July 1, 1863
The air above Gettysburg was thick with the stench of gunpowder and death. Smoke curled from shattered cannons, and the moans of the wounded mixed with the distant thunder of retreating hoofbeats. The Union army stood victorious, but the cost had been staggering. Nearly 30,000 men lay dead, their bodies littering the blood-soaked fields of Pennsylvania.
The battle had changed everything. The South's momentum was broken. From this day forward, the tide of war belonged to the North.
Inside a dimly lit Union command tent, a tall man with a grave expression unfolded a freshly delivered telegram. President Abraham Lincoln read its contents with furrowed brows before looking up at the messenger before him—Jack Pete, an agent of the Howlett family.
"The young master sent word that he won't be able to celebrate the victory with you," Jack reported, adjusting his coat. "Something urgent has come up. He had to return to Edmond."
Lincoln's lined face tightened with concern. "Is James injured?"
Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "No, sir. He's fine. But he did want me to warn you—Adam got away. He was gravely wounded, and it'll take him a long time to heal, but…" Jack hesitated before continuing. "He's not the type to suffer in silence. If he's hiding, it's because he's planning something."
Lincoln exhaled slowly, steepling his fingers. The war itself was no longer in doubt, but there were enemies beyond the battlefield. Old foes lurked in the shadows, unwilling to accept defeat, waiting for the right moment to strike.
"Give James my regards," Lincoln said at last, his voice solemn. "What he's done for this country—what your family has done—will not be forgotten. The United States owes him a great debt. I hope to meet him soon."
---
Howlett Manor, Edmond - Underground Chambers
A flickering lantern cast long shadows against the stone walls of the hidden chamber beneath Howlett Manor. The air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of earth and aged wood. James sat across from Victor Creed, watching him devour his meal with the ferocity of a starving beast.
"Are you really alright?" James asked, narrowing his eyes as Victor tore into the last bite of steak.
Victor growled, irritated by the question. "What the hell are you talking about?" He wiped his mouth roughly with a cloth napkin before glaring at James. "The war's not over yet! There are plenty more battles to fight, but instead of fighting, I get dragged back here! If you wanted to come back to that woman, fine! But why the hell did you bring me?"
James ignored the jab. Instead, his gaze dropped to Victor's arms, his skin—watching for the subtlest of changes. "You were bitten," he murmured.
Victor scoffed. "I've been bitten plenty of times."
"Adam's different."
A tense silence stretched between them. Victor's golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim lantern light, filled with something unreadable. Then, with a sneer, he gestured at the heavy iron door at the entrance of the chamber.
"So that's why you locked me underground? Sealed the stone gate like I'm some kind of animal?"
James set down his silverware, his expression unreadable. "I didn't lock you up," he said quietly. "It's a precaution. For you—and for everyone in the manor."
Victor let out a harsh laugh. "Sounds the same to me."
With a frustrated growl, he stood and stalked toward a nearby training area. The space was a wreck—walls lined with deep claw marks, shattered steel equipment strewn across the floor. James followed him, his sharp gaze scanning the destruction.
Since dragging Victor back to the manor, he had observed him relentlessly. He had interrogated Marcus, the vampire prisoner held in the manor's dungeon, questioning him on the transformation process. Yet, despite everything, Victor showed no symptoms. He still ate regular food, showed no thirst for blood, and his physical features remained unchanged—his eyes, his fangs, even his nails were exactly as they had always been.
Still… something felt off.
"Alright," James finally said, exhaling. "It looks like you're fine. Let's go."
Victor turned, blinking in surprise at the sudden dismissal. But then, with an annoyed grunt, he shoved past James and strode toward the exit.
James followed, but as he passed, he caught something—a flicker of red in Victor's eyes, barely visible in the dim torchlight. A flash. And then it was gone.
---
Howlett Manor - Main Estate
"Jack! Jack, get in here!" Wayne, the Howlett family's trusted butler, strode through the hallways, gripping a telegram in his hand. He adjusted his monocle anxiously. "Where the devil is O'Hara? O'Hara!"
A woman with tousled red hair leaned against the doorway, yawning. "Relax, Uncle Wayne," O'Hara said lazily, stretching. "You're going to have a heart attack at this rate."
Wayne huffed, shoving the telegram toward her. "Tell Jack to gather his men. Have Lauren and Chris sent to Port Victoria in Vancouver immediately."
O'Hara raised a brow. "And why exactly are we sending people across the country?"
Wayne's expression turned serious. "Daniel has sent a message."
In another room, James unfolded the telegram, his sharp eyes scanning the message over and over again. It was short—but the implications were massive.
A letter from Kenya. The British Resource Port.
His grip on the paper tightened. "Has Jack left yet?"
"Yes," Wayne answered, stepping inside.
"It's not enough," James muttered. "Send word to the Governor's Office. Have the British government provide an official escort. Then, contact the White House. Tell President Lincoln I am requesting formal assistance from Washington. If the U.S. has assets in Africa, I want them deployed to ensure Daniel's safety."
Wayne nodded, turning swiftly to carry out the orders. James let out a slow breath, eyes darkening. Daniel's return was non-negotiable.
---
Howlett Manor - Elizabeth's Quarters
The rain came down in steady sheets, drumming against the balcony's French windows.
Elizabeth Howlett tossed and turned beneath the heavy velvet covers of her four-poster bed. Her mind drifted restlessly—memories of old storms, of things she wished she could forget.
Then—a noise.
She sat up slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. The window latch rattled against the wind. Had the maid forgotten to secure it?
She turned her head—and froze.
A giant of a man stood in the doorway, his massive frame barely fitting beneath the ornate ceiling. His long, wild hair dripped with rainwater, his soaked coat clinging to his broad shoulders. His breath came in deep, measured exhales, filling the quiet room with the scent of damp earth and something else—something feral.
Then—lightning flashed.
For a brief second, the world illuminated in stark white—and Victor Creed's face was revealed in full.
He took a step forward.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to scream
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