Todos os capítulos de The House Beneath the Blood Moon: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

If grief is a storm, despair is the quiet after it—when the thunder stops but you still hear it echoing inside you. That’s what the second week felt like: the world carrying on, and me left standing in the wreckage, pretending I still existed. --- Monday Rain again. It had been raining for days, the kind of drizzle that seeps through everything—your clothes, your bones, your will. I woke in the driver’s seat of my old Corolla, neck stiff, knees pressed against the steering wheel. My breath had fogged the windows until I was wrapped in my own ghost. The passenger seat was a museum of small failures: an empty coffee cup, the pawn-shop laptop I’d bought for two hundred dollars, a crumpled résumé smeared with rain. The laptop wheezed when I opened it, fan shrieking like a wounded animal, but it still worked. That meant hope—or the simulation of it. I connected to the café Wi-Fi from the parking lot and started applying. Ten applications. Twenty. Thirty. Each one a plea typed i

When you haven’t eaten properly in three days, even lemons start to look flirtatious. I woke to the house’s usual dawn playlist : a steady drip from the kitchen, a low groan from the staircase, and my stomach performing percussion like it had artistic ambitions. The blanket I’d found in an upstairs trunk was rough as sandpaper, but at least it was warm enough to stop my soul from leaving my body overnight. “Morning,” I told the ceiling. “Try not to collapse before coffee.” No reply — unless you count one lazy creak. The house had timing. I checked my wallet. Still tragic. Checked the cupboards : one fork, two spoons, a pot, a dusty jar that once held peaches, and pure disappointment. Coffee remained — the instant kind that tastes like burnt rainwater. I boiled actual rainwater from the buckets I’d placed under the leaks and tried not to think about it too hard. The second sip hit and my brain rebooted. That’s when I saw it — a flash of yellow through the kitchen window. Fruit

Morning arrived like a debt collector with a bullhorn and a grudge.Light barged through the warped kitchen window and stabbed my eyeballs with all the subtlety of a toddler with a plastic sword.My tongue felt like it had been wrapped in carpet.My hair had evolved into a sentient tumbleweed.And somewhere in the Varyn House, a pipe wheezed like a dying dragon rehearsing its final breath.I lay on the couch, cocooned in a moth-eaten blanket that was definitely crocheted during a historical plague, and tried to remember if I’d slept at all.Spoiler: I had not.Not after the breathing I heard beneath the floorboards.Not after my survival instinct politely suggested I stop exploring the murder basement.Something slid under the front door with a genteel shfftt.Mail.I stared at it the way one stares at a spider—if I didn’t move, maybe it would reconsider existing.It didn’t.Fine. I crawled across the floor like a stunned crab.Ivory envelope. Gold edges.The kind of paper that smelle

(From Lucien’s point of view — dark, sardonic, and suddenly starving) --- Death had been quiet. Faithful. Predictable. For two centuries, silence was my only companion—velvet and infinite. When I finally woke, I expected thunder. The tremor of magic. Perhaps even a song from the abyss. Instead, I awoke to snoring. Human snoring. Something warm and soft was sprawled across my chest, breathing loudly, drooling slightly, and—worse—smelling faintly of my 1834 Château de Montclair. I blinked. Slowly. The absurdity of my resurrection sank in. I had not been awakened by destiny or ritual— but by a drunk woman wearing mismatched socks and the scent of stolen wine. She muttered in her sleep, “Five more minutes, Dracula.” …Dracula. Who in God’s forgotten name was Dracula? I moved. She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and she blinked blearily up at me. Our eyes met. Her pupils dilated. Her body went still. She whispered, “Oh my God.” “Yes,” I rasped. “

By the time night fell, I’d accepted three things. 1. The Varyn House had a mood. 2. My crowbar, Brenda Classic, was my closest friend. 3. I was officially cohabiting with a vampire. Honestly? I’d had worse roommates. The lights above the kitchen table flickered lazily. The bulbs hummed even when the switch was off — like Brenda herself was breathing through the wires. I was surrounded by three coffee mugs, one bleeding pen, and a notebook labeled Operation Anti-Crispy. “Alright,” I muttered, tapping my page. “Goal: find one sunlight-proof vampire accessory, return it to His Royal Broodiness, and maybe stop the house from flirting with me.” “Flirting?” a voice echoed smoothly behind me. I jumped hard enough to spill coffee. Lucien Varyn stepped from the pantry shadows like a full-course gothic hallucination — black coat, perfect posture, and an expression halfway between curiosity and condescension. “You move like a cat burglar,” I hissed. “Do you have to appear out of nowh