CHAPTER 69: THE RED STRING

Seamus didn’t want to hide anymore; more than anything, he wanted to be found.

Only then could he finally unleash the strange rage churning in his chest, a rage whose source he could no longer name.

Was it Viviane’s death? The fact that he had been powerless to stop it? Or was it the bitter truth that, even after everything, he still followed Isolde’s orders?

Maybe it was all of it at once.

At first, everyone questioned him about his sudden power–everyone except Isolde and Madeline–who either already knew the truth or simply didn’t care so long as their goals were served.

Diane was bewildered, Leah wanted to cut him open to see what he was, and the Hunters watched him with suspicion and caution.

No one stood by him. He had never felt this alone. Perhaps it was because Viviane had always been there before, supporting him no matter what, except for his cheating, of course.

"Seamus!"

Maria’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. A knife — no, a bone — spun through the air toward him.

In his eyes, it moved in slow motion; he dodged easily. What he hadn’t seen was Maria behind him. The bone was aimed at her.

His green eyes widened. ’No, it’s fine. I can use Aetherwalk.’

But Lulu was faster. She lunged, pushing both Maria and herself out of the way as the bone struck the wall behind Dylan, making him jolt.

Seamus’s head snapped toward the thrower. The last Scavenger vampire was laughing. "Hah! Next bones will get—"

Seamus blurred forward. In a blink, his hand clamped around the vampire’s throat, lifting him off the ground.

"No, Seamus! We need him!" Maria staggered upright with Lulu’s help. "He’s the strongest one here probably their leader. He might know something about the Lady or the Crow!"

His grip faltered, but the monster only sneered. "I’d never tell you anything. I’d rather die."

Seamus scoffed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, you will. You’ll hope you die. You’ll beg for it. You’ll despair for it."

The Scavenger’s grey skin was dampened with sweat. His bravado faltered; he stopped laughing.

Seamus’s red strings uncoiled from his hand, wrapping around the vampire’s body and suspending him like a marionette.

"Let’s bring him to Velstrath."

"Velstrath? Not the Hunter quarter?" Maria’s voice tightened with unease.

"What can a Hunter do?" Diane’s voice drifted from the doorway.

She strode up to Seamus and let out a slow breath. "The Velstrath head can crack his mind open. The Hunters can’t."

She eyed him, frowning. "You’re wounded again. With that speed and skill, you shouldn’t be getting hit at all." Her tone was flat but held a thread of worry.

"I’ll be fine," Seamus said with a faint smirk. "Or does my blood make you thirsty or even horny?"

"Tch. Of course not. I know a cue when I see one, and I’m not my aunt." Diane leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Let’s get out of here before another pack of Scavengers shows up."

Seamus gave a short nod. Together they left the ruin, the captured vampire hanging in his strings.

Maria followed, her face tense, clearly thinking this was a mistake, but with no better option, she kept walking toward the waiting car and the road to Velstrath Manor.

***

They slipped in through the back door. Diane had already sent a message to her mother by pigeon—yes, an actual pigeon with a tiny letter tied to its leg—and Isolde had replied, instructing them to bring the scavenger to the rear manor.

When they arrived, everyone except Seamus and Diane paused, stunned by the garden’s beauty.

Rows of flowers burst in every direction—blood-red roses, soft danofil, pure white lilies—all impossibly lush despite the lack of sunlight. It felt like stepping into a living painting.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It was unreal, just like a dream.

Seamus was sure of it the moment the system flared across his vision:

[You have entered the Realm of Dream.]

[Beware Hypnos, its keeper, and the instability of Sagacitas.]

He drew a steadying breath. "This is a dream realm," he warned quietly. "Don’t think of anything strange, and you’ll be fine."

Face drained of color. Maria’s hands trembled, the last dream Isolde had inflicted on her was still carved deep into her memory.

Dylan, still confused, didn’t even think to link this world to the same power that had shattered him and his friends.

They moved on, entering a labyrinth of red roses. Seamus’s stomach tightened at the sight of crimson petals everywhere.

When they emerged from a turn, a figure was waiting: Isolde.

"You brought that vermin?" she asked.

Seamus said nothing, simply tossed the scavenger at her feet. With a flick of Isolde’s finger, the garden darkened.

The sky bled red. A huge moon swelled overhead as flocks of crows wheeled and cawed, a chorus of mocking laughter.

Maria and Dylan began to shake, caught in the echo of old nightmares. The others only scanned the changing scenery, wary but silent.

Isolde’s dreams were almost always tied to memory, straightforward to decode, never riddles.

But her warning was clear: "Don’t believe everything. Nightmares form from what someone wants to believe, and they often exaggerate."

Before them, shadows gathered and then a woman cloaked in black appeared. She stretched out a single hand.

All the shadows burst apart, blood spraying like mist. The last survivor—the scavenger Seamus had captured—fell to his knees.

"Forgive me, Lady! I failed you. The hunters came too fast, but I won’t disappoint you again. I’ll take that settlement, I swear!"

The Lady’s reply was soundless, but the scavenger’s hand suddenly exploded. He screamed as it regenerated only to be blown apart again.

Over and over, the grisly punishment repeated while he begged and sobbed for death.

By now Maria and Dylan had fainted dead away. Lulu dropped to her knees, trying to rouse them.

"Are they all right? Why are they out cold?" she asked, voice high with panic.

"They’re just in shock," Seamus answered, eyes locked on the Lady’s silhouette.

He wondered what kind of power she wielded to reduce a vampire to this with a flicker of will.

Then his gaze narrowed.

Around her hands, fine red strings shimmered, strings that seemed to run off into the dark, attached to something unseen.