PROLOGUE
Brooklyn, Halloween Night – 8th October 1853.
The night smelled like sugar and smoke.
Children laughed behind painted masks, plastic swords clashed, candy spilled like treasure onto sidewalks cracked with old city wear. Jack-o’-lanterns flickered in the windows. Music thumped from porches. Brooklyn breathed like one giant heart, beating louder with every step.
He was only seven.
His name was still his own back then — small, shouted by his mother when he strayed too far from the crowd. His hands were sticky with caramel. His father had hoisted him onto his shoulders just an hour ago to see the fireworks crackle above the skyline. His life was full. Loud. Mortal.
And then the screams began.
At first, they blended in with the music. A haunted house? A prank?
But no. These screams were real. They split the air.
Creatures poured from the trees behind the party — wrong things. Not wolves. Not men. Things with eyes that didn’t blink, claws that dripped, skin too tight or too loose or not at all. They tore through the crowd like it was paper. Teeth. Blood. Smoke. The music didn’t stop, but the lights went out.
He ran.
He didn’t remember letting go of his mother’s hand. He didn’t remember the moment his father stopped calling his name. He only remembered running — tiny sneakers slapping against the wet earth, sobs choking him with every breath.
Into the woods. Away from the screaming. Away from the blood.
He didn’t know how far he ran. He only knew when it stopped.
The cold hit first. Not wind — something colder. Older.
Then the silence. Heavy. Watching.
And then… him.
The figure emerged like a shadow torn from the trees — tall, pale, dressed in black that didn’t reflect the moonlight. His eyes were bottomless, ancient. The boy froze. He was too tired to scream. Too scared to move.
The thing crouched before him.
“You’re far from home, little one,” it whispered. Its voice was velvet over steel. “And there’s so little blood left in the world.”
Then it struck.
Pain exploded through his neck. Fire. Darkness. Silence.
He felt himself slipping — not dying, not exactly — just… fading.
But death never came.
Instead, the creature pulled back, lips stained red, and stared at the boy’s small, lifeless body. A flicker of something — rage? pity? recognition? — crossed his face.
“No,” it murmured. “Not you. Not like this.”
The vampire pressed his wrist to the boy’s mouth and whispered words older than language.
And in the stillness of the cursed woods, the boy drank.
His heart stopped. Then started again.
But slower. Colder.
Something ancient had awakened inside him.
When he opened his eyes, the man was still there — no longer a stranger.
“My son,” the creature said. “You are mine now. Heir to a darker throne.”
The boy blinked. His memories were gone.
No mother. No father. No name.
Only hunger….
