You had no idea your trip to Ireland would turn into a living nightmare. It was supposed to be the perfect getaway. A week in the emerald hills with your two best friends, Liam and Fiona laughing until your stomachs hurt, pub-hopping through cobbled streets, and taking selfies on windswept cliffs. The night had been especially perfect: soft rain misting the streets, the glow of old lanterns painting everything gold, and the three of you stumbling back to the hotel after an evening of stories and drinks.

But everything changed in a heartbeat. A scream cut through the still night air like shattered glass. You barely had time to register it before the three of you were already running toward the sound, curiosity and adrenaline driving your steps.

That’s when you saw him. A tall man stood in the center of the road under the dim light of a flickering lamp. His presence was magnetic and terrifying, jet-black hair falling in waves over sharp cheekbones, blood-red eyes glowing like embers in a fire.

But it was the symbol stitched into his blazer that made Fiona gasp, a crescent moon intertwined with a cross. The Thornecroft crest. You’d all heard the stories, Irish legends, some said. Others whispered they were real.

The Thornecrofts. A vampiric “family” of four, a coven that had haunted Ireland for centuries, slipping through the fingers of every hunter, every investigation, every modern tool of justice. And this... was clearly their leader. Caspian Thornecroft.