The Salvatore School had barely recovered from the dryad's tragic end when the next shadow fell. It began with graves disturbed in the old cemetery outside Mystic Falls—dirt churned, headstones cracked, and bodies missing.
Alaric noticed first, during one of his late-night patrols. Dorian confirmed it with research: necromancy. Dark, old-school magic that twisted death into puppetry.
The Necromancer arrived like a bad vaudeville act gone wrong. He was tall, gaunt, dressed in tattered black robes that looked like they'd been stolen from a Renaissance fair.
His skin was pallid, eyes glowing with sickly green light, and his voice carried the theatrical boom of someone who loved hearing himself talk. He didn't sneak in—he announced himself.
He appeared at the edge of the school's barrier just after dusk, standing atop a mound of freshly turned earth, arms spread wide. "Mortals and monsters alike!" he bellowed. "Bow before the Almighty Necromancer, master of life and death, harbinger of—"
Alaric cut him off with a shovel to the back of the head. The blow landed with a satisfying thunk. The Necromancer crumpled, unconscious.
But that was only the beginning.
They dragged him to the cellar beneath the old mill—Alaric's improvised holding cell for particularly chatty threats. Chains enchanted by Josie and Lizzie bound him to a chair.
The squad gathered: Hope, the twins, MG, Kaleb, and Landon (James). Rafael's absence still hung heavy, but the group was tight.
The Necromancer woke with flair. He blinked, shook his head, then laughed—a deep, echoing cackle. "Oh, bravo! A shovel. Classic. But death? Death is merely a suggestion to me."
He flexed. The chains rattled but held. His eyes locked on Landon. "You. The phoenix boy. Malivore's little mistake. Hand over the knife, and perhaps I'll make your death quick."
Hope stepped forward, Malivore knife in hand. "You're not getting anything."
The Necromancer grinned, teeth too sharp. "Oh, but I will. I was erased by Malivore. My name, my power—gone. Forgotten. But I'm back. And I want my legacy restored. The knife goes to the pit. Or I raise every corpse in this town and let them feast on your precious school."
He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened at first. Then the ground trembled. Outside, moans echoed—zombies clawing their way up from graves. Dozens. Maybe more.
Chaos erupted.
Alaric barked orders. "Protect the perimeter! Hope, stay with the knife!"
The squad rushed out. Hope hesitated, glancing at Landon. "You good?"
James nodded, calm. "I've got this."
He stayed behind as the others fought the rising dead. The Necromancer watched him, amused. "Alone with me, phoenix? Bold. Or stupid."
James closed the cellar door. The sounds of battle faded to muffled thuds and spells crackling. He turned, eyes steady.
"You talk a lot," James said.
The Necromancer leaned forward. "I am legend. You are nothing. A vessel. A glitch. Malivore will—"
James raised a hand. Water rose from the damp cellar floor—cool, clear, coalescing into a perfect sphere. Then another. He shaped them lazily, like a child playing with clay. The Necromancer's smirk faltered.
"Water?" he scoffed. "How quaint. I control death itself."
James smiled. "I control what I imagine."
He flicked his wrist. The water orbs shot forward, hardening into razor-sharp blades mid-air. They sliced through the chains like butter. The Necromancer lunged, necrotic energy crackling from his fingers.
James sidestepped, fire blooming in his palms—phoenix flames, hotter, brighter, edged with golden embers. He didn't burn the Necromancer outright. No. He played.
A whip of flame lashed out, wrapping the Necromancer's wrist, searing flesh. The creature howled, pulling back. James followed with water—freezing tendrils that snaked around legs, immobilizing.
The Necromancer laughed through pain. "You think this hurts? I regenerate!"
James tilted his head. "Good. Makes it last longer."
He toyed with him. Fire to scorch robes, water to douse and freeze, alternating. The Necromancer tried spells—summoning shadows, raising skeletal hands from the dirt floor—but James countered effortlessly. A trident formed from water, long and gleaming, hovering beside him.
The Necromancer's bravado cracked. "Enough games! Give me the knife!"
James stepped closer. "No."
He summoned the phoenix fire fully. Flames erupted around him, wings of ember spreading. The heat was oppressive, but controlled. The Necromancer shrank back.
"You... you're not just the phoenix boy," he whispered.
James's voice was low. "I'm more."
With a thought, the water trident shot forward. It pierced clean through the Necromancer's chest, straight into the heart. Ice spread from the wound, cracking ribs, freezing blood. The creature gasped, eyes wide.
"No... impossible..."
James twisted the trident. "Permanent this time."
The Necromancer convulsed once, then went still. The green glow faded from his eyes. No dramatic monologue. No last curse. Just silence.
James withdrew the trident. It dissolved into mist. The body slumped, lifeless.
Outside, the zombies collapsed—puppets with cut strings.
James emerged from the cellar. The squad stared, breathless from the fight.
Hope rushed over. "What happened?"
"He won't bother us again," James said simply.
Alaric looked at the body being dragged away. "You killed him?"
"Permanently," James confirmed.
No one questioned it further. Relief washed over them. The threat ended before it escalated.
Two hours later, the school settled into uneasy quiet. The moon hung high, silver light spilling through windows. Most students slept, exhausted from the battle.
Hope's room was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight across her bed. She lay on her back, shirt ridden up slightly in sleep, exposing the smooth plane of her stomach.
Her breathing was deep, even—oblivious.
James slipped in silently. The door clicked shut behind him. He stood for a moment, watching her. The kiss by the lake replayed in his mind. The phoenix fire in his soul hummed, approving.
He approached the bed.
Kneeling beside her, he leaned down. His lips brushed her exposed stomach, soft skin warm under his touch. He lingered at her navel—kissing deeply, tongue tracing slow circles, tasting salt and warmth. It was intimate, possessive, playful. He savored it, letting the moment stretch.
Hope stirred faintly—a soft sigh—but didn't wake. Her body relaxed deeper into sleep.
James pulled back, lips tingling. He watched her face. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Then the air shimmered.
A holographic screen appeared, floating above the bed.
You have kissed Hope on her navel, causing her to awaken her vampire side which was dormant, resulting in her transforming from a hybrid to a tribrid, which is necessary to kill Malivore.
James stared. The text glowed briefly, then faded.
No fanfare. No explanation. Just fact.
Hope remained asleep, chest rising and falling steadily. Oblivious to the monumental shift inside her. Witch, werewolf, now fully vampire. Tribrid complete.
James exhaled slowly. The phoenix lineage pulsed in agreement. This was necessary, for Malivore, for the endgame.
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, gentle. Then slipped out as quietly as he'd come.