The town of Blackthorn Bay had never been kind to outsiders, and Detective Adrian Cole knew it the moment he stepped out of his car.
The coastal fog clung to him like a damp shroud, seeping into his coat. Fishing boats rocked uneasily in the harbor, their masts creaking like bones. The townsfolk eyed him with the same suspicion they gave the gulls that circled overhead—an unwanted presence, tolerated only until he moved along.
Adrian had been in small towns before. He understood the rhythm of their secrets. But Blackthorn Bay was different. Its silences were too heavy, its shadows too deliberate.
He lit a cigarette, glancing at the old inn across the square. That would be his lodging until the case was over.
The case.
Three unexplained deaths in as many weeks. The coroner's reports were vague: heart failure, sudden collapse, no evidence of foul play. And yet—each victim had been found near the cliffs, eyes wide open as if they had seen something that stopped their heart cold.
Locals whispered about the estate. The Morgan place.
Adrian had scoffed when he first read the reports, dismissing them as superstitious nonsense. But now, with the salt wind biting at his face and the raven-black cliffs looming in the distance, he wasn't so sure.
Meanwhile, Elena could not shake the night before.
She stood at the window of her bedroom, staring at the cliffs. The wind tore at the sea, waves exploding against the rocks below.
Her grandmother's journals lay open on the bed. She had read and reread the passages until the words burned into her mind:
> He walks the house at night. He waits. If the heir returns, the circle will stir.
Damien.
Even saying his name in her thoughts felt dangerous. She had seen him—heard him. He was no dream. No illusion.
But what was he?
A ghost, bound by Margaret's rituals? A curse born of the estate? Or something else entirely?
"Elena…"
The whisper brushed her ear. She spun, her heart hammering.
He was there again, leaning against the far wall as though he had always been part of the room.
Her pulse leapt. "You can't just appear like that."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "And yet I do."
She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Tell me the truth. What are you?"
For a moment, silence. Then his gaze hardened. "Bound."
The word seemed to echo in the walls.
"By what?" she pressed.
His eyes softened, filled with something she couldn't name. "By your bloodline."
Her breath caught. Before she could speak, the doorbell rang, startling her.
Detective Adrian Cole stood on the doorstep, rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
"Miss Morgan?" he asked, flashing his badge. His voice was steady, clipped, the voice of a man who had seen too much and trusted little.
"Yes," Elena said, her pulse still unsteady from Damien's sudden disappearance.
"I'm Detective Cole. May I come in? I have a few questions regarding… recent incidents in town."
She hesitated, her hand tightening on the doorframe. "Incidents?"
"Three deaths. All unexplained. And all within a mile of this estate."
Her blood ran cold.
Adrian studied her carefully, his eyes sharp. "I'm not here to accuse. But I need to know if you've noticed anything… unusual since arriving."
Elena thought of the whispers in the night. The journals. Damien's silver eyes.
"No," she lied quickly.
Adrian's gaze lingered, searching her face. "Strange thing about towns like this—they bury their truths deep. But something's stirring here, Miss Morgan. And whether you know it or not, you're right in the middle of it."
Behind her, in the shadows of the hall, Elena felt it—Damien watching. Silent. Invisible to the detective, but close enough that her skin prickled with his presence.
And for the first time, Elena realized she was caught in something far larger than she had imagined.
Sleep did not come easily after Adrian's visit.
Elena lay awake in the great four-poster bed, her mind unraveling with questions. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Adrian's piercing gaze, suspicious yet oddly protective. And then—Damien, emerging from the shadows, his silver eyes burning with truths he refused to fully give.
By dawn, she gave up on rest altogether.
She dressed in her grandmother's old wool coat and descended into the library again. Dust motes drifted through the slanted morning light. She had avoided this place after discovering the strange journals, but now it called to her like a pulse.