The rain had been falling since dusk, thin and relentless, the kind that soaked through clothes without ever announcing itself. It turned the streets slick and reflective, bending the city lights into long, trembling streaks of gold and red. Cassian Hale walked through it without hurry, coat collar turned up, boots splashing softly against the pavement.
The address led him to a cathedral that no longer served God.
St. Virel's had been abandoned decades ago, its congregation scattered, its bells silent. The city claimed the structure was unsafe. Condemned. Forgotten. Cassian knew better. Forgotten places were magnets for things that didn't belong in the light.
A single lamp flickered near the entrance, its glow weak and jaundiced. The doors stood half-open.
Cassian paused at the bottom of the steps.
He checked his gear out of habit more than necessity. The silver-edged knife at his hip. The short stake hidden inside his sleeve. No holy symbols. No charms. No blessed ammunition.
Most hunters wouldn't leave home without them.
Cassian never bothered.
He stepped inside.
The cathedral smelled of damp stone and old rot. Rainwater leaked through cracks in the ceiling, dripping steadily into puddles along the central aisle. The pews had been pushed aside, broken and stacked like corpses against the walls. Candles burned near the altar—dozens of them—casting warped shadows that crawled up the flaking murals.
Cassian felt it then.
That pressure.
It settled into the air like invisible hands pressing down on his chest, heavy and deliberate. For most people, it would have been overwhelming. Knees would weaken. Breathing would turn shallow. Fear would bloom without a clear source, sharp and primal.
Cassian felt none of it.
He walked forward, footsteps echoing softly.
A shape detached itself from the shadows near the altar. Tall. Too still. Pale skin caught the candlelight, smooth and unblemished. Crimson eyes regarded Cassian with lazy interest, lips curving into a smile that revealed just a hint of fang.
"Hunter," the vampire said. Its voice was pleasant, cultured. Old. "You're late."
Cassian stopped a few paces away. "Traffic."
The vampire chuckled, low and amused. "You people always say that."
It took another step forward. The pressure in the room intensified, thickening the air, warping the shadows. The candles flickered wildly.
Cassian didn't move.
The smile faltered—just slightly.
"That should have worked," the vampire said, more to itself than to Cassian. "Interesting."
Cassian tilted his head. "You going to monologue, or do we get to the part where you die?"
The vampire laughed outright this time. "Bold. Stupid, but bold."
It raised a hand. Blood-red light shimmered faintly around its fingers, coiling like smoke. The air vibrated with restrained power.
"Drop your weapons," it said softly.
The words carried weight. Compulsion. A command that slid past the ears and straight into the mind, bypassing thought and resistance alike. Hunters trained for years to endure it, and still most failed.
Cassian felt… nothing.
He stared at the vampire.
Silence stretched.
The vampire blinked. Then frowned.
"Drop your weapons," it repeated, voice sharper.
Cassian shifted his weight and sighed. "You already tried that."
The vampire's eyes narrowed. "Who trained you?"
"No one special."
"That's impossible."
Cassian took a step closer. The red light around the vampire's hand flickered.
"I'm not immune to silver," the vampire said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "Or to fire. Or to blades. But you—"
It reached out suddenly and grabbed Cassian's wrist.
Skin met skin.
For a heartbeat, the vampire froze.
Its eyes widened.
Cassian watched the realization spread across its face, the slow bloom of something unfamiliar.
Fear.
The vampire yanked its hand back as if burned. "What are you?" it whispered.
Cassian didn't answer.
He drove the stake forward, clean and precise. It pierced the vampire's heart with a dull crack, like wood splitting under pressure. The creature gasped, mouth opening in silent shock. Its body stiffened, then collapsed inward, flesh crumbling into ash that scattered across the stone floor.
The candles went out all at once.
Darkness swallowed the cathedral.
Cassian stood alone, breathing steadily.
After a moment, emergency lights flickered on, dim and unreliable. He looked down at the pile of ash, then around the empty space.
No applause. No dramatic ending.
Just another kill.
He turned to leave.
A sharp pain exploded behind his eyes.
Cassian staggered, catching himself on a broken pew. His vision blurred, white light flashing across his sight. He clenched his jaw and waited for it to pass.
It didn't.
Instead, something else crept in—a sensation he couldn't name. Not fear. Not pain. More like… pressure from the inside. Like something trying to touch him and failing.
He straightened slowly.
The air felt wrong.
Thinner. Unstable.
Somewhere far away, something moved.
Cassian left the cathedral quickly.
The Black Reliquary occupied an unmarked building tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a boarded-up café. No signs. No windows. Just a reinforced steel door and a camera that never blinked.
Cassian pushed inside.
The interior smelled of old paper and metal. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sterile glow. Hunters moved through the space in small groups, some cleaning weapons, others murmuring over maps and reports.
A few heads turned as Cassian entered.
Whispers followed.
"Is that him?"
"That's Hale."
"The one from the docks?"
Cassian ignored them and headed for the briefing room.
Inside, Director Marrow stood hunched over a table covered in documents. He was an old man, all sharp angles and tired eyes, his hair white and thinning. He looked up as Cassian entered.
"You're back early," Marrow said.
"It's dead."
Marrow studied him carefully. "Any casualties?"
"No."
A pause.
"That was a Class Three," Marrow said. "Confirmed Elder spawn. You were assigned backup."
"They'd have slowed me down."
Marrow exhaled slowly. "Cassian… sit."
Cassian leaned against the wall instead.
Marrow's eyes flicked briefly to Cassian's empty hands. No charms. No relics.
"Did it try to influence you?" Marrow asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"And nothing."
Marrow closed his eyes for a moment.
"This is the fifth time," he said quietly.
Cassian frowned. "The fifth time what?"
"The fifth confirmed report of a vampire failing to affect you." Marrow looked up, eyes sharp despite his age. "Do you have any idea what that means?"
Cassian shrugged. "Means I'm good at my job."
"No," Marrow said. "It means the Night doesn't recognize you."
Silence settled between them.
"We've tested hunters with rare resistances before," Marrow continued. "Bloodlines touched by faith. Genetic anomalies. Experimental treatments. None of them looked like this."
Cassian pushed off the wall. "If you're suggesting I stop hunting—"
"I'm suggesting," Marrow interrupted, "that you're not just a hunter anymore."
Cassian stared at him.
"Something is wrong," Marrow said. "Elders are moving. They're abandoning territories without explanation. Safehouses have gone dark—not attacked, just empty. It's like they're… retreating."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "From what?"
Marrow met his gaze. "From you."
Cassian felt that pressure again, faint but undeniable. Like eyes on the back of his mind.
"I didn't ask for this," he said.
"No," Marrow agreed. "But neither did they."
Cassian turned toward the door.
"Cassian," Marrow called. "If the Night truly cannot touch you… then eventually, it will try something else."
Cassian paused.
"Let it," he said, and walked out.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city breathed quietly under the streetlights, unaware of the fear rippling beneath its foundations.
Cassian pulled his coat tighter and disappeared into the night.
Somewhere deep below the earth, an ancient vampire opened its eyes.
And for the first time in centuries—
It felt afraid.