The house had begun to breathe with routine. Étienne's nights were spent at the hospital, his coat carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and exhaustion. Lukas rose before dawn, cycling into Edinburgh to knead dough and greet customers with his calm smile. By evening, they returned to the house in the fields, sharing bread, tea, and the quiet comfort of companionship.
It was on a gray afternoon, the sky heavy with mist, that the knock came.
Lukas was in the kitchen, dusting flour from his hands, when Étienne opened the door. Standing there was a man in his late twenties, suitcase in hand, posture straight as a ruler. His suit was neat despite the travel, his tie knotted with precision. His eyes — sharp, calculating — flicked from Étienne to the interior of the house with the practiced gaze of someone trained to notice details others missed.
"Adrian Moreau," he introduced himself, his voice smooth, carrying the faint cadence of continental Europe. "I was told this house had room for one more."
Étienne's smile was immediate, elegant. "But of course. Come in, monsieur. We have space, and we welcome company."
Adrian stepped inside, his shoes clicking against the polished floor. He looked around quickly — the fireplace, the bookshelves, the faint scent of bread lingering from Lukas's baking. His gaze lingered on Étienne's pale complexion, then shifted to Lukas, who had appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Lukas Schneider," Lukas said simply, offering a handshake.
Adrian accepted it, firm but brief. "A pleasure."
The diplomat settled quickly. His suitcase was unpacked in one of the upstairs rooms, his notebooks stacked neatly on the desk, his fountain pens lined in a row. He moved with efficiency, as though he had done this countless times before in hotels and apartments across Europe.
At dinner that evening, he joined them at the table. Lukas served bread and stew, Étienne poured wine. Adrian ate politely, but his eyes never stopped moving. He noticed the way Étienne's glass held liquid darker than wine, the way Lukas's appetite seemed almost too hearty, the way the house was stocked with herbs not commonly found in kitchens.
He said nothing. He simply observed.
Days passed, and Adrian's suspicions grew. He was intelligent, trained to read people, to notice inconsistencies. He saw Étienne return from the hospital at hours that stretched beyond normal shifts, his eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight. He saw Lukas disappear on nights when the moon was full, returning with exhaustion etched into his features.
Adrian wrote notes in his leather‑bound journal. He recorded times, behaviors, small details. He did not confront them — not yet. Diplomacy required patience.
But Étienne, cheerful though he was, began to feel the weight of Adrian's gaze. Hunger gnawed at him, subtle but insistent. He tried to resist, tried to distract himself with music and medicine, but the presence of fresh human blood in the house was temptation too close to ignore.
One evening, Adrian sat in the living room, reading by the fire. Étienne entered quietly, his steps soundless, his smile polite.
"You are observant," Étienne said, his voice soft, almost amused. "Too observant, perhaps."
Adrian closed his book, meeting his gaze calmly. "I know what you are."
The words hung in the air, quiet but sharp. Lukas, in the kitchen, froze at the sound.
Étienne tilted his head, his smile widening just slightly. "Do you? And what conclusion have you reached, monsieur diplomat?"
Adrian's eyes did not waver. "You are not human. Neither is Lukas. I have seen enough to know."
Silence stretched. Lukas entered the room, his calm presence a counterweight to the tension.
Étienne's hunger surged. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You are clever. Too clever. And clever men often bleed the same as foolish ones."
Adrian did not flinch. "If you mean to frighten me, you will fail. I have faced worse than shadows."
Étienne's restraint broke. In a swift motion, he leaned forward, his fangs gleaming in the firelight, and bit.
Adrian gasped, his notebook falling to the floor. Lukas shouted, moving to intervene, but it was too late. The infection had begun.
The transformation was rare, almost impossible. Most bitten became vampires, their humanity lost. But Adrian was different. His blood carried something unusual, something resistant. Within days, his body began to change in ways neither Étienne nor Lukas had seen before.
He became something new — neither fully human nor fully vampire. A dhampir.
Adrian bore it with quiet dignity. He did not rage, did not despair. He simply adapted, as diplomats must. He recorded his symptoms in his journal, observed his own changes with clinical precision, and confronted Étienne with calm words rather than anger.
"You have made me rare," Adrian said one evening, his voice steady despite the faint pallor of his skin. "And now I must live with it."
Étienne, guilt hidden beneath his cheerful mask, raised his glass. "Then live well, monsieur. For rarity is a gift, even if it is born of hunger."
The house now held three secrets. A vampire, a werewolf, and a diplomat becoming something rare.
And soon, another would arrive — Callum Fraser, young policeman, earnest and attractive, whose confrontation would be louder, more fearful, and whose presence would test the fragile balance of their lives.
But for now, the fire burned in the living room, shadows danced across the walls, and Adrian Moreau sat among them, no longer entirely human, no longer entirely safe, but part of the household nonetheless.
The story had shifted. The house in the fields was no longer just a sanctuary. It was becoming something else — a place where secrets lived, where hunger and loyalty intertwined, and where the bonds of unlikely companions would be tested by blood.