Chapter 15: Echoes of the Past

It had been a month since that night in the warehouse—since the Black Art had been sealed, Campbell had vanished, and Belathauzer was banished before it could claw into the world. Life, at least on the surface, had returned to a fragile sort of normal.

Adrian had resumed his Seer's work, operating discreetly from the backroom of a tea shop in Whitechapel. Clients still came with lost rings, suspicions of unfaithful lovers, and ghost stories that turned out to be plumbing issues. On most days, the rhythm of routine let him pretend that everything was fine.

But the weight never left him.

No matter how many days passed, the memory of Richards' death stayed with him—sharp, unrelenting. Not just because Adrian had pulled the trigger, but because Richards had been family. He'd bandaged Adrian's scrapes, tucked him in with bedtime stories, and taught him how to tie a tie before his first school dance. He was stern, yes, but kind in the ways that mattered.

Adrian's visions had shown Richards' face… and Adrian had trusted them over the man who raised him.

Today, the guilt was louder than ever. He couldn't silence it anymore.

Instead of lighting candles for a new client, Adrian closed the shop early and caught the tram west. He didn't carry an excuse or a plan—only the ache in his chest and the name of the woman he owed everything to.

Helen Richards.

The row house hadn't changed much. A few more weeds in the garden. A few more paint chips peeling from the gate. But to Adrian, it looked frozen in time. A place from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

He knocked.

After a long pause, the door creaked open. Helen stood there—thinner than he remembered, her silver-threaded hair pulled into a tired bun. She looked worn, her face lined with grief too old for her years. But when her eyes met his, the grief cracked.

"Adrian…?" she whispered.

Before he could say a word, she pulled him into a tight embrace and began to cry.

Her sobs were deep and trembling, the kind of sorrow that had sat buried for weeks with no one to carry it. Adrian held her, unsure if he deserved to. The guilt twisted deeper in his gut with every second.

When her breathing slowed, Helen stepped back, wiping at her cheeks. "Come in, dear," she said gently.

Adrian followed her inside. The house still smelled of tea, lavender, and old books. But it felt emptier now, the warmth faded into silence. They sat in the front room where the air itself seemed to mourn. She brought him tea. Neither of them touched it.

"You've lost so much," she said after a long while. "First your father… and now Richards." She looked at him, eyes searching. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," Adrian said, his voice low and hollow.

Helen didn't challenge the lie. Instead, she rose from her chair and went to a cabinet in the corner. From inside, she retrieved a small silver lighter and a sealed envelope. She held them as if they were something sacred—fragile and precious.

"He told me to give you these… if something happened," she said. "He made me promise."

She placed them in his hands.

Adrian stared at the lighter—familiar, worn smooth with age. It was the same one Richards used to scold him for playing with when he was a child.

"This lighter belonged to my father," Richards had once told him, plucking it from his fingers. "And someday, I'll pass it to someone who'll carry it right."

Now… it was his.

Later that night, Adrian sat alone in his father's study, the room cast in dim lamplight. Shadows played across the shelves of dusty books and old case files. The lighter sat in his palm, its weight heavier than ever.

And beside it, the envelope.

Richards' handwriting stared up at him—steady, composed. Adrian didn't want to read it. But he had to. With trembling fingers, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

Dear Adrian,

If you're reading this, then something's happened to me.

There's no easy way to say this, but you need to leave London. Take Helen and go. It's not safe—not anymore.

Your father and I were investigating a mob boss. But it went deeper than money or politics. We uncovered something else—vampires. I know it sounds impossible, but it's the truth.

They caught us.

They killed your father.

Then they threatened you and Helen. Said if I didn't cooperate, they'd make me watch you both suffer. I couldn't fight them—not alone. So I made a choice to protect you. That was all that mattered to me.

If you're reading this, something must've changed. Or maybe they came for me after all.

I only ask this: protect Helen. Be strong for her. And please… don't seek revenge.

It's not your burden.

You were like a son to me, Adrian.

—Mike Richards

Adrian's hands trembled. The letter slid from his grasp and landed softly on the floor.

He stood up suddenly, heart pounding, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. The pressure in his chest, buried for so long, finally broke free.

He had killed Richards.

Pulled the trigger on the man who had protected him. Who had made a deal with devils to keep him safe. Who had warned him not to chase revenge—only for Adrian to do exactly that.

The guilt roared up like a storm.

Adrian bolted from the study, the house blurring past him as he stumbled out into the London night. The mist swallowed him as he ran, blind with grief and regret. He didn't know where he was going.

He just knew he couldn't stay still.

Behind him, on the desk, the lighter lay cold.

And the letter whispered truths far too late to matter.