned against the hood of his Maserati, coat flaring open, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He didn't move, didn't bow, didn't even straighten.
"Yeah," he said lazily, exhaling smoke. "That's what they say."
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you defy your father so easily?"
Alec smirked, flicking ash onto the cobblestones. "I defy everyone easily. Why should he be an exception?"
Gasps rippled among the gathered students. Mei Lin's gaze didn't waver. She smiled slowly, dangerously.
"Good," she murmured. "I despise weakness."
They looked like a portrait together — dark royalty, dangerous beauty. Everyone whispered about them that night, saying the Arrington-Zhao union would be unstoppable.
But Alec's eyes weren't on Mei Lin.
They were searching the crowd until they landed — unwillingly, inevitably — on Julian.
---
Julian was standing off to the side, books clutched to his chest, trying not to be noticed. He had ink smudged on his fingers and a tired slump to his shoulders, as if even breathing at Blackmoor was too heavy a weight.
When Alec's gaze locked on him, Julian looked up, startled. Their eyes met. Brown to silver. Fragile to merciless.
Something shifted. Alec's chest tightened. His smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat.
He looked away first, grinding the cigarette under his heel.
---
By the time the moon reached its peak, Alec was in the old theater again, the band's hideout. The others had left hours ago. Only silence and shadows kept him company.
A bottle of blood-wine sat at his side, half-empty. His guitar lay abandoned on the stage. Alec was sprawled across a velvet chair, head tilted back, eyes burning holes in the cracked ceiling.
He took another long drink straight from the bottle, crimson staining his mouth. The burn in his throat wasn't enough to drown the fire in his chest.
Julian's face wouldn't leave his mind. That quiet voice. Those shaking hands. That stubborn way he kept trying, even when the world mocked him for it.
It was pathetic. It was human. It was everything Alec had sworn to never need.
And yet—
He slammed the bottle down, glass shattering across the stage.
"Pathetic," Alec spat, dragging a hand through his black curls. "Falling for some boy who can't even bite back. When I could have her."
Mei Lin's face flashed in his mind — flawless, deadly, perfect on paper. But when he tried to imagine kissing her, his body felt cold. Wrong.
When he thought of Julian — shy eyes, ink-stained fingers — his chest burned like wildfire.
"No," Alec snarled, springing to his feet. His fist lashed out, punching the wall. Stone cracked under his knuckles. Blood smeared across the surface, bright and alive.
"I don't love him. I can't."
His voice echoed through the empty theater. He sank to the floor, breath ragged, staring at his bloodied hand.
But even as he said it, the truth gnawed at him like hunger.
He was Alec Arrington. He was supposed to be untouchable. Heartless. A sin carved in flesh.
And yet — he had already fallen. Hard. Irrevocably.
For Julian Hale.
And he hated himself for it.
---