The damp air of the dungeon carried a putrid stench—iron, sweat, and something far more primal. A whimpering figure, gaunt and wretched, lay hunched against the bars of his cage. His once-robust frame had withered into a skeletal husk, his flesh clinging to his bones like tattered parchment. This was Marcus, a creature that had once prowled the night with an arrogance befitting his cursed kind. Now, he barely resembled the predator he used to be.
Victor's presence had seen to that.
Every day, the towering man would descend into the dark recesses of the manor's underground chambers, his boots echoing with the inevitability of torment. He treated Marcus like a broken toy, tossing him around the chamber, forcing him to strike back with whatever strength remained in his frail limbs—only to crush him again. Each time, the vampire would beg, plead, offer anything for a reprieve.
Blood was the only mercy Victor granted, and even that came in agonizing intervals, just enough to keep Marcus teetering on the edge of survival.
The cycle of pain and starvation had long since shattered his dignity.
When James finally arrived, stepping into the dim glow of the lantern-lit chamber, Marcus scrambled forward, clutching the iron bars as though they might somehow shield him from the brute who loomed behind. His voice cracked with desperation.
"I'll tell you anything you want," he rasped. "Just keep him away from me!"
James wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming stench. Enhanced senses had their advantages, but in moments like these, he cursed them.
"Let's talk about your ancestor again," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Marcus swallowed hard. His crimson eyes flickered toward the rooster bound near James' feet, his hunger momentarily overtaking his fear. But James merely tilted his head, waiting.
"Adam," Marcus began hastily. "Adam is the saint of the Americas—no, the ancestor of vampires. He created us, shaped us from darkness. No vampire can defy him. Even those who hate him cannot lift a finger against him. It's written into our very blood. That's why some among us… secretly cultivate human hunters. We need humans to be able to kill what we cannot."
He shuddered, licking cracked lips. "I don't know how his strength compares to yours, my lord. But your power—" Marcus' eyes gleamed with something between admiration and dread. "Never in all of history has a mortal possessed such might. You are…"
"Enough." James waved a dismissive hand, cutting off the sycophantic drivel. He had no patience for flattery.
Something in Marcus' earlier words piqued his curiosity. "You called him the ancestor of vampires in America. Are you implying there are others?"
Marcus hesitated. Slowly, he nodded. "It is… only a suspicion. Adam never spoke of it directly. But he once mentioned that all the other saints have perished over the centuries. He alone endures. I believe—perhaps—he had brothers. Or… he was made into a vampire himself."
James raised an eyebrow. "And his so-called sister, Wadoma?"
Marcus shook his head fervently. "No, no! Wadoma was created by Adam, just like the rest of us. But he favors her above all. He calls her sister, but she is not like him."
James exhaled sharply, nudging the bound rooster with his boot. The bird flailed momentarily before he tossed it into the cage. Marcus lunged without hesitation, sinking his fangs deep into the struggling creature. Blood dribbled down his chin as he gorged himself, barely aware of the disgusted look James cast his way.
For months, James had interrogated the vampire, sometimes repeating the same questions days or weeks apart, waiting to catch inconsistencies. At first, Marcus had tried to deceive him, offering half-truths wrapped in silver-tongued lies. But James had his own ways of uncovering falsehoods. When lies were discovered, he would simply stop coming. And in his absence, Victor would visit instead.
Marcus had learned.
A Nation at War
Far from the suffocating darkness of the dungeon, history was unfolding at an unprecedented pace.
James had dispatched a letter to Washington weeks prior, detailing the importance of ending slavery—not just for moral reasons, but for the survival of the Union. He knew Lincoln to be a pragmatic man, capable of making the difficult choices history demanded.
At the Howlett family's North American factory, production had been shifted toward outfitting the Northern Army. They were crafting more than just standard weapons—silver ammunition and blades, designed for enemies that lurked in the shadows, not just those on the battlefield.
Meanwhile, in Washington…
"Slavery must be abolished," Lincoln said firmly, his gaze steady as he scanned the letter in his hands.
William Johnson, his trusted confidant, nodded grimly. "So you're decided, then?"
Lincoln exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Yes. The Union cannot endure if it remains divided, and neither can my conscience. The South's reliance on slavery is its greatest weakness. Once it crumbles, so will their army."
Joshua Speed, another close advisor, shifted uneasily. "And Adam? Do we truly believe the Confederacy would turn to… that kind of help?"
Lincoln's fingers tightened around the letter. "I don't just believe it—I expect it. That's why we must be ready."
He turned to Speed. "I need you to coordinate efforts in acquiring silver. We'll need more than James' factory can produce alone. Every available resource must be gathered. If Adam unleashes his kind onto the battlefield, our soldiers must be prepared."
Johnson frowned. "And James? He claims he'll deal with Adam himself."
A long silence followed. Then, Lincoln simply nodded.
If he hadn't seen James Howlett with his own eyes, he might have dismissed such claims as madness. But he had seen. And he believed.
A Departure Toward Destiny
September 1862.
The Emancipation Proclamation was signed. Across the South, thousands of enslaved men and women fled to the North, stripping the Confederate Army of its essential labor force. In response, the Union began training newly freed men for battle, turning former slaves into soldiers.
And amid the tides of war, James boarded a steam train bound for Washington.
Only Victor accompanied him directly, though nearly a hundred of his best fighters had been sent ahead to prepare. Each carried silver-lined weapons, ready for what lay ahead.
As he prepared to depart, a familiar voice rang out behind him.
O'Hara stood near the carriage, arms crossed, her expression a mixture of frustration and concern. She held a box of homemade toast, a rare attempt at domestic care from someone more prone to wielding sharp words than baked goods.
James smirked, stepping closer to murmur something against her cheek. Whatever he said made her flush a deep red, her anger faltering into reluctant warmth.
"Just come back in one piece," she muttered, shoving the box into his hands.
James took it with a lopsided grin before stepping into the carriage.
As the train pulled away, O'Hara stood in place, watching it disappear over the horizon.
He was strong. Inhumanly so. But even he was heading toward a battlefield where neither steel nor silver would be the deadliest weapon.
And that terrified her.