Thorns Of The Blood Moon

The first rule of taking a high-paying magical contract from a vampire court is simple: don’t.

The second rule is slightly more nuanced: if the pay is high enough to make you question the first rule, at least bring your own anti-venom, a blade that sings, and three different exit spells. Just in case.

I had all three.

And I still felt unprepared.

The carriage rumbled up the mountain pass like it was trying to shake me loose. I pulled the velvet curtain back and stared out at the jagged, frostbitten peaks of the Oathbound Range. The sun had already dipped behind the highest ridge, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted road. Castle Thorne loomed ahead—tall, skeletal, and utterly uninviting. Like something drawn from the nightmares of children who’d grown up on war stories and ghost songs.

But I wasn’t a child.

I was a witch. A damn good one, despite what the High Council liked to mutter behind their long sleeves.

I rolled my shoulders and cracked the tension from my neck. “You’re being dramatic,” I muttered to myself. “Again.”

“Talking to yourself now?” the driver asked, not bothering to hide the tremble in his voice. “Bad omen, miss.”

I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I passed omens three mountain curves ago. That was when the wind spelled my name backward in ash.”

He paled, as expected. I didn’t correct him.

The carriage came to a lurching stop before the castle gates—massive iron things overgrown with bramble-thorn vines that shimmered faintly with protective runes. The gatekeeper, a gaunt man with pale eyes and a limp, said nothing as he opened the doors. Just stared at me like he was hoping I’d turn back.

Too bad.

I hauled my travel trunk—charmed, featherlight but stubborn as hell—and stepped through.

Castle Thorne’s magic hit me the moment I crossed the threshold.

It wasn’t just old—it was aware. A presence curled around the edges of the great hall, humming beneath the black marble floors and coiling in the high, vaulted ceilings like it was watching.

Not threatening.

Not yet.

Just...watching.

“Delphine Ashwood,” I said aloud. “Magical contractor. Here to patch your rotting leyline wards before the entire estate folds in on itself like a cursed soufflé.”

The castle didn’t answer.

Which I took as a good sign.

I moved deeper into the hall, taking it all in: tall stained-glass windows that filtered the last dying light of day into blood-red ribbons across the floor, twin staircases that twisted upward like serpent spines, and portraits of pale, joyless nobles glaring down from every wall.

The whole place felt like a mausoleum wearing a crown.

A sharp click of heels echoed behind me.

“Miss Ashwood?”

I turned to find a woman approaching—tall, lean, and wearing a deep emerald gown with fitted sleeves and a braided silver cord cinching her waist. Her dark hair was swept up, her expression cool but not unkind.

“Lady Valesa,” she said, dipping her chin. “High Steward of Castle Thorne. Lord Valemont asked me to receive you.”

“Pleasure,” I said, trying not to sound too amused. “Let me guess. He’s brooding in a high tower somewhere, drinking something unnecessarily red?”

A faint twitch of her lips. “He does tend toward solitude.”

Of course he does.

She motioned for me to follow, and we began the long walk down the main corridor. My boots echoed beside her soft steps.

“You’ll be staying in the East Wing,” she said. “It’s warded for safety. The rest of the castle is... temperamental, with the magic as it is. You’ll want to avoid the West Tower.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“There are reasons,” she said, crisp and final.

I let it drop. For now.

As we passed a set of arched double doors, they creaked open on their own. A pair of vampires stepped out—both dressed in the deep, formal colors of the court. One was a red-eyed noble with a gaze like polished glass. The other looked young—barely more than a fledgling. Still blood-warm around the edges.

They both paused when they saw me.

The red-eyed one wrinkled his nose. “The witch?”

Valesa’s spine stiffened. “Our guest. Show respect.”

I offered a toothy smile. “I bite back, just so we’re clear.”

The younger vampire let out a laugh. The older one just sneered and walked on.

“Charming neighbors,” I muttered.

Valesa didn’t respond, but her silence said enough.

The East Wing was quiet, if not entirely comforting. The rooms were well-kept, full of antique furniture and neatly drawn drapes. It reminded me of the kind of place people prepare for guests they don’t actually want.

Valesa opened the last door on the right. “You’ll find a workspace here. If you need anything, ask Mira—she’s your assigned steward.”

“And Theron?” I asked, unable to help the edge in my voice.

She hesitated. “He’ll come to you. When he’s ready.”

Of course he would.

I waited until she left, then closed the door behind me and dropped into the armchair by the hearth.

The air in the room felt thicker now. Not in a bad way—just... charged. I could feel the castle magic humming through the walls, barely restrained. Like something deep beneath the foundation had started to wake, and it didn’t know whether to stretch or scream.

I reached into my trunk and pulled out my satchel of ward tools: chalk, silver thread, salt-stone beads, and my notebook.

This job was already messier than it looked.

And it looked damn messy.

But I was here now. Contract-bound. Fully paid. Ready to unravel whatever the hell kind of curse, seal, or secret was bleeding through the leyline web of this ancient vampire lair.

I just hoped Lord Eternal Gloom would get around to introducing himself before something exploded.

Again.