Bloodlines: The Blood Witch

Chapter One

Morgan

Arizona, Present Day

They say fire is cleansing.

Whoever said that never had to bury their parents because of one.

The sun was too bright for a funeral. My hair dark as a kindness of ravens gently tossed in the dry heat. Arizona didn't believe in mourning weather. The sky was clear, and the air was dry and cracked like old pottery. I stood in black, sweat prickling down my spine, facing two caskets that felt too small for the lives they held.

They told me it was a kitchen fire. Quick. Fatal. Nothing left. But that didn't make sense. My father checked the stove twice every night. He unplugged everything before bed. We never even lit candles. He was always afraid something—or someone—was watching us.

And now they were both gone.

My mother, Luna, who smelled like wild sage and vanilla, who sang to me in Spanish when I couldn't sleep.

My father, Ronan, the man who never stayed anywhere longer than a year but loved like a hurricane.

Gone. Just like that.

People mumbled condolences as they passed me. Distant relatives. An old neighbor. Someone who once met my mom at a swap meet. I nodded and thanked them. My voice felt like it belonged to someone else.

I was about to leave when I noticed him.

He wasn't part of the crowd. He stood off to the side, half in shadow beneath the twisted limbs of a mesquite tree, watching me with an expression too careful to be casual.

And he didn't look like he belonged here. At all.

Tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly polished despite the dusty cemetery, he wore a charcoal-gray suit that looked custom tailored. His blonde hair caught the sun like woven gold, just messy enough to suggest he didn't try too hard. And his eyes—God, those eyes.

Cornflower blue. Electric. Almost inhuman in their clarity. The kind of eyes you didn't forget, even if you wanted to.

He started walking toward me, smooth and composed, like the heat and dirt and grief around us didn't touch him.

"Miss Morgan Doran?" he asked.

His voice was British, precise but warm, the kind that could make reading a parking ticket sound intimate.

I nodded warily, his storm blue eyes meeting my forest greens. "Yes."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, with a sincerity that didn't feel rehearsed. "My name is Callum Rook. I'm the executor of your grandfather's estate."

I blinked at him. "My grandfather?"

"Argus Doran. Your father's father. He passed away recently."

My stomach tightened. "You must have the wrong person. My dad told me his parents were long dead."

Callum's gaze didn't falter. "Your father ran away when he was seventeen. There was no contact after that. But your grandfather kept track of you. He made provisions. You're his sole heir."

I stared at him. The words didn't feel real. My parents had just died. I was still waking up in hotel rooms forgetting where I was. Now this stranger with storybook looks was telling me I'd inherited some estate from a grandfather I never knew?

"What kind of estate?" I asked cautiously.

"A house," he said. "A very old one. Located in Boston. Along with family records, assets, wealth that could sustain you in multiple lifetimes, and... certain heirlooms that must be handed over in person."

There was something in the way he said it—deliberate. Like he was skipping parts on purpose.

"Why me?" I asked, my throat dry. "Why now?"

"Because you're the last of the Doran line," he said quietly. "And the estate requires a blood heir."

There was that word—blood. It didn't sit right. It felt ancient, like it belonged in a story, not a legal conversation.

I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how surreal this was.

The funeral. The heat. This man, standing too close and too composed, talking about inheritances like I wasn't still in shock.

He watched me carefully, but not unkindly. "I know this is a lot. I don't expect you to make any decisions today. But when you're ready, we'd like to bring you to Boston. The transition has to be done in person."

"I'm in college," I murmured.

"You can return after. If you choose." He paused. "But I would encourage you not to wait too long."

"Why?" I asked. "Is something wrong with the house?"

There was the faintest pause. "Old places... tend to wake up when a new heir arrives. Best not to keep them waiting."

It was such an odd thing to say, I almost laughed. But the way he said it—gentle, almost apologetic—made my skin prickle.

"And you?" I asked. "How do you fit into this?"

"I've worked for the Doran estate for several years," he said. "I was appointed by your grandfather to handle his affairs." He glanced down, almost sheepishly. "I'm twenty-seven, before you ask. Young for a lawyer, I know."

That surprised a breath of laughter out of me. "I wasn't going to say anything."

He gave me a small smile, and I hated how it made my stomach twist. Like the grief had cracked open something I didn't know was vulnerable.

He handed me a folder — crisp, embossed, weighty in my hands.

"If you decide to come," he said, "I'll be there to receive you."

He started walking back toward a sleek black car parked under the low branches. But just before he reached it, he paused and looked back.

The desert light caught his face in profile. Sculpted. Sharp. A face out of some myth, beautiful in a way that didn't feel entirely safe.

"For what it's worth, Miss Doran," he said quietly, "you weren't forgotten."

Then he slipped into the car, started the engine, and disappeared down the dusty road.

And I stood there, staring at the spot where he'd been, with the heat burning my skin and the folder burning a hole in my hands.