The night unleashed its fury over Vancouver, a wild spring storm born out of season.
Hail hammered the closed awnings, rattled against windshields, and spun down the drains like thousands of glass marbles driven by a wind that howled straight from the Pacific.
Liam Thomas crossed the empty street, briefcase lifted over his head, suit soaked, shoes slipping through puddles that swelled by the second.
He breathed in sharp, cutting air, the damp fabric clinging to his body like a shroud.
Turning onto Granville Avenue, he found the metal shutter of Mrs. Liu's antique shop and ducked beneath it for shelter.
The corrugated steel moaned as his back pressed against it; a cold trickle of water slid from his neck down his spine.
He ran a hand through his dripping hair and stared at the warped glow of the streetlights blurred behind the curtain of hail.
"Two years…" he thought, the bitterness rising from his gut to his tongue.
Two years since everyone had called him a murderer.
Two years of police silence.
Two years haunted by dreams of fangs and eyes that turned from the palest blue to absolute black.
"Sometimes I doubt what I saw," he admitted inwardly. "But every time I close my eyes, I see her—over Mason—drinking, roaring like some ancient beast."
A flash—blood spilling down a perfect jawline.
He shook his head.
He couldn't afford to break now, shivering in fear in the middle of the city.
Then—footsteps over the ice.
He turned.
A feminine silhouette blurred through the rain curtain and ducked under the same awning, bumping his shoulder.
Her perfume—fresh gardenias—cut through the storm, impossibly out of place in that freezing night.
She lifted her face, rain streaming down her cheeks, and for a heartbeat, Liam's pulse stuttered as if recognizing something his mind refused to name.
"I'm sorry," the woman whispered, brushing a wet strand from her forehead with a movement so graceful it seemed choreographed. "The ice made me slip."
He opened his mouth, but his greeting stumbled out awkwardly.
Her dark brown eyes caught the streetlight, glimmering with playful curiosity.
"It's fine," he managed. "We're both prisoners of the weather tonight."
She smiled—and the small curve of her lips seemed to ignite the darkness.
They shook hands. Her skin was freezing, as if her blood had never known warmth.
"Alessia," she said.
"Liam Thomas," he replied.
His surname echoed faintly against the metal shutter, and something flickered in her gaze—a spark of recognition, or perhaps delight—gone as quickly as it came.
He joked about how pocket umbrellas were useless against Canadian hail; she laughed, crystalline and bright, and for a moment they both stood in a fragile, warm bubble amid the downpour.
The wind picked up again, hailstones bouncing by their shoes.
Across the street his sedan waited beneath the storm, a gray wolf curled under the fury of the sky.
"My cars over there," he said. "I could give you a ride home—if you're brave enough to cross this frozen hell with me."
Alessia narrowed her eyes, weighing risks others would never see.
Then she smiled, serene.
"I accept," she murmured. "But you'll have to share your coat, sir."
He slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
Her stillness was glacial—yet the touch sent a vibration through his arm, half alarm, half strange yearning.
They laughed when a chunk of hail struck the briefcase he used to shield her head.
They ran—Liam leading, Alessia gliding beside him as if barely touching the ground.
Hail pelted their backs like furious birds.
When they reached the car, breathless, only their mingled panting filled the fogged-up interior.
The cabin light revealed her face—high cheekbones, red lips, droplets sliding along her jawline.
Liam met her eyes for a moment too long, feeling a spark that was not just attraction but something deeper, more dangerous.
She broke the silence with a teasing laugh about surviving a "polar bombardment."
He laughed too, easing the tension.
"Straight home, or should we hunt for something warm first?" he asked, turning the key.
"Only if you need warmth as well," she said, her gaze locking onto his like an invisible grip tightening around his chest.
He drove through streets shimmering with ice until they found a cozy jazz café in Kitsilano, its sign glowing faintly gold: Orpheus Jazz & Bites.
Inside, the air smelled of cinnamon and toasted bread.
Soft bass lines rippled through amber light.
They sat by the fogged window.
A pink-haired waitress brought towels and steaming cups of chai.
While drying his hair, Liam spoke—about his sterile accounting job, about the novel he'd never finished because nights still brought memories no publisher would believe.
Alessia listened, slightly leaning forward, her fingers intertwined. Every so often her feline eyes flashed when his voice trembled near the edges of trauma.
"Since that night, I've been… lost," he confessed, turning the cup between his fingers. "Like my compass broke."
She took a sip, the rising steam curling around her pale face.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "losing the compass is the only way to find the map you never knew existed."
A shiver crept through him.
Something in her words rang too familiar—like an echo from his dreams.
He watched her; the warm light revealed faint blue veins beneath skin too white for someone so alive.
When she touched the table, her fingers left a small patch of cold.
He blamed the rain.
They traded small stories, laughed at trivialities. The storm eased until the rain fell timidly, barely there.
Outside, the air smelled of clean asphalt and distant sea.
He drove her home in companionable silence—to a modern building near False Creek.
At the entrance, she slipped off his jacket and handed it back.
Their fingers brushed. The touch burned slowly through his skin.
Her eyes lifted; her smile softened, sincerity breaking through her mask of charm.
"Thank you, Liam," she whispered. "You're… different."
He searched her face for irony and found none.
"Can I see you again?" he asked.
She tilted her head, a cat considering its prey.
"We'll see if fate allows it," she murmured.
She disappeared inside; the hallway lights flickered on one by one in her wake.
Liam stood on the sidewalk, pulse racing, a strange sweetness humming in his chest.
From his car, he looked up at the fifth-floor window—no faces, only a moving shadow behind the curtain. He wanted to believe it was her.
Upstairs, behind the wavering fabric, Alessia rested her fingertips on the cold glass, following his taillights until they vanished down the street.
"So much time… and here we are again."
Her hands trembled slightly—nerves, or anticipation?
She let the curtain fall, smiling faintly, satisfaction hiding something far older.
That night, Liam fell asleep late, fevered by excitement and disbelief.
The clock read 3:00 a.m. when he finally sank into restless sleep.
He dreamed of a marble corridor reflecting a starless sky.
At the far end waited Anna Viktorie, wrapped in a black dress that shimmered like a raven's wet wing.
As she advanced, the marble turned into a dark lake, each step freezing into crystalline ripples.
Liam tried to retreat, but the floor held him fast.
Anna touched his chest with a fingertip; heat seared beneath the fabric. Her eyes darkened until the light died inside them.
The kiss came slow—first a ghostly brush, then the firm pull that opened his mouth, filling him with the taste of mint and molten copper.
Pain flared at his pierced lip, but euphoria drowned it, spilling through his veins until he moaned.
She drew back just enough to whisper against his bleeding lips:
"The second time… always hurts more."
The clock blinked 3:33 a.m. when Liam jolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat.
He stumbled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection.
These damn dreams… should I be looking for help? he thought.