After feeding on those two strange humans, he let his primal powers guide him, racing deeper into the woods. A familiar scent hit his nose, sharp and undeniable. It was not the lady… it was someone he had known for a long time.
He stopped, muscles tense, senses alert. If this was another trick like the one played on him so many years ago, he would not hesitate. He would feed… whoever it was.
Minutes passed. Then a large shape emerged, moving this time, unlike the lifeless thing he had seen when he first woke. Fear curled in his chest. What was this? Humans had invented so much while he slept. Could this be dangerous?
He needed to understand it first.
The object halted a few steps away. A young man stepped out. Early twenties, dressed in a tuxedo with a crisp white shirt. His black hair was neatly combed. His blue eyes squinted for a moment, then a thin smile spread across his lips as he rushed forward.
"Uncle Kol," he said, hugging him without a second thought. He stepped back as they broke apart. "Sorry about this."
Two more men emerged from the car and dropped to their knees. "Welcome back to life, master," they said in unison.
Kol Varkson's face hardened. He recognized the men, yet the strange formality and reverence unsettled him. He turned to Tristan Varkson. "You brought any clothes for me?"
The man who had just risen from the grave stood with his face hardened, even though he recognized the boy before him. Kol turned to Tristan and asked, "You brought any clothes for me?"
"Sure, uncle," Tristan said, bowing slightly as he turned to the men behind him. One of them quickly moved to the boot of the car. "I got too excited and forgot. We were all surprised. The rest of the family thought it was a trick that you had risen."
"How long has it been?" Kol asked, his brows drawn together. His frown could frighten anyone, yet his nephew still answered.
"Three centuries," Tristan said, avoiding his gaze. He could have said three hundred years, but it sounded longer. Calling it centuries felt shorter, less painful for his uncle to hear.
"That is so long," Kol said, nodding slowly. Pain cut through him as he realized how many years of his life had been stolen while his enemies celebrated and thrived.
"Yes, uncle," Tristan said, taking the clothes from his men and handing them to Kol as he dressed. "They have all forgotten about you. No one remembers that you founded Mistvale, gave it its name, and built all the beautiful things they enjoy today. They adore the Blackwood family. They think those wolves are the reason Mistvale is safe from attacks. They have forgotten your sacrifices."
"They didn't forget. They just don't want to acknowledge it," Kol said, taking the black trousers from Tristan. The fabric was different from what he wore before. He put them on along with the shirt. "Humans have always been ungrateful. From the beginning, they can betray anyone, even their own kind, if it serves them."
"Not all of them are like that," Tristan told him.
"I don't care," Kol said, running his hands through his long hair and pushing it back. His stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to feed again. There was also the wound on his chest where he had been stabbed before being buried. It had not healed yet, but maybe after feeding, it would close.
"I brought blood bags if you need," Tristan said, pointing to the boot of the black BMW he had arrived in.
"What is this called, Tristan Varkson?" his uncle asked, eyes fixed on the strange object.
"This is a car. Humans invented it. It is used for easy transportation, like a horse," Tristan explained, walking to the car. He opened the door and sat inside to show his uncle. "See? It doesn't harm us."
Kol nodded and put both hands in his pockets. He walked to the car as his nephew came down to open the back door for him.
Kol hesitated, then finally sat inside. It did not hurt, just as Tristan had said.
"Let's go," Tristan said, taking the three bags of blood from one of the men. They settled into the front seats, Tristan beside his uncle, and drove toward their villa.
On the way, Kol drank from the bags, finishing them within minutes before asking if there were more.
Tristan went silent. If only his uncle knew how hard it had been to get these blood bags. Things were not like they had been before. Vampires were hunted by werewolves and humans alike. After the peace was made, a few managed to stay, forced to follow the rules of the treaty. Most had fled when the preying rules were enforced in Mistvale.
"I can read your mind," Kol reminded him, his voice low but firm. "You do not have to worry about the safety of vampires anymore. Leave it to me. By the way, did you see any lady on your way here?"
"No," Tristan shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he wondered where his uncle was heading. "Did someone see you coming out?"
"No… just forget about it," Kol said, leaning back as he pressed his hand against his chest. Pain shot through him again. It had been a long time since he felt real, physical pain.
The night he was buried had been the first time he felt anything like it. The dagger used on him had not been ordinary. Every memory of that night was sharp and fresh, as if it had happened only yesterday. Now he was back to show his enemies what it meant to dare him.
"Are you alright?" Tristan asked, worry written all over his face.
"No… the wound won't heal, no matter how much I feed," his uncle muttered, teeth gritted. The pain grew worse with every passing minute.
"I think you need a doctor," Tristan said quietly, pulling out his phone. "Probably a surgeon. I will put an ad out for one… we don't want a doctor working for the government."