Let me tell you how Cian was vastly different from traditional vampires. The most striking divergence between Cian and his traditional counterparts lies in their relationship with the fundamental forces that typically govern vampiric existence. Where conventional vampire lore establishes clear physical vulnerabilities, Cian’s Wiccan transformation granted him remarkable immunities. Traditional vampires experience pain, burning, or even death in sunlight—perhaps their most defining weakness. Cian, however, walked freely in the daylight, unburdened by the sun’s rays. This freedom extended to other classical repellents as well. While garlic and silver are typically used to harm or repel vampires, Cian felt no pain from either substance. Similarly, holy objects that would normally repel or damage vampires in the traditional sense had no effect on him whatsoever. These immunities suggest that Cian’s Wiccan origins fundamentally altered the metaphysical rules binding him to undeath.

Yet not all traditional limitations were absent from Cian’s existence. Even his magically-derived vampirism could not override certain ancient laws. Like his traditionally-turned brethren, Cian had to be invited into a home before he could enter—one rule that transcended the method of his transformation. This adherence to invitation protocol hints that some vampiric constraints operate on principles deeper than mere folklore.

The physical manifestations of Cian’s vampirism also revealed his hybrid nature. While traditional vampires cast no reflection, Cian’s shadow appeared clearly in mirrors, marking another departure from established mythology. His physical transformation upon becoming a vampire was equally distinctive. Vampires are often depicted with pale skin and red eyes, but Cian’s metamorphosis followed a different pattern. His trademark long brown hair turned white when he transformed, and his green eyes became brown—not the crimson associated with traditional vampires. Even his fangs developed differently. Classic vampires can always grow fangs at will, but Cian did not naturally possess this ability; he only grew his first fang when he killed Abigail, suggesting that his vampiric traits emerged progressively rather than instantaneously.

Dolce Nitoria resided in a tomb in Pacoima, and as her strength grew, she mastered the ability to lift the lid of her casket and open its hinges. She transformed into a bat and soared through Los Angeles, asserting her dominance as a predator. The indifference of the people around her only fueled her resolve; the guys who didn’t care about anyone to worry about them. With Dolce safely in tow, they headed to the hotel room, where Dolce would indulge in feeding upon them, not before fucking them. Dolce’s had needs.

Cian noted that Dolce couldn’t remember the name of the guy who bit her. He pressed her, “You really don’t recall who bit you?”

“No,” Dolce replied.

Cian could tell that Dolce was lying. Just then, at 12:45 a.m., a guy sitting on the barstool across from man winked at her; all of the regulars had headed out, and the new blood had taken over.

“You’re interfering with my feeding,” Dolce said clearly as she finished her wine. “Well, I just have to say that I was curious at first. Wiccan? That’s what you called it?”

“Yes,” Cian affirmed.

“Well, to be continued,” Dolce remarked. She got up from the couch and walked over to the guy, whispered something in the guy’s ear, and they walked out together. Cian wonders if he will see that guy again; not likely.

Damocles van Aristophanes rose and hovered nearly half a meter above the ground. His towering frame sprouted fangs, his eyes blazing crimson. “You are damned!” he thundered. In a flash, Damocles burst forth from Cian. The table crashed to the floor, its surface and the crystal ball shattering. As the crystal fractured, a chorus of screams—thousands of voices—filled the air. Cian, prepared for this, straightened his cross, now clearly a Christian symbol after his top hat tumbled away. Damocles recoiled, shielding his face, then lowered his arms and sneered, “Hahaha! You have to believe in that stuff to make it work.”

Amid the chaos, two candles toppled, their flames hungrily licking the tent’s fabric, sparks spreading.

Cian said, “Well, it worked for Dolce Sofia Nitoria.”

“Dolce Sofia doesn’t have the strength; she is an underling.”

Cian thought, oh shit! He reached into his pocket, snatched his secret weapon—garlic cloves—crushed them, and hurled them into Damocles’ face. The cloves struck Damocles directly, making him howl.

Cian walked back to see that the flames were getting higher, and Damocles was not looking so good. His hands were badly burned. In three seconds, the physical effect of garlic caused his skin to blister and peel back on his face. Damocles’ heightened senses cause sensory overload; the pungent odor is overwhelming and physically unbearable to him. Someone else said, “Fire, fire, fire!” The sprinkling systems were going off; Belladonna, downstairs in a leather body chain, bondage harness, and tall boots, ran to her tent only to see her tent going up in flames.

Belladonna called to him, “Damocles!”

Belladonna declares, “You are sleeping with a vampire. I am Belladonna!” Her eyes turned red, fangs glinting as her nails sharpened into claws. She glides toward Julian, ready to strike, but Damocles steps between them and commands, “Wait!”

Julian Torres was transfixed and remained motionless as Belladonna moved away. She lifts herself from Julian just as Damocles strides past him. Damocles, a Black man with a gleaming bald head and piercing blue eyes, rests his weight on a lion-headed cane and declares, “Julian, you’re going to be dead. I won’t give you eternal life. You’re a Wiccan.”

A crimson light flashed in Damocles’ eye. Instantly, he transformed a hidden cane, unsheathing a scepter from the snake-headed stick. With chilling precision, he plunged the scepter into Julian’s eyes and swept the blade across his throat. Julian Torres crumpled, lifeless. Belladonna watched, eyes devouring the scene with twisted hunger. She whispered, “Now, I need you,” her voice quivering with delight at Damocles’ mercilessness. Damocles drifted toward her; together, they entwined and hovered above Julian’s fallen form. Damocles commanded, “Let go and slaughter every last pig so Cian Grayson is forever denied that blood.”

With Julian Torres dead, fornication and the pigs strewn in bloody chaos, Belladonna Mia Bianchi and Damocles van Aristophanes transformed into bats, soaring through the fading night toward Belladonna’s underground lair beneath the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. They concealed the staircase behind the far west wall; Damocles built it for Belladonna, way before the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum came into view.