The brass key felt heavier than it should have in Luna Blackwood's palm as she stood before the wrought-iron gates of Ravenshollow Manor. Three months had passed since her grandmother's funeral, and she'd finally worked up the courage to visit the property she'd inherited—a sprawling Victorian mansion that had been in her family for over two centuries.
"Just a quick look," she murmured to herself, pushing open the gate that groaned in protest. "Assess the damage, call a realtor, and get back to Boston."
The October wind whipped through the bare oak trees lining the cobblestone path, sending dead leaves skittering across her feet. Salem had always given her the creeps, even as a child during those rare visits to see Grandmother Celeste. Too much history, too many ghost stories, too many tourists seeking thrills in a place that felt genuinely haunted.
The mansion loomed before her, all Gothic spires and shadowed alcoves. Gargoyles perched along the roofline seemed to track her movement, their stone eyes following as she climbed the front steps. Luna fumbled with the ornate key, her hands trembling from more than just the cold.
The lock clicked open with surprising ease.
The moment she stepped inside, the temperature dropped noticeably. Her breath came out in visible puffs as she fumbled for a light switch. The foyer was larger than her entire Boston apartment, with a grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor and oil paintings covering every inch of the burgundy walls.
That's when she saw them.
Four portraits hung in places of honor, each depicting a devastatingly handsome man from different historical periods. The placard beneath the first read "Damien Cross, 1847." He had the face of a Renaissance angel corrupted by darkness—classical features marred by an expression of infinite sadness. His silver eyes seemed to look right through her.
The second portrait showed a man in Victorian dress, his golden hair perfectly styled and his emerald eyes dancing with mischief. "Adrian Vale, 1876" read the inscription. Even in oil paint, his smile was captivating enough to make her pulse quicken.
The third was clearly a warrior from some ancient time, his auburn hair wild and his amber eyes fierce with barely contained violence. Scars crisscrossed his visible skin, telling stories of countless battles. "Kieran Night, 1624."
The final portrait stole her breath entirely. The man depicted had otherworldly beauty—white-blonde hair that seemed to shimmer even in the painting, and ice-blue eyes that held centuries of secrets. "Soren Frost, 1523."
"Grandmother's taste in men," Luna muttered, trying to break the spell the portraits seemed to cast. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd seen these faces before, perhaps in dreams she couldn't quite remember.
A grandfather clock chimed midnight, its deep tones echoing through the empty house. Luna decided she'd seen enough for one night. She'd come back tomorrow with coffee, courage, and a real estate agent.
As she turned to leave, a voice drifted from the shadows of the parlor.
"You shouldn't have come here alone, little witch."
Luna's heart stopped. The voice was cultured, with an accent she couldn't place, and definitely male. She spun toward the sound, her hand instinctively reaching for the pepper spray in her purse.
A figure stepped from the shadows, and Luna's knees nearly gave out.
It was Damien Cross, identical to his portrait but very much alive—or whatever vampires qualified as. His silver eyes held the same infinite sadness, but now she could see the predatory grace in the way he moved, the pale perfection of his skin, the hint of fangs when he spoke.
"This isn't possible," she whispered.
"Many things that aren't possible happen in this house," he said, moving closer with inhuman fluidity. "Your grandmother never told you about us?"
"My grandmother is dead." The words came out sharper than she intended.
"Yes. Three months, two weeks, and four days ago." His voice carried genuine grief. "We mourned her passing. Celeste was… special to us."
"We?"
As if summoned by her question, three other figures emerged from various doorways. Luna's vision blurred as she recognized each face from the portraits—Adrian with his devastating smile, Kieran radiating controlled violence, and Soren whose ethereal beauty made her forget how to breathe.
"Hello, Luna," Adrian said, his voice like warm honey. "We've been waiting for you."
"This isn't real." Luna backed toward the door, but her legs felt like water. "This is some kind of stress-induced breakdown. Vampires aren't real."
"Your bloodline says otherwise," Soren spoke for the first time, his voice carrying an otherworldly quality that made her skin tingle. "The Blackwood witches have known of our existence for centuries. Celeste bound us to this house, to this family. And now, her death has awakened something that's been dormant in you."
"I'm not a witch. I restore paintings for the Museum of Fine Arts. I have a studio apartment and student loan debt and a cat named Monet. I'm completely, utterly normal."
Kieran stepped forward, and she caught the scent of leather and something wild, like a forest after rain. "Normal women don't make us feel human again just by entering a room."
"Normal women," Damien added softly, "don't carry the power to save us."
Luna's knees finally gave out. As darkness closed in around her, the last thing she saw was four impossibly beautiful faces looking down at her with expressions of hope she didn't understand.
When she woke, everything would change.