The road wound through the quiet Scottish countryside, the city of Edinburgh fading behind them until only fields stretched in every direction. At the end of the lane, standing solitary among the grass and stone walls, was the house: three stories tall, its slate roof dark against the pale sky, its windows reflecting the last light of day.
Étienne de Valois stopped first, his polished shoes crunching on gravel. He tilted his head, studying the building with the faint smile of someone who had seen countless homes but still appreciated the charm of a new one. His scarf fluttered in the wind, and he adjusted it with the same elegance he carried into every gesture.
"Solid," he murmured in French, then switched to English for his companion. "It will do nicely."
Lukas Schneider came up beside him, carrying a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. His stride was steady, his sweater dusted faintly with flour from the bakery he had left only hours earlier. He looked at the house with practical eyes, not romantic ones. "It's big," he said simply. "Plenty of space. Better than the flat above the ovens."
Étienne chuckled softly. "Ah, but the smell of bread at dawn was not so terrible."
Lukas gave him a look — calm, patient, the kind of look that said he had heard Étienne's jokes before and would hear them again. Then he pushed open the gate, and together they walked to the door.
Inside, the house was already furnished. The living room held a broad sofa, a sturdy table, shelves lined with books. The kitchen gleamed with polished counters and neatly stacked plates. Upstairs, bedrooms waited with clean sheets, wardrobes, and curtains that swayed faintly in the draft.
Étienne moved through the rooms like a conductor inspecting a stage before a performance. He touched the spines of books, tested the piano in the corner, opened drawers with curiosity. Lukas, meanwhile, checked the kitchen, opened cupboards, and tested the oven with the practiced eye of a baker.
"This will work," Lukas said, closing a drawer of silver cutlery with deliberate care.
Étienne's smile thinned at the sight of silver, but he said nothing. Instead, he lit the fireplace, and soon the room glowed with warmth.
That evening, they sat together in the living room. Lukas brewed tea, Étienne poured himself a glass of red liquid that looked like wine but was not. The fire crackled, shadows danced across the walls, and for the first time the house felt alive.
"You know what I am," Étienne said lightly, his tone cheerful but edged with truth.
Lukas nodded. "And you know what I am."
There was no fear between them. No surprise. They had known from the start. The vampire and the werewolf — two creatures bound by secrecy, now sharing a roof.
Étienne raised his glass. "To coexistence."
Lukas lifted his mug. "To peace."
They drank.
The next morning, Lukas rose early, cycling to the bakery before dawn. Étienne returned late from the hospital, his coat smelling faintly of antiseptic. Their paths crossed in the evenings, when they shared meals and stories.
The house became theirs. Étienne filled the study with journals and medical texts. Lukas planted herbs in the garden behind the house. They lived quietly, as men rather than monsters, though the truth lingered beneath the surface.
And though they did not yet know it, others would soon join them. A diplomat with sharp eyes, a young policeman with questions, and the bonds of friendship that would be tested by hunger, suspicion, and pain.
For now, though, the house in the fields stood as a sanctuary — a place where two unlikely companions began their shared life.