Chapter 4 The Coven's Judgment (Cain POV)

I follow Lyra down the corridor, her footsteps silent despite the vintage hardwood floors that creak under human weight.

"You're making a mistake," I tell her.

"No, you're making the mistake." She doesn't turn around. "Walking right into whatever trap she's set."

The chamber at the end of the hall was once a ballroom, back when Silvercrest was a private estate. Now it serves as our coven's sanctum, velvet curtains permanently drawn, candles providing the only light because some of us still prefer the aesthetic of our turning eras.

They're already assembled when we arrive.

Rafael lounges against the far wall, arms crossed over his designer hoodie. At twenty-seven in human years when he was turned, he's our youngest, turned in 2010 after a car accident that should have killed him. His sire abandoned him three months later, and Silas took him in. He still carries the restless energy of the newly immortal, always moving, always questioning.

Elena perches on the antique sofa, her posture perfect, hands folded in her lap like she's waiting for tea service. She was turned in 1955, still carries herself like the debutante she was, all grace and Southern manners that hide a spine of pure steel. Her dark hair is set in pin curls, red lipstick precise. She never quite let go of her era.

The twins occupy matching wingback chairs by the fireplace. Dante and Dominique, turned together in 1892 when they were nineteen, inseparable in life and death. Dante's the brooding one, dark eyes perpetually shadowed, while Dominique maintains an air of theatrical amusement about everything. They finish each other's sentences in a way that would be endearing if it weren't so eerie.

And presiding over it all, seated in the high-backed chair that might as well be a throne, is the eldest among us after Silas.

"Ah, young Cain." His voice carries the weight of four centuries, smooth as aged whiskey. "So glad you could join your intervention."

I suppress the urge to bare my fangs. Subordination is survival in vampire hierarchy. "This isn't an intervention, sir. It's a premature overreaction."

Lyra moves to stand beside his chair, presenting a united front. "Tell them what you told me. About the girl."

Every eye in the room fixes on me.

I choose my words carefully. "There's a new student. Transfer. Human, or mostly human. When I got close to her, there was a... reaction. Her bracelet heated up. Touching her was painful."

"Painful how?" Elena's accent turns the question syrupy-sweet, but her eyes are calculating.

"Like static electricity. Amplified."

"You touched her?" Dante leans forward, shadows pooling darker around him. It's his gift—umbral manipulation, though he rarely uses it. "You made physical contact with a suspected hunter?"

"I didn't know what she was at the time."

"And now?" Dominique's theatrical drawl matches his twin's intensity. "What delectable conclusions have you drawn?"

"She's Shadowborn," Lyra announces before I can answer. "Has to be. The blessed silver bracelet, the reaction to proximity, the way Cain's entire demeanor changed after meeting her. She's been sent to infiltrate."

The room erupts.

"Shadowborn?" Rafael pushes off the wall, suddenly alert. "I thought they were extinct. Wiped out in the purges."

"Clearly not." Elena's composure cracks slightly. "If there's one here, there could be more. This could be reconnaissance for a full assault."

The eldest vampire raises one hand, and silence falls immediately. His authority is absolute, earned through centuries of survival and the ruthless elimination of anyone who challenged it.

"Explain Shadowborn for those of us who weren't versed in hunter mythology," Rafael says, glancing between us.

Lyra's the one who answers, her voice clinical. "Ancient bloodline. Three hundred years ago, during the height of the vampire-hunter wars, a sect of hunters performed alchemical experiments on themselves. They poisoned their own blood, made themselves toxic to vampires. Their descendants carry the trait—they can sense us, resist compulsion, and kill with sustained touch."

"Lovely," Rafael mutters. "So we have vampire kryptonite walking around campus?"

"If she is Shadowborn," I interject, "she's suppressed. That bracelet isn't just for show, it's dampening her abilities. She didn't even know what she was doing when it heated up."

"Or she's an excellent actress." The elder's fingers drum against the chair's armrest. "Either way, the solution seems pellucid."

Pellucid. He means kill her.

"No." The word escapes before I can stop it.

Every vampire in the room turns to stare at me with varying degrees of shock. You don't contradict the elder. You don't refuse a direct suggestion.

But I do.

"Explain yourself," he says quietly, and that quietness is more terrifying than any shout.

I force myself to meet his gaze. "If we kill her and she is a hunter plant, her death brings the entire Order of the Silver Dawn down on Silvercrest. They'll burn this place to the ground and everyone in it. But if we observe her, learn her purpose, we can neutralize the threat without triggering a war."

"He's got a point," Rafael offers. "We've maintained peace here for decades by being smarter than our enemies, not just stronger."

"Peace." Dante's laugh is bitter. "Is that what we're calling our exile? Hiding in a human school, pretending to be children?"

"It's called survival," I snap. "Which is more than our kind managed during the inquisitions, the purges, the..."

"Enough." The elder's voice cuts through our argument. "I appreciate the strategic thinking, Cain. Truly. But you're operating under the flawed assumption that we can control this situation."

"We can. Give me twenty-four hours to..."

"To what? Seduce information from her?" Dominique's smirk is knowing. "We all saw how you looked at her in the dining hall. Utterly besotted."

"I'm not..."

"You are." Lyra's voice is gentler now, almost pitying. "Cain, I've known you for over a century. I've never seen you lose composure like this. She's got her hooks in you already."

"That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" Elena's question is genuine, curious. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're willing to risk the entire coven for a girl you met yesterday."

The truth sits heavy on my tongue. Because she makes me feel alive. Because touching her, even through the pain, was the first real thing I've felt in decades. Because looking into her eyes was like remembering what hope felt like.

But I can't say that. Can't admit that level of vulnerability.

"I'm thinking strategically," I insist. "Killing her without understanding what we're dealing with is reckless."

"And letting her live while she gathers intelligence on our defenses isn't?" The elder rises from his chair, and we all instinctively take a step back. His power fills the room like pressure before a storm. "I've survived four centuries by eliminating threats before they could metastasize. This girl represents an existential danger to everything we've built here."

"Silas wouldn't..."

"Silas isn't here." His eyes flash gold—the mark of his age. "And in his absence, I make the decisions that keep this coven safe."

He's right. Silas is in Europe, meeting with the Old Council about territorial disputes. He won't be back for another week.

"We vote." Lyra's suggestion carries the weight of tradition. "Democracy, as Silas would want."

The elder inclines his head. "Very well. Those in favor of immediate elimination?"

Four hands rise: the elder, Elena, Dante, Dominique.

"Those in favor of observation?"

Only Rafael's hand joins mine in the air.

"The motion carries." The elder's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "However, in deference to Silas's usual temperance, I'll allow a compromise. We summon him back early. Let him make the final determination."

"That could take days," I protest.

"Which gives you time to prove she's not an immediate threat." He moves toward the door, the others parting to let him pass. "Twenty-four hours, young Cain. Convince me she's worth the risk, or I eliminate her myself. And trust me, when I kill, there's nothing left to bring back the cavalry."

The threat hangs in the air long after he's gone.

Elena departs next, pausing to touch my shoulder. "I hope you know what you're doing, sugar. For all our sakes." Then she's gone in a whisper of vintage perfume.

The twins follow, Dante throwing me a dark look while Dominique offers a theatrical bow. "May fortune favor the foolish," he intones.

Then it's just Lyra, Rafael, and me.

"You're really going to defend her?" Rafael asks, genuine confusion in his voice. "A hunter?"

"She's not..." I stop myself. "I don't know what she is. But she deserves a chance to explain before we murder her."

"Noble." Rafael's tone suggests he thinks it's anything but. "Also probably suicidal, but hey, you do you." He heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth? I voted with you because I'm tired of killing first and asking questions never. Not because I think you're right."

Once he's gone, Lyra sinks onto the sofa, suddenly looking every one of her two hundred years.

"You're going to get yourself killed," she says quietly.

"You've been saying that for decades."

"And you keep proving me right." She looks up at me, amber eyes impossibly sad. "I can't watch you die, Cain. Not again."

The memory rises unbidden, my human death, Lyra beside my sickbed, turning me because she couldn't bear to watch another person she loved succumb to tuberculosis. The sister I'd failed to save had died months earlier. Lyra saved me from the same fate, but the guilt never faded.

"I'm not dying," I tell her.

"No, you're just falling in love with someone designed to kill you. Much better."

"I'm not... it's not love. It's just..."

"Fascination? Obsession? An inexplicable pull that defies all logic and self-preservation?" She stands, moving to the window. "I know what that looks like. I felt it once, before I was turned. It didn't end well."

"What happened?"

"I loved someone I shouldn't have. Someone whose very existence was forbidden to me. When they found out, they burned me as a witch." Her fingers trace patterns on the glass. "My sire turned me to save me, then killed himself out of guilt for damning my soul. So forgive me if I'm not enthusiastic about watching you repeat history."

The confession explains so much, her protectiveness, her fear, her resistance to connection.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't know."

"No one does. I don't share my origin story at parties." She turns to face me. "But I'm sharing it now because I need you to understand. Love between natural enemies doesn't end in happily ever after. It ends in ashes and regret."

"Who says this is love?"

"Your face does. The way you say her name. The fact that you just threatened our elder for someone you've known less than forty-eight hours." She crosses the room, gripping my shoulders. "You're my brother in all the ways that matter. Please don't make me watch you burn."

The raw emotion in her voice nearly undoes me. But I can't back down. Not when I finally feel something real.

"Twenty-four hours," I say. "Just give me that."

She searches my face, then releases me with a sigh. "Fine. But Cain? If she is a hunter, if this is all manipulation, I won't hesitate. I'll kill her myself to protect you."

"Understood."