Chapter Text
Anthony cleaned the blood from his sword slowly, methodically, as he had been taught since he was old enough to hold a blade. The steel caught the pale afternoon light, streaked dark red before the linen handkerchief wiped it clean again. He inspected the edge with a critical eye before sliding it back into the scabbard with a quiet, final sound.
The air still smelled of iron, damp earth, and the sharp, bitter scent that always followed the death of something unnatural. The creature lay several yards away, half in the grass, half on the dirt road, too long in the limbs, skin grey and stretched tight over bone, teeth still bared as if it had died mid-snarl. Black blood had soaked into the ground around it, staining the wildflowers and turning the mud nearly black.
Benedict stood a short distance from the body, completely unbothered, his coat thrown over a rock and his sleeves rolled up as he sketched quickly in a worn leather notebook.
“Fascinating bone structure,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “The jaw unhinges further than the last one we saw in Kent. Possibly a different subspecies.”
Anthony did not even look up. “Do not bring the head back to the house again.”
“I brought it for study.”
“You left it in the tea room, Benedict.”
“It was wrapped.”
“Mother was not pleased.”
“I was careful.”
“It was dripping.”
Colin laughed from where he stood on a small rise overlooking the road, scanning the fields, the tree line, and the distant hedgerows with a small spyglass. He had already cleaned his crossbow and slung it over his shoulder, but he remained alert, always the scout, always the one making sure nothing else was coming.
“No movement,” Colin called. “If there were more of them, they would have either fled or decided we are not worth the trouble.”
“Wise creatures,” Benedict said absentmindedly, still sketching the creature’s hands.
Daphne, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the road, staring down at her boots in absolute horror. They had once been a very fine pair of leather riding boots, polished and elegant, suitable for a young lady of the Ton, they were now covered in mud, blood, and something she did not want to identify.
“This,” she said, lifting her skirt slightly to look at them better, “is exactly why ladies are not meant to hunt monsters.”
Anthony walked toward her and offered his hand so she could step over a particularly unpleasant patch of ground.
“Do not worry, sister,” he said calmly. “We will be in London in time for your debut tomorrow.”
“I should hope so,” Daphne replied, accepting his help and stepping carefully onto a cleaner patch of grass. “I cannot wait to be married and be rid of you three dragging me into forests, graveyards, and muddy roads in the middle of the night.”
The three brothers rolled their eyes almost perfectly in unison.
“Oh please,” Benedict said, finally closing his notebook. “You begged to train with us when you were eleven.”
“You cried when Anthony said you were too young,” Colin added helpfully.
“I did not cry,” Daphne said sharply.
“You absolutely cried,” Colin said.
“You fell out of a tree trying to prove you could climb as well as us,” Benedict added.
“That was one time.”
“You broke your arm.”
“That is not the point.”
Anthony hid a small smile as he adjusted his gloves.
“And besides,” Colin continued, walking down from the hill toward them, “do you not intend to hunt alongside your future husband? You cannot very well marry a gentleman from the Ton and then discover he faints at the sight of a ghoul.”
Daphne sighed dramatically. “I am hoping for a husband with a large estate, a respectable title, good manners, and absolutely no monsters.”
The eldest of them laughed and mounted his horse in one smooth motion. “Then you will have to marry outside of England.”
Anthony Bridgerton was the head of the Bridgerton family, Viscount Bridgerton, one of the most respected and most feared hunter families of the Ton.
When his father died, many believed the family would fall apart. Anthony had been too young, people said, to manage an estate, a title, seven siblings, a seat in Parliament, and a position on the Hunter Council. Society expected Violet Bridgerton to retreat, the children to be poorly matched, the estate to be mismanaged, and the Bridgerton name to slowly lose its influence.
Instead, the opposite happened.
Anthony became stricter in training than his father had ever been.
Every sibling learned weapons, riding, strategy, monster lore, and languages.
Mornings were for estate business and letters.
Afternoons were for training.
Evenings were for society events or study.
Nights, often, were for hunting.
Within a few years, Anthony Bridgerton had built a reputation as: a brilliant strategist, an excellent shot, a ruthless hunter, a meticulous investigator and a viscount who never lost control of a situation.
In Parliament, he was respected. In society, he was admired. Among hunters, he was feared.
Among monsters, he was known by another name entirely.
The Viscount Butcher.
Anthony did not particularly care what monsters called him. He only cared that the Accord held, London remained stable, and his family stayed alive.
He looked now at his siblings, Benedict tucking away his notebook, Colin checking the road, Daphne still trying to clean her boots with a handkerchief and felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. Everything he did, every hunt, every political decision, every alliance, was for them.
“Mount up,” he said. “We ride for London immediately. Daphne has a season to conquer and I have Parliament in the morning. Try not to look like you spent the night dismembering a creature when we arrive.”
“That will be difficult,” Benedict said, running a hand through his hair. “I am fairly certain there is blood in my hair.”
“There is,” Colin said.
Daphne groaned. “We are going to arrive in London smelling like death.”
Anthony turned his horse toward the road that led back to London, back to silk, chandeliers, music, politics, and carefully polite conversations where every word meant something else.
Out here, monsters looked like monsters.
In London, monsters wore silk, held titles, attended balls, and married into powerful families.
Anthony had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that this Season in London was going to be far more dangerous than anything they had just killed on this road.
He only hoped he was wrong.
{…}
Kate watched with quiet, restless boredom as Sophie pulled yet another tray of baked goods from the oven, the iron door creaking softly before a wave of warmth spilled into the small kitchen. The heat clung to the air, thick with the scent of butter, sugar, cinnamon, and something faintly sharper underneath, magic, subtle but present, like static before a storm.
The tavern was nearly empty at this hour.
Downstairs, the last of the late-night patrons had already stumbled out into the London fog, leaving behind only the low crackle of the hearth, the occasional settling creak of old wood, and the distant drip of rainwater outside. Candlelight flickered along the stone walls, casting soft golden shadows that danced with every movement Sophie made.
It should have felt comforting. Once, it would have.
Now, Kate felt it the way she felt everything else, distantly. Like remembering warmth rather than truly feeling it.
“You do know these are flavorless for me, right?” Kate said, her voice lazy as she sat perched on the wooden counter, one leg swinging idly, the heel of her boot tapping softly against the cabinet.
Sophie didn’t turn. She simply set the tray down with practiced ease, the pastries perfectly golden, edges crisp, sugar lightly caramelized.
“Magic cannot be flavorless,” she said, as if stating a universal truth. “Even for you.”
“But it is.”
“You are just bitter.”
Kate tilted her head, considering that, then shrugged. “Well, I am dead.”
Sophie paused just slightly, then glanced back at her, one brow raised. “I believe the correct term is undead.”
“Same difference.”
Kathani Sharma was still relatively new at this.
Being undead. Existing without breath, without a heartbeat, without warmth. She had not been turned long enough to forget what it used to feel like, which, in many ways, made it worse.
She remembered everything.
The way fresh bread used to melt on her tongue.
The sweetness of honey.
The warmth of tea on a cold morning.
The simple comfort of eating without thinking about it.
Now, everything was dull. Flat. Empty.
She reached for one of the pastries anyway, a small honey cake, still warm, and bit into it. The texture was there: soft, delicate, perfectly baked. The taste was not.
She chewed slowly, expression blank.
“Paper,” she said at last.
Sophie sighed. “That one is a protection charm.”
“It tastes like protection against happiness.”
“It could save your life.”
“I would prefer if it tasted like cinnamon.”
“You are impossible.”
“And you are baking at an unreasonable hour for unclear reasons.”
Sophie turned back to the counter, dusting her hands lightly with flour. “I am not baking for no reason. The Season begins tomorrow.”
Kate made a soft, unimpressed sound.
“Yes, I gathered. The city will be full of overdressed aristocrats pretending they do not spend their evenings covered in blood.”
“Hunters,” Sophie corrected gently. “Nobles. Council members. Travelers. They all return to London for the Season. And they all need… things.”
Kate raised a brow. “By ‘things’ you mean enchanted baked goods sold discreetly under the table to avoid official regulation.”
“I mean remedies, protections, small comforts,” Sophie said, entirely calm. “And yes, they tip well when they wish to be discreet.”
Kate huffed a quiet laugh, sliding off the counter and pacing slowly across the kitchen, her movements fluid, almost too smooth, the unnatural grace of something that no longer tired.
“A city full of hunters,” she murmured. “How delightful. Exactly where I want to be.”
“They are not all terrible.”
Kate stopped and turned to look at her. “Sophie.”
“Yes?”
“You are a witch.”
“Yes.”
“I am a vampire.”
“Yes.”
“They are trained to kill us.”
“Yes.”
“And your conclusion is that they are ‘not all terrible’?”
Sophie shrugged slightly, unbothered. “They are also wealthy.”
Kate paused.
“…you continue to make compelling arguments.”
A faint smile touched Sophie’s lips as she reached for another tray.
The kitchen settled into a quiet rhythm again with the soft scrape of metal, the crackle of the oven, the distant hum of London at night. Outside, fog curled through the narrow streets, wrapping the city in a muted, silver hush. Somewhere far off, a carriage rattled over cobblestones. Somewhere closer, a door shut. A voice murmured.
Kate heard all of it. She always did.
Her senses stretched far beyond the small kitchen, to the street, to the rooftops, to the river in the distance. London pulsed quietly in the dark, alive in a way she no longer was.
She and Sophie had met by accident.
Kate had stumbled into the tavern one night, starving, not the polite sort of hunger one could ignore, but the sharp, gnawing, desperate kind that made her hands shake and her thoughts blur.
She had tried to sit quietly, to pretend.
Sophie had taken one look at her and walked over without hesitation, setting down a mug filled with something dark and rich.
“You should feed,” she had said softly. “You are going to frighten my customers.”
Kate had stared at her, caught between suspicion and exhaustion. “You can tell?”
Sophie had shrugged, like it was nothing. “I can tell many things.”
Kate had drunk without asking questions.
She had stayed ever since.
“The Season begins tomorrow,” Sophie said again, sliding another tray into the oven. “Which means balls, dinners, meetings, negotiations. Hunters everywhere.”
Kate leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Wonderful. Perhaps I shall introduce myself properly. ‘Hello, I am a vampire, would you like to try to kill me now or after dessert?’”
“There is a ball tomorrow,” Sophie added, as if she had not heard that at all. “A masquerade.”
Kate blinked slowly. “…of course there is.”
“I think it will be fun.”
“I think it will be predictable.”
“We should go.”
Kate laughed, a soft, incredulous sound. “Go? To a hunter ball? Surrounded by people trained to identify and eliminate creatures like me?”
“It is a masquerade,” Sophie said simply. “Everyone will be wearing masks.”
“That does not stop stakes.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I am undead. I am entitled to dramatics.”
Sophie leaned lightly against the counter, studying her. “You cannot stay hidden forever, Kate. London is full of monsters. You are not the only one.”
“Yes, but the others are likely ancient, terrifying, and significantly better at pretending,” Kate said. “I am still learning how not to apologize after feeding.”
“You said thank you to that man last week.”
“He held the door open for me,” Kate protested.
Sophie laughed softly.
Kate walked to the small window, resting her hand against the cold glass. The street outside was dim, lit only by a few lanterns flickering through the fog. Shadows moved slowly, people heading home, a stray dog slipping between alleys, a figure pausing under a streetlamp.
London looked peaceful. It was not.
“I heard they burn witches in the Americas,” Kate said after a moment.
“They do many ridiculous things in the Americas,” Sophie replied.
“And vampires?”
“They try.”
Kate exhaled slowly, though she did not need to breathe.
A masquerade ball.
A room full of hunters. Nobles. Monsters hidden behind silk and lace. Her lips curved slightly.
“That is rather fitting, isn’t it?” she murmured.
Sophie tilted her head. “What is?”
“A room full of monsters pretending to be human,” Kate said. “And humans pretending not to be monsters.”
Sophie considered that, then smiled faintly. “Yes. Exactly.”
Kate turned back to her.
“If I get stabbed,” she said, very seriously, “I am haunting you.”
“If you get stabbed, I will heal you.”
“If I get set on fire—”
“We will leave before that happens.”
Kate narrowed her eyes slightly, then nodded once. “Fine. We go.”
Sophie’s smile deepened, just a fraction, as she reached for a cloth and began arranging the finished pastries.
“Good,” she said excited. “Then we must find you a dress.”
{…}
Simon had slept until the afternoon that day.
The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tightly across the tall windows of his bedchamber, but thin blades of sunlight still forced their way through the edges, cutting pale gold lines across the dark blue carpet and slowly climbing the carved legs of the furniture as the hours passed. Dust floated in the light, drifting lazily in the still air of the room.
The Duke of Hastings’ bedroom was large, elegant, and impeccably decorated with dark wood, deep colors, heavy fabrics, tasteful paintings, and a large canopy bed that looked more like a throne than a place to sleep.
It also looked like a battlefield.
His boots were on the floor near the door, covered in dried mud. His coat had been thrown over a chair, one sleeve torn open. There were scratches along the polished wood of the bedpost with long, deep marks that no ordinary man could have made.
A silver tray with untouched food sat cold on a table.
And on the inside of Simon’s wrists were dark bruises in the shape of iron restraints. He did not wake gently.
He woke like a man dragged back into his body.
Simon inhaled sharply, his back arching slightly as consciousness returned all at once. The pain came first, then weight, then memory. His muscles ached as if he had run for miles, fought for hours, and been thrown from a horse several times in the process. His skin felt too tight in some places, raw in others. There was a metallic taste in his mouth that never fully disappeared the morning after the full moon.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above his bed, letting his breathing slow.
The full moon had been the night before.
That explained everything.
He turned his head slightly. On the bedside table was a glass of water, a clean cloth, and a small bottle of laudanum, untouched. He never drank it. He preferred to remember. It made him more careful the next month.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt, or rather what remained of it, was torn open across the chest and shoulder, stiff with dried blood. He pulled the fabric aside and looked down at himself.
There were new scars. Thin claw marks along his ribs. A deeper cut across his shoulder. Bite marks along his forearm, his own doing, he knew. Bruises around his wrists where iron chains had held him in place.
And older scars layered beneath the new ones, pale and silver and countless.
He ran a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.
The door opened quietly behind him.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Simon did not turn immediately. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I believe it is well past morning, Will.”
Will stepped into the room carrying a tray with fresh bandages, clean water, and a neatly folded shirt and waistcoat. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this many times before and had long ago stopped finding any of it surprising.
“It is,” Will said calmly. “I told the other servants you were out in a bordel.”
Simon let out a tired, humorless laugh. “Aren’t you a saint, my dear friend?”
“I find society prefers scandal to mystery,” Will replied, setting the tray down. “A duke in a bordel is understandable. A duke locked in his own cellar once a month is not.”
Simon stood slowly, wincing slightly as his shoulder pulled. “You are wasted as a valet. You should be a political advisor.”
“I value my sleep too much for politics, Your Grace.”
Will dipped a cloth in water and began carefully cleaning one of the cuts on Simon’s arm, as if tending to a half-destroyed duke every month was perfectly normal employment.
“You have received an invitation,” Will said after a moment. “To the masquerade ball hosted by Lady Danbury.”
Simon closed his eyes briefly, already exhausted by the idea. “Decline politely.”
Will nodded once. “She declined your declination, my lord.”
Simon opened his eyes and looked at him slowly. “…she what?”
Will reached into his coat and produced a folded letter. “I was instructed to ensure you read this personally.”
Simon took the letter and broke the seal. He recognized Lady Danbury’s handwriting immediately sharp, decisive, and entirely without hesitation, like everything else about her.
Your Grace,
You will attend my masquerade ball.
You are young, unmarried, excessively wealthy, and far too comfortable hiding in that estate of yours.
If you do not attend, I will personally inform every ambitious mother in London that you are available and on the hunt for a marriage.
Choose wisely.
— Lady Danbury
He read it silently, then sighed deeply and handed it back.
“…she is terrifying,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“She is not threatening me with violence,” Simon said, walking slowly toward the window. “She is threatening me with ambitious mothers.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He pulled the curtain aside slightly and looked out over London. The city was alive in the afternoon light with carriages rolling over cobblestones, people walking along the streets, vendors shouting, chimney smoke rising into the pale sky. Everything looked normal. Peaceful. Civilized.
No one looking up at the Duke of Hastings’ window would ever guess that the man standing there chained himself in a cellar once a month to keep from tearing someone apart.
“I cannot attend balls,” Simon said quietly.
Will did not respond immediately. He simply continued wrapping a clean bandage around Simon’s forearm.
“You attend Parliament,” Will said eventually.
“You attend estate meetings.”
“You attend boxing matches.”
“You attend dinners and political gatherings.”
“You attend everything you must attend.”
“Balls are different,” Simon said.
They both knew why.
Balls meant dancing, hunters, proximity, curious young ladies, meddling mamas trying to marry their daughters, hunters.
He couldn’t let someone get too close. Couldn’t afford it. Marriage meant someone would eventually notice the locked cellar, iron chains, scars and injuries , disappearances on full moons. Marriage meant someone would learn he was not entirely human.
And if society discovered that a duke, one of the most powerful men in England, was a werewolf, it would not matter how rich or respected he was.
Titles did not protect monsters. Money did not protect monsters. The Accord protected many creatures, but not all of them, and not equally.
Will finished tying the bandage and stepped back. “You cannot avoid society forever, Your Grace.”
Simon leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms carefully.
“I am not avoiding society,” he said. “I am avoiding marriage.”
Will allowed himself a very small smile. “Society would say those are the same thing.”
Simon looked back out the window again, watching the people moving below like pieces on a chessboard, unaware of hunters, monsters, treaties, politics, and the careful balance that kept the world from collapsing into chaos.
“A masquerade,” he murmured. “A room full of people hiding behind masks pretending to be something they are not.”
He touched one of the scars on his arm absentmindedly.
“…perhaps,” he said quietly, “I will fit in perfectly.”