Nothing good comes from a knock at the door after sunset—especially not when Javier Briar’s corpse is cooling upstairs, his blood still soaking through my silk sheets.
So when Detective Clive Morrow appears on my porch one suffocating New Orleans night, I expect fear, hesitation, the usual human trembling. Instead, he looks at me with steady calm, claiming he’s here to investigate Javier’s disappearance. I know he’s lying. The question is why.
Clive is too observant, too composed, too familiar with the way monsters move. Our conversation shifts from interrogation to a dangerous, magnetic pull neither of us expected. I smell his suspicion… and something darker beneath it. Curiosity. Desire. A warning.
Then the manuscript pages begin to appear.
Pages written in my handwriting, describing Javier’s final night with chilling detail—the betrayal, the fight, the blood. Pages I have no memory of writing. Each one contradicts the last, casting me as villain, victim, or something far worse.
As we dig deeper—uneasy allies bound by secrets—we uncover that Javier was connected to a hidden ring hunting supernatural beings. Someone manipulated him. Someone staged his body. Someone crafted the manuscript to destroy the fragile trust forming between Clive and me.
And that someone wants him to kill me… or wants me to kill him.
When the true enemy reveals herself, the trap snaps shut. Clive becomes a weapon against me, forced by compulsion to strike. The only way out is a secret I’ve buried for a century—my blood can rewrite memory. One taste breaks the control and binds us in ways neither of us foresaw.
But victory leaves scars. Clive remembers everything. I remember every sin. And upstairs, where Javier died, a new page waits—one neither of us wrote.
