Three Days Later — RMS Queen Mary Somewhere over the Atlantic, 1936
The ocean murmured beyond the hull, a lullaby of restless waves that barely stirred the heavy silence inside the magically expanded trunk concealed beneath the master stateroom's bed. It was warmer than it had any right to be, the air thick with lilac, night jasmine, and green spice—a perfume of blooming things coaxed to life by ancient magic. Somewhere in the lush garden hidden within, Caitriona knelt in the shadow of an arching vine, its curling stems pulsing faintly with violet light.
"You're obsessing again," Elspeth called lazily, hanging upside down from a floating bench woven from gusts of wind. Her golden hair streamed toward the cobblestone path below like moonlight spun into silk. Her Scottish brogue lilted playfully. "I swear to Merlin, Cait, if that vine gets any more attention, I'll start writing it love poems."
Caitriona didn't look up, her voice soft and focused. "It's nae obsession. It's art. If the wisteria is gonna bloom only when someone wi' impure intentions enters the path, the binding's gotta be precise."
Elspeth let out a dramatic sigh, flipping off the bench and landing with a dancer's grace. "You sound like Daenerys now. Next thing ye ken, you'll be giving flowers speeches about liberation and fire."
Caitriona grinned, her sharp green eyes glinting as she coaxed a reluctant bud to bloom just so. "You're just jealous she's prettier than you."
"Prettier?" Elspeth scoffed, twirling. "Please. I'm a goddess wi' better cheekbones and no guilt complex. Dany broods like it's a profession."
A low hum stirred the garden like breath.
Their heads snapped up in unison.
The door.
It was open.
Elspeth's eyes lit up. "I wanna see the dress," she whispered, already melting into mist.
"Elspeth!" Caitriona hissed, leaping after her. "Ye daft ghost, we're supposed to be hiding from the fancy folk!"
They slipped through the veil of magic and emerged into the stateroom, landing silently atop a Persian rug that probably cost more than all the land in Inverness. The stateroom was art deco elegance poured into gold and navy velvet, polished wood gleaming under crystalline light.
Hadrian stood before the mirror, adjusting the black silk cuff of his tuxedo with the kind of lazy precision that made Elspeth let out a reverent whistle.
He wore midnight like a second skin—lean and tall, his emerald eyes catching the light like polished gemstones. His hair, ink-dark and swept back, had just enough disobedience to be charming. The crimson silk square in his pocket was folded into a crisp, arrogant flourish: a bloodied crown to match the Peverell name.
Beside him, Daenerys finished pinning the last of her dragonbone hairpins into the intricate braid atop her head. Her silver hair shimmered like forged moonlight. The gown she wore clung to her like a living thing—gunmetal silk with veins of silver that traced her curves and caught the light like liquid mercury. The slit up her thigh, the open back, the plunging neckline—all scandal and defiance wrapped in high couture.
Elspeth actually clutched her chest. "Bloody hell. I'd marry both of them. Right now. Vows. Church. Veil. The works."
Hadrian didn't look up. "You'd marry a lamp post if it told you your hair looked nice."
Elspeth gasped. "I am deeply offended."
"Not as offended as I am that you're out of the trunk," Daenerys said without missing a beat, fastening her earring with imperial elegance. Her voice was low, honey and razors. "We agreed."
Caitriona raised her wrist, showing off the braided leather bracelet inlaid with old runes. "Smells are muted. Hunger's suppressed. No twitchin'."
Hadrian folded his arms. "That's not the point. This ship is a floating buffet of warm-blooded aristocrats. You lose control for even a second..."
"We won't," Caitriona said firmly.
"We just wanted to see the dress," Elspeth added, batting her lashes. "And maybe steal it later. For purely scientific purposes."
Daenerys smirked. "You'd upstage the orchestra."
"Exactly!"
"You'll get your dances," Hadrian said, tapping Elspeth gently on the forehead. "We'll go to Paris someday. When there aren't a thousand journalists and Nazi spies in the same ballroom."
"Or Rome," Daenerys offered, her tone more indulgent than stern. "Better rooftops."
"Vienna!" Elspeth cried. "I want Vienna! With powdered wigs and powdered men!"
"Goddess help us," Caitriona muttered.
The girls laughed. For a moment, they weren't ancient, red-eyed creatures forced into shadows. For a moment, they were simply four nearly-eighteen-year-olds who never got to be children.
Hadrian extended his hand to Caitriona. "Back inside. We've got a ballroom to dazzle and a baron to blackmail."
Caitriona clasped it solemnly. "I'll finish the wisteria by sunrise. It'll know when to bite."
"Elspeth?"
She spun in place, skirts fluttering. "I'm going to teach the clouds to sing. Something jazzy. Maybe Billie Holiday."
"Subtle," Daenerys muttered.
"I'm a goddess, Dany. Not a nun."
They vanished into the trunk. The lid shut. Magic hummed.
Hadrian turned toward Daenerys and offered his arm. "Ready, Mrs. Blackthorne?"
She slid her arm through his, lips curving into a smile like a drawn blade. "Let's go lie to a boatload of rich bastards."
He grinned. "Excellent. I brought my charming grin and my poison-tipped cufflinks."
As the door closed behind them, the girls below laughed again.
Above, the ballroom awaited—a golden sea of champagne and silk and secrets.
And into it walked two monsters in love, dressed like gods, prepared to smile, waltz, and kill if necessary.
—
The ballroom shimmered like a memory of Atlantis: gilded panels, mirrored arches, and chandeliers that scattered light like snowfall on crystal. The orchestra crooned a lilting Viennese waltz, all strings and sighs. Somewhere between the champagne flutes and the secrets soaked into the velvet walls, time itself seemed to sway.
Daenerys Blackthorne made her entrance like sin wrapped in starlight.
Her gown was a scandal stitched in gunmetal silk—backless, bias-cut, and so perfectly tailored that it looked painted on. The long slit up her leg moved like a whispered threat. Her silver hair had been coiled into a braid-crown, set with pearl pins that glinted like fangs beneath the chandeliers. Every step she took echoed with both grace and the unspoken promise of danger.
And on her arm, the devil himself in a dinner jacket.
Hadrian Blackthorne looked as if midnight had tailored him a suit and kissed his boots for good measure. The black velvet of his tuxedo glimmered faintly with the enchantments woven into the thread, and his silver cravat was fixed with a pin shaped like a flame. His hair, dark as raven feathers, was slicked back in the style of the time. But it was his eyes—green as cursed emeralds—that held the room hostage.
They did not walk. They glided. The crowd parted. Conversations faltered. The band hit a strange, dissonant note and corrected.
Daenerys whispered, lips barely moving. "The lady in sapphire is on her fourth martini. She keeps looking at your hands."
Hadrian's lip curved. "Should I wave?"
"Only if you want her to faint."
"Tempting."
They passed under the vaulted ceiling, arm in arm, two ghosts dressed in the spoils of empire. Neither breathed. Neither blinked often enough to be mortal.
From the balcony above, the Duke of Windsor leaned against the railing, whispering something to a woman with pearls thick as chains. Below, the Blackthornes circled like wolves in ballroom skin.
A steward appeared, silver tray held high.
"Champagne, monsieur?"
Hadrian took a flute without looking. The champagne fizzed innocently. To him, it tasted like copper and chalk.
"You never drink," Daenerys murmured.
"I like the bubbles."
"Liar."
He smiled again. "You love it when I lie."
"Only when it's to undress me."
He leaned down, whispering against the shell of her ear, "Then you should've stayed in our cabin."
She stepped away, fanning herself theatrically. "Too many mirrors, not enough room."
The crowd swelled. They were swallowed into it, as if the Queen Mary herself were trying to digest them.
A portly man with a walrus mustache intercepted them.
"Mr. Blackthorne! A pleasure again. My wife insists your views on the Italian incursion were 'positively Churchillian.'"
"Then your wife should drink less gin, General," Hadrian said smoothly, not missing a beat.
Daenerys sipped at her glass, lips curling in feline amusement. "But do send her my compliments on the peacock brooch. So... assertive."
The general laughed awkwardly, bowed, and retreated.
"He smells like boiled ham," Daenerys muttered, slipping her arm through Hadrian's again.
"With notes of mothball and colonial regret."
"Delicious."
Their smiles were knives.
Hadrian leaned close. "Baron von Dietrich. Ten o'clock. Corner table. White dinner jacket, pretending not to watch us."
"His pulse is rabbit-fast," Daenerys said, her voice like purrs and velvet. "He knows he's prey."
"He should."
They moved through the dance like practiced predators. Every step, every turn, rehearsed over decades. They danced like they had once danced in marble palaces under dying stars. The music rose. A Strauss waltz. Classic. Regal.
Daenerys spun, her dress flaring like smoke, the slit revealing an impossible flash of thigh. Hadrian pulled her close, hand splayed against her back.
"We're being watched by everyone with a title and half a brain," she murmured.
"Then let's give them something worth envying."
They dipped, slow and theatrical, and when she rose, her nose brushed his.
"You smell like frost and fire," she whispered.
"You smell like war and poetry."
She kissed the corner of his mouth. It wasn't chaste. It wasn't decorous.
It was a promise.
Then the music slowed. The applause came like thunder on velvet.
Daenerys glanced past his shoulder. "Waiter. Far left. Too tense. Heartbeat erratic."
Hadrian didn't move. "Eyes wrong?"
"Like a soldier pretending to be a servant."
"Nazi?"
"Amateur. But armed."
"Baron's in trouble."
"You want to play hero?"
"You know I hate capes."
He kissed her knuckles. "Five minutes. Distraction or intervention?"
"Whichever ruins his evening more."
She vanished into the crowd like a rumor. He moved in the opposite direction, silent as midnight, steps muffled by old money and sea-salt opulence.
In the mirrored hall just beyond the ballroom, the waiter cornered the baron.
"You were warned," the fake waiter hissed.
"I paid! I told them what I knew—"
"Not enough."
The glint of a blade.
Then Hadrian was there.
"Gentlemen. Surely this is neither the time nor the drapery for bloodshed."
The imposter turned. Saw nothing but a handsome man with a smile. And then he flew backward, spine-first into a marble pillar.
Hadrian shook his hand once. "I dislike knives."
Daenerys arrived moments later, gown fluttering like wings. "He tried to run."
"How inconvenient."
"Shall we toss him overboard or hand him to the captain?"
"I vote toss."
She grinned, violet eyes flashing. "Romantic."
The baron was blubbering and the waiter groaning. After modifying their memories, the couple vanished down the stairs hand in hand, glittering and silent.
Above, the orchestra resumed. The stars burned cold. The world trembled with the future.
And beneath it all, two monsters in love danced their way through history.
—
As they re-entered the ballroom of the RMS Queen Mary, the air seemed tighter, richer somehow, like the ship itself sensed their return. The chandeliers flared ever so subtly, prisms scattering fractured rainbows across the parquet floor. The string ensemble had softened into a haunting nocturne, a post-scandal balm meant to ease the aristocracy back into their illusions.
Daenerys adjusted her glove with feline precision, the satin sliding over her moon-pale arm like a silk serpent returning to its nest. Her silver hair shimmered under the lights, coiled at the nape of her neck in a style that whispered danger and debuted innocence. Her violet eyes scanned the ballroom as though she were counting threats, or perhaps appetizers.
Hadrian trailed her like a shadow in a tuxedo, taller than most of the men around him, his emerald eyes catching candlelight like polished jade. He plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, holding it like a weapon disguised as etiquette. He wouldn't drink, of course. But he could pretend. Vampires were, if nothing else, excellent at theatre.
"I hope we didn't miss the dramatic whispers," he murmured, his voice rich, American, and tinged with the lazy drawl of someone who knew he could break every man in the room in half without creasing his cuffs.
Daenerys grinned without looking at him. "Oh, darling. We are the dramatic whispers."
He leaned in, mock-scandalous. "I thought we were the scandal."
"We're versatile."
Conversation bloomed around them like frost in moonlight. The scandal had already spread, tendrils of gossip curling under chandeliers and across champagne flutes.
"Did you hear?" hissed a woman in a peacock-blue gown, her voice laced with gin and mischief. "Hitler snubbed Jesse Owens. Four gold medals and not a single invitation to the Berghof. Can you imagine?"
"Oh, I can," said a portly man with a monocle and a mustache that looked like a failed parachute. "Berlin was practically a theme park for fascists. Jackboots and banners everywhere. Still, Owens made the whole Reich look like amateur hour."
A third voice piped in, amused and cynical: "A black man outrunning the so-called master race. That's not a scandal, that's poetry."
Hadrian's ears twitched. He smiled crookedly and leaned closer to Daenerys. "Apparently Jesse Owens is the most popular man at sea."
She arched a brow, violet eyes sharp. "Fast, fearless, and impossible to ignore. The kind of American the Nazis forgot to plan for."
"Remind you of anyone?"
She turned to him, lips curling. "I'd say you. But you don't sweat for medals."
"I don't sweat for anything."
"Not even me?"
He tilted his head, green eyes burning beneath dark lashes. "Especially not for you. I burn."
Her smile was all teeth and invitation. "Poetry. You're almost human when you try."
They drifted toward a semicircle of diplomats clustered around the Earl of Cambridge, who was holding court beside a massive brass globe and a tray of oysters that no one dared touch.
"I don't care what the Germans call it," the Earl was saying, puffing Turkish smoke. "The whole Olympics was pageantry dipped in propaganda. They dropped leaflets from Zeppelins, for God's sake. It was raining lies."
"Were you at the opening ceremony?" asked a woman in sequins and suspicion.
"Unfortunately. The swastikas were everywhere. The stadium gleamed like a dentist's office—too clean to be true."
A younger woman in scarlet, beauty painted on like porcelain, frowned delicately. "But it was beautiful, wasn't it? The torch relay. It felt so… ancient."
Daenerys slid in beside her, smile sugar and arsenic. "Nothing says 'timeless' like twisting a Greek tradition into fascist fanfare. Next thing you know, they'll be building altars to themselves."
"Have you been to Berlin?" the woman asked, voice defensive.
Hadrian sipped from his untouched glass. "No, but a few friends of my family have. They were there long enough to watch. Not long enough to be photographed."
The Earl chuckled. "Ah, the Blackthornes. I should have guessed."
"You know us," Daenerys purred. "We adore a good gala. Even as the world catches fire in silk gloves."
A nervous man in a too-tight suit joined them, his nose twitching. "Rumor says Hitler's planning something... grander. Rearmament. Secret alliances. Mussolini's practically on a leash."
"Let him scheme," the Earl said, scoffing. "The sun hasn't set on the Empire yet."
Hadrian arched a brow. "No. But it's dusk."
A silence followed. Sharp and thoughtful.
The music shifted. Jazz. American. Scandalous. The kind of rhythm that made corsets twitch and toes tap against mother-of-pearl floors.
"We should dance," Daenerys whispered, mischief in her eyes.
Hadrian offered his arm. "We should assassinate someone."
"We can multitask," she said, slipping her fingers through his with sinuous grace. "Dance first. Kill later. Dessert, as it were."
They stepped onto the floor like they owned it. The band played louder. Trumpets wove gold into the air. His hand settled on her waist—too intimate for a stranger, too reverent for a friend. Her fingers ghosted along his collar like they were memorizing seams before tearing them apart.
"Try not to step on my toes," she said.
"Try not to fall in love."
"Too late."
They moved as one. A blur of pale skin and glittering fabric, green eyes and silver hair. Vampires. But no one knew. No heartbeat. No sweat. No breath. Just the illusion of life and the mastery of masks.
All around them, the world spun: courtiers clinking glasses, diplomats whispering betrayals, war hawks posing as peacocks. And beneath it all, the deep, dark hum of history preparing to repeat itself.
The Queen Mary sailed on.
And beneath the glitter, monsters danced.
—
The revelry of the ballroom faded like an old jazz tune played too many times. Gilded laughter, clinking glasses, and the off-key warble of some baron's third martini dissolved into the distance as Hadrian shut the stateroom door with a soft, final click. Magic hummed against his palm—a subtle pulse of energy that only answered to him. Obsidian runes, etched so finely into the wood they were invisible to the human eye, flared once like dying stars before vanishing into silence.
Daenerys let out a groan that was equal parts relief and aristocratic exhaustion, kicking off her silver T-straps and immediately curling her toes into the thick Persian carpet. "If one more man calls me 'darling' in that revolting drawl, I swear I'll charm Lord Davenport into believing he's a corgi and let his hounds sort it out."
Hadrian grinned, pulling off his gloves with a flair that suggested he'd done this routine one too many times. He tossed them, along with his cufflinks, onto a nearby tray. "In your defense, you nearly killed the Countess of Warwick. That dress should come with a Surgeon General's warning."
She arched a brow, moving to unpin the dragonbone clasps from her braid. Silver strands spilled down like moonlight, impossibly silky, untamed. "Please. You made three duchesses forget their surnames. One of them started weeping into her sherry."
"Occupational hazard," he said with mock solemnity. "Handsome, deadly, and charming. It's a curse."
Daenerys snorted elegantly, drifting to his side. Her hand slipped around his elbow. "Come on, Mr. Blackthorne. Our witches await."
He crouched beside the floor trunk. It looked like ordinary luggage—until he touched it. Magic slithered over the seams like quicksilver. The locks clicked open, ancient hinges groaning like they hadn't moved in centuries. Inside: a garden stitched together from twilight and dream.
He offered her his hand. "Shall we, my Queen of Catastrophes?"
She rolled her eyes fondly but took it. "Lead the way, my Lord of Troublemaking."
They stepped through.
—
Inside the trunk was a pocket realm folded together by Hadrian's particular brand of reckless spellcraft and Daenerys's subtle elemental control. The garden shimmered under a forever-twilight sky. Bioluminescent moss lit the cobbled path beneath their feet. Wisteria arched above, its violet blossoms trembling slightly at their arrival—sensitive to intent. Protective. Ancient.
Caitriona stood barefoot beneath the arch, arms crossed, a delicate silver thistle tucked behind her ear. She wore a gown of midnight tulle and fog-draped gauze, like a ghost sewn together by the Scottish Highlands.
"Twelve minutes an' seven seconds," she said, brogue thick and dry as good whisky. "Elspeth's threatening tae summon a hurricane outta spite."
Daenerys's smile curved like a dagger. "Tell her she can try. I'll just charm the lightning to sing torch songs again."
"Och, she's nae bluffin'. She nearly smacked a thundercloud across the Atlantic."
"Good girl," Hadrian muttered.
A sudden swirl of mist and laughter signaled the dramatic arrival of Elspeth.
She descended from the sky like a fallen star—glittering seafoam silk trailing behind her, tiara made of frost and moonlight tilted at a cocky angle atop golden curls. Her crimson eyes gleamed with mischief and wounded pride.
"You absolute scoundrels," she declared in a thick Scottish accent that made even rage sound poetic. "I had three dances choreographed. Three! A waltz, a tango, and a bloody spectral foxtrot!"
Hadrian bowed. "Forgive us, Lady Elspeth. We were detained by champagne and the Countess's tendency to faint."
"Bah," Elspeth sniffed. "Ye look criminally handsome, so you're forgiven—but only barely."
Hadrian extended his hand. "Then I must repay my debt. May I have this dance?"
She took it with a grin. "Make it up tae me by lifting me at the bridge, aye?"
"Only if you don't dissolve into mist mid-spin again."
"That happened one time."
They spun off into the garden, music rising like mist. Somewhere, jazz swelled—old, rich, and aching. The clouds whispered a trumpet's sigh. Elspeth moved like magic, like she was born for moonlight and rebellion.
Meanwhile, Caitriona linked her arm through Daenerys's. "Your turn, Queenie. An' this time, I lead."
Daenerys's brows shot up. "I'm the conqueror of Slaver's Bay."
"And I'm the girl who made a banshee cry at the Isle of Skye," Caitriona quipped. "Try me."
Daenerys laughed—a rich, lilting sound that melted the wisteria's edges. She dropped her heels, pulled Caitriona close. "Fine. But if I step on your toes, remember who can boil the sea."
"And I can freeze it back," Caitriona winked.
They moved together, fierce and graceful, bare feet whispering across the moss. One pair danced like fire meeting wind, the other like a storm caught mid-lullaby. Their gowns billowed like stories spun from silk. Their laughter, bright and sharp, echoed off stars that weren't quite real.
The girls moved with joy so raw it burned—the joy of things hunted, cursed, and still daring to dance.
Elspeth dissolved into mist mid-spin (again), only to reappear beside the wisteria, giggling and breathless. She flopped onto a floating bench made of woven root and memory. "I want every night to end like this," she sighed. "With dancing an' moonlight an' nae one callin' me darling like I'm some poor sap's arm candy."
Caitriona leaned her head against Daenerys's shoulder. "Someday… we'll have a real ballroom. One o' our own."
"One where the moon can't spy on us," Elspeth added, flicking silver mist upward like a stubborn child challenging a god.
Daenerys looked at them—her sisters not by blood, but by fire and ruin—and her smile turned dangerous. "One day, we'll build it."
Hadrian watched them, something fierce and ancient in his green eyes. "No," he said softly. "I will. When this war ends, I'll carve it out of sky and cloud and starlight. I'll build you a palace where monsters can dance… and never need to hide."
No one spoke.
They didn't have to.
The garden pulsed once, as if it heard and believed.
Outside, the Queen Mary sailed ever westward, unaware of the promises being made in twilight gardens, where vampires danced like mortals and dreamed like gods.
—
The garden had been folded away, like a lullaby tucked into a drawer. The scent of jasmine and ghost orchids lingered faintly, clinging to the air like the last breath of a dream. The enchanted trunk now rested at the foot of the bed in their stateroom, looking deceptively ordinary—an old leather-bound piece of luggage, dull brass corners scuffed from decades of travel. It still hummed with residual magic, faint but persistent, like the echo of a spell whispered too long in the dark.
Daenerys was curled like a cat in a deep, wingback chair by the porthole, legs tucked beneath her in a cascade of silk dressing gown and bare calves. The lamplight touched her silver-white hair, and her violet eyes followed the text of Wuthering Heights with bored affection. She had read it twelve times.
Outside, the Atlantic sprawled ink-dark and endless, the moon casting silver streaks over waves that slapped the side of the ship. Dawn was teasing the horizon, a slow bleed of pale rose and soft gold.
Hadrian stood by the dresser, bare-chested, drying his unruly black hair with a towel. His skin gleamed faintly under the lamplight—like marble warmed by firelight, every inch of him sculpted from something more enduring than flesh. The telegram sat unopened beside his cufflinks, and watch. He stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.
Daenerys didn't look up from her book. "From Carlisle?"
"Mm." He broke the seal with a fingernail and unfolded the thin yellow paper.
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM DECEMBER 2, 1936 — 3:17 PM — OLYMPIC PENINSULA
HADRIAN, DANY — STOP FAMILY RELOCATED TO BUFFALO, NEW YORK — STOP WE WILL BE WAITING AT PIER 90, NEW YORK CITY, UPON YOUR ARRIVAL — STOP TRY NOT TO SET ANYTHING ON FIRE BEFORE THEN — STOP
LOVE, CARLISLE — STOP (ESME SAYS TO WEAR SOMETHING WITHOUT BLOOD ON IT THIS TIME) (EDWARD SAYS HE'S ALREADY ANXIOUS AND TO PLEASE BEHAVE) (ROSALIE IS JUDGING YOU IN ADVANCE) (EMMETT SAYS HE'S READY TO ARM WRESTLE WHATEVER NEW FRIENDS YOU BRING)
Hadrian chuckled. Low and dangerous. "Well, that's ominously specific."
Daenerys flipped the page. "Are we expecting trouble this time?"
He draped the towel over his neck and gave her a lazy smirk. "Statistically… yes."
She slowly lowered the book, eyes narrowing. "Hadrian."
"I jest, khaleesi."
"I told you not to call me that when you're shirtless."
He stepped closer. "But that's when I most enjoy calling you that."
"You're insufferable," she said, trying and failing not to smile.
"You love it."
"I tolerate it. Which is dangerous for a woman like me."
Before he could reply with something equally cocky, the trunk lid snapped open with a loud pop and Elspeth clambered out without warning—because Elspeth never warned.
Behind her came Caitriona, barefoot, hair braided into messy thistle-knots. Elspeth had a predatory grin and wild curls that refused to obey pins or reason.
"We heard you laughin'," Elspeth said, hopping up onto the writing desk like it was made for her. Her brogue was thick, unmistakably Highland, and every word rang with mischief. "Daenaerys, ye want tae tell yer man here that some of us are tryin' tae plan our dramatic entrances?"
"I want a rooftop," Elspeth declared, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. "Fer moonlight broodin' and threatenin' celestial beings."
"You want a rooftop?" Hadrian raised a brow. "In Buffalo?"
"I'll take a smokestack," she replied cheerily. "Long as it's got height and a miserable view."
Daenerys tilted her head. "Buffalo is more snowstorm-chic than celestial. Lots of chimneys. Fewer gods."
"Elk-chic," Hadrian muttered.
Caitriona dropped onto the bed with a soft whuff of displaced air. "What's it like then? Buffalo?"
"Cold," Hadrian said. "Bitter winds. Human drivers with the reflexes of stunned goats. You'll blend right in."
Elspeth grinned. "Are the Cullens ready for us?"
Daenerys and Hadrian exchanged a loaded glance. There was love there, but also the weight of unspoken wars and immortal memory.
"Carlisle's a saint," Hadrian said. "But he's also a dad. Expect concern masked as philosophy."
"Esme is the soft landing in a world made of hard edges," Daenerys added. "She will mother you, coddle you, and guilt you into happiness."
"She'll adore Cait," Hadrian said, crouching beside her. "And probably try to iron Elspeth."
"I dare her," Elspeth muttered.
"Edward reads minds," Daenerys warned.
"I'm going to think nothing but sailor shanties," Elspeth said with an evil grin.
"Rosalie is…" Hadrian paused, thoughtful. "Roses have thorns. And teeth. She's both."
"Will she hate us?" Caitriona asked softly.
Daenerys moved to her, kneeling gracefully beside her friend, hand brushing her knuckles. "She'll hate anything that threatens what she loves. You? You'll be fine."
"Elspeth, on the other hand…" Hadrian mused.
"I make a great first impression," she insisted.
"On dragons," Daenerys deadpanned.
"And Emmett?" Cait asked.
"Oh, Emmett's a Labrador retriever who got turned into a Greek demigod," Hadrian said. "Loud, cheerful, and ready to wrestle bears."
"Or vampires," Elspeth said, teeth flashing.
"Don't break him," Daenerys said, rising. She walked toward Hadrian, stopping just close enough for him to smell the faintest trace of fire lilies in her hair. "I'm serious about that shirt. Or lack thereof."
He leaned in, voice low. "You could burn a man with just one look, Dany."
"Then be careful. I burn slow."
They stood like that for a beat too long, air charged. Then Cait cleared her throat, loudly. Elspeth gagged theatrically.
"Ye two need a chaperone."
"I volunteer as tribute," Hadrian said solemnly.
"Wrong decade, love," Daenerys murmured.
The four of them eventually fell into silence as the ship began to hum louder with the rhythm of dawn arrival. The soft gold of sunrise bled across the waves. Tomorrow they would be in New York, walking into the arms of a family they hadn't seen in half a century.
But tonight, they were still themselves.
And they had each other.
—
New York City – Pier 90 – Just After Dawn
The city hit like a sharp breath after drowning—cold, gritty, electric with a restless pulse.
Steam hissed from the gangway as the RMS Queen Mary settled against the dock, its massive hull looming like a beast resting its bulk in the murky Hudson. Cranes groaned and rattled overhead, porters in wool coats and flat caps hustled crates and trunks with practiced efficiency. The scent of coal smoke tangled with salty brine, mingled with the faint sweetness of roasting chestnuts and the hard tang of early morning pretzels being fired up on street corners.
Hadrian stepped off the gangway with a quiet confidence, a man who'd walked a thousand arrivals but whose eyes still measured every new scene with careful precision. His dark navy overcoat—thick wool, double-breasted, sharply tailored—was turned up against the sting of December's breath. A charcoal scarf was tucked loosely beneath, shadowing the sharp line of his jaw. His emerald eyes scanned the bustle with a predator's ease.
In his gloved hand he carried a battered leather suitcase, scuffed and weathered from travels that defied mundane description—surely heavier than any ordinary case should be. Inside, magically expanded to impossible dimensions, two women—one a Highland hurricane, the other a barefoot tempest—were tucked away, playing gin rummy and plotting rooftop rebellions on a scale that would have made any New Yorker laugh and lock their windows.
Beside him, Daenerys moved with the frost-bitten grace of an ice queen, pale gray wool coat cinched at the waist with a delicate silver belt that caught the weak dawn light. Her silver-white hair was pinned under a perfectly styled cloche hat, curls tamed but eyes wild, those ancient violet orbs flickering with something fierce and unreadable. She could have been a diplomat's daughter fresh from Paris, or a European countess crossing oceans—if it weren't for the flicker of something wild behind her calm.
The dock hummed with noise, a chaotic symphony of clanging cranes, shouted orders, and clattering heels on wood. But one family stood apart, waiting near the pier's mouth, a still island of elegance and expectation amid the raucous cold.
Carlisle stepped forward first. Perfectly immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit, wool overcoat draped over broad shoulders like a cape. His golden hair was swept back, a neat part shining faintly under the dock's dim lights. His face was timeless—too flawless, too unchanging—but his eyes held the weariness of centuries, a kindness and a burden intermingled like shadows at twilight.
Esme stood close by, wrapped in cream and sable, her smile warm and bright as spring sunlight breaking through winter. She gasped softly at the sight of Daenerys, hand fluttering to her chest like a sweet melody caught on a breeze.
Rosalie leaned against a sleek black Packard, an image of cinematic disinterest wrapped in fur and lipstick. Her golden curls were tucked beneath a beret, eyes sharp and assessing, lips a perfect scarlet line that could cut glass.
Emmett, wide as a barn door and twice as cheerful, waved like a man who hadn't seen a friendly face in ages. His broad-shouldered frame strained against a double-breasted suit that looked ready to rip from sheer muscle.
Edward lingered in the shadows a few steps behind—hands in pockets, trench coat buttoned to the throat, bronze curls just catching the light. His gaze flicked nervously to the suitcase, fingers twitching as if he could sense the secrets inside.
Hadrian stepped forward, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "No trouble," he said low, voice like velvet wrapped in steel. "See? Growth."
Esme laughed, the sound light and musical. She swept him into a warm embrace. "You say that right before someone catches fire every damn time."
Daenerys inclined her head toward Carlisle with a graceful nod, voice a soft, silken thread. "We were good. Mostly."
Carlisle's eyes crinkled at the edges. "You're here. That's the only thing that matters."
Emmett cut through the formalities with a booming laugh, barreling into Hadrian with a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the dock. "Man! I'm dying for a spar. You better have brought something ridiculous."
Hadrian's grin deepened. "I brought Elspeth."
"Oh hell yes," Emmett whispered like a prayer.
Rosalie shot Daenerys a look sharp enough to draw blood. "Still flawless. Disgusting."
Daenerys's violet eyes sparkled with challenge. "Hello to you too, Rosie."
Edward finally stepped forward, voice smooth but edged with dry humor. "They're listening. Elspeth's thinking about pretending to be a customs inspector."
Hadrian groaned. "I warned her. She asked if she could wear a moustache."
Edward's eyes gleamed with amusement, but he said nothing more.
"She's humming sea shanties," Daenerys murmured, a faint smile teasing her lips.
The trunk trembled.
Esme's hand went out, soft but firm. "Maybe we should get back to the house before she bursts out and causes a scene?"
Hadrian chuckled darkly. "Oh, she'll burst out. That much is guaranteed."
Emmett clapped Hadrian on the back like a thunderclap. "Then let's make it one for the history books."
As they moved toward the Packard, the first lazy snowflakes drifted down, like silent confetti welcoming their return. The trunk was gently lifted, magic shrinking it back to ordinary size, tucked into the car's trunk with a faint hum of residual power.
Elspeth's voice echoed from within, fierce and unyielding:
"I demand a rooftop!"
Hadrian glanced at Daenerys, his emerald eyes locking with her violet ones—something unspoken passed between them, fierce and bright as the December dawn.
Daenerys smirked, the hint of flame in her smile. "You sure you can handle the storm, Hadrian?"
He laughed, the sound low and sure. "Babe, I'm the storm."
And with that, the Cullens—whole again—vanished into the cold New York morning, ready to write the next chapter in a world that had no idea what was coming.
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