Once Betrayed Never Forgotten

Chapter 111: Raven’s Flight

We weave through the beautiful streets of Paris, the vint energy of the city wrapping around us, the lights and sounds blurring in my vision. The scent of night blooming flowers and wood smoke fills my nose, mingling with the crisp, cool air.

We arrive at the gates of Père Lachaise Cemetery, its time–wor iron bars towering above us, their dark silhouettes etched against the starry night sky. The air is thick with the scent of moss, damp earth and decaying leaves, the moon casting an eerie glow over the sea of gravestones that stretch out before us.

I push open the gate, the ancient metal creaking in protest, my breath catching in my throat as we step into the cemetery’s labyrinthine paths. The ancient tombstones looms around us, their cracked and weathered surfaces covered in ivy and mous, shadows dancing across their inscriptions.

This way, laches and gentlemen,” Kieran says, his voice low, his hazel eyes gleaming as he leads us down a winding path, the leaves crunching beneath our feet.

We follow him, the moonlight casting a pale glow over the cemetery, illuminating the twisted vines and overgrown graves. My heart pounds in my chest, my hand gripping the hilt of the Earth Angel still sheathed at my side, its comforting weight pressing against me.

We follow a raven’s erratic flight as it hops from grave to grave, its loud caws cutting through the silence like echoes of the past that reverberate through time. Bathed in the ghostly light of the moon, each tombstone murmers legends to those brave enough to listen. I wander past Oscar Wilde’s grave, its surface adorned with the soft impressions of countless lipstick marks–tokens of adoration and longing left by visitors from across the world. Just a few steps further, Jim Morrison’s resting place unfolds before me, a shrine cluttered with flowers, candies, and handwritten poetry, celebrating the once electrifying spirit of the rock icon. The air here vibrates with a lyrical quality, as if his music still lingers, a phantom melody among the whispering leaves.

Nearby, the solemn grave of Chopin is adorned with withered bouquets and fresh plano scores, the notes seeming to flutter in the breeze, a silent serenade to the maestro whose melodies once painted the essence of romantic melancholy.

My gaze then settles on Edith Piaf’s tomb, the sparrow who once sang her soul into the heartbeats of Paris. My mom absolutely adores Edith Piaf’s music, and the thought of her makes my heart sink,

I miss my

y mom so damn much. Will I ever see her again? I don’t know what we’re facing, but I have a bad feeling. A really, really bad feeling.

“Quit dawdlin‘“, lazy bones” Kieran shouts back in my direction, breaking me out of thoughts, as Aleksandr shoots him a dirty look for rushing me

And so we continue walking along the winding paths of the cemetery beneath the silver moon, the sound of the croaking raven ever present as it follows us from grave to grave.

After what feels like an eterity, Kieran stops, his gaze fixed on a gravestone nestled amidst the ivy, the black raven perched atop it. My breath catches, my pulse racing as I step closer, brushing aside the delicate twining white dog rose vines that cover its surface, which sends the raven flying off

This is it. The gravestone from my

y vision.

“Angélique Gardienne Verde,” Aleksandr reads aloud, his voice echoing through the silent cemetery. The name is engraved in the stone, birthdate or death date, only an intricate pattern of ivy and roses winding around the inscription.

Her surname is Verde… does that mean she’s a vampiric ancestor of Kieran’s, part of the Verde clan?

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“Who was she?” I ask, not sure if it’s a question that anyone here really knows the answer to,

“Not who, but what,” Kieran answers. “Angélique Gardienne Verde is no vampiric ancestor of mine. “Angélique is French for angelic, and “Gardienne‘ is guardian… she is the guardian angel of the Verde clan. This place must somehow be connected to her… this is the place we seek.”

“But she can’t be here,” Aleksandr says thoughtfully. “If she was still in the Earth realms, the borders wouldn’t be porous, and this realm would be protected by her power. She must be imprisoned somewhere else, in another realm, or in no realm at all.”

“Exactly,” Kieran says. “But whatever this place is, accordin‘ to Arianna’s vision, it holds some clue as to Verde’s current whereabouts.”

“We n

must keep moving,” Bloodbane says impatiently, his crimson eyes narrowing as he glances up at the gleaming full moon hanging low overhead, bathing us in an eerie silver light.

“Yes, what’s next?” Pyra asks, her voice tinged with anticipation, her golden eyes gleaming as she steps closer.

Chapter 111 Ravens Flight

Everyone looks in my direction, and it takes me a moment to realise that they expect me to guide them, to have the answers.

“… I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m sorry” Aleksandr reaches out and gently takes my hand in his again, telling me it’s ok without using words.

Kieran’s hazel eyes gleam, a smile curling across his lips. “Don’t give up yet, lass. What was the next thing that happened in yer vision?” he asks, his voice tinged with an edge of excitement.

“I fell down a long dark tunnel,” I answer. A chill runs down my spine, my gaze sweeping over the gravestone, the vision of me falling and screaming into the deep dark hole flashing in my mind.

“Well then, it sounds like we ought to descend,” Kieran says.

Bloodbane’s brows lift, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Descend into what?”

Kieran grins, his gaze shifting to the ground, his hand brushing aside the ivy and moss that blankets the gravestone’s base. Beneath the tangled vines, a dark tunnel yours open, its entrance a gaping black void.

When he finally speaks, his voice is lowered to a whisper. “Into the catacombs. Into the dark gaping maw of hell itself.”

“You’re way too dramatic, Aleksandr says, rolling his eyes in imitation. “I’ll lead the way. Bloodbane, Pyru, have your weapons drawn, and be ready for a fight. I want you on either side of Arianna. Keep her sale. Kieran, you take the rear, or whatever you want, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, I love taking the rear,” Kieran says, his voice dripping with sexual innuendo.

Aleksandr makes a sound of disgust.

For a split second I feel complimented by Aleksandr protectiveness over me, and then I realise how unnecessary It is. I’m a Bloodwraith, just like Bloodbane. He doesn’t need to treat me like a fragile, breakable little human anymore. I can watch my own back.

I wish I could say all of this to him, but now isn’t the time. We’ve got work to do

Chapter Comments.

EJ

Kieran is too damn funny, 909

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