Meanwhile, far across the ocean in Europe, in a quiet corner of Norway, there was no music, no chandeliers, and no champagne. There was only snow.
It lay deep and white over the hills, and it ran all the way down to the edge of a black fjord that shone like a mirror under the pale sky. At the top of a tall hill, among old pine trees, stood a great stone manor. It was so old that the moss had grown over half of its walls, but every window was spotless, and every lamp in its halls was lit. The maids moved through its corridors without a sound. The butlers walked with their hands behind their backs and their chins held high. Nobody ran, nobody shouted, and nobody laughed too loudly. It was a place where every step was careful.
In the largest room of the manor, a man sat in a tall velvet chair by a window.
It was an enormous chair, carved from dark wood, with arms shaped like the claws of a bird. He sat in it the way a king sits on a throne, with one leg crossed over the other and his back perfectly straight. In one hand he held a thin porcelain teacup, and in the other, its saucer. A silver pot steamed quietly on the small table beside him.
His hair was a dull, dirty silver, like old coins that had been left out in the rain. A thick black streak ran through the front of it and fell between his eyebrows. His eyes were red, a deep and gleaming red, like wine held up to a candle. They were calm eyes. They looked like the eyes of a man who had seen everything under the sun and had been bored by most of it.
He took a slow sip of tea and gazed out of the window at the snow.
Then he stopped.
It was a very small stop. His cup remained at his lips, and his eyes remained on the window. But something in the room had changed, and he felt it at once, the way a man feels a draft from a door that no one has opened.
He lowered the cup. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the sky.
Outside, a flock of black birds had been drifting over the fjord. Now they hung in the air like paper cutouts, with their wings wide and their beaks open. A single snowflake floated in front of the glass, and it did not fall. The smoke from the chimney of a distant farmhouse stood in the air like a gray pillar. Even the waves of the fjord had frozen, and the water was now as still as glass.
Behind him, the room had gone silent.
Two maids who had been whispering by the door stood with their mouths half open. A butler who had been carrying a tray of cakes was caught in the middle of a step, with one foot raised and his tray tilted in the air. A single cake hung above the tray, suspended in the air, as if it had decided to stay there forever.
The man in the chair did not seem alarmed. He raised his cup again and took another sip.
"Hmm," he said. "It seems that someone is stopping time."
His voice was low and calm. It was the sort of voice that never needed to shout, because everybody leaned in to listen.
"But how can that be?" he asked the silent room. "The only person I know who could manipulate time was none other than Dietrich. But Dietrich is dead. Well, he did die after he gave up all of his powers so that he could live with his wife and his son."
He paused and tapped one long finger against the edge of the saucer.
"What was the son's name again?"
He frowned. He seemed to search for it for a moment, as a man searches his pocket for a coin that he is sure was there a minute ago.
"Ahh, yes. Max."
He put a finger to his cheek and tapped it twice. A faint smile touched his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.
"Though," he murmured, "I do wonder who."
The silence stretched on. The snowflake did not fall. The birds did not move. The man sat in the middle of the frozen world and sipped his tea, as if he were waiting for a bus.
Forty seconds passed.
Then, all at once, the world breathed in.
The birds on the other side of the glass flapped their wings and wheeled away over the fjord. The snowflake fell. The smoke from the chimney began to curl again. Behind him, the two maids picked up their whispering exactly where they had left off, and the butler took his next step, and the cake dropped neatly onto the tray with a soft pat. None of them had any idea that anything had happened. For them, there had been no pause at all.
But the man in the chair had noticed every second of it.
His eyes changed.
The red in them deepened and darkened until it was nearly black, like blood in a bowl of shadow. They gleamed with a quiet and terrible light. He turned his gaze toward the window, and it seemed to pass right through the glass and the snow and the mountains. He looked across the hills and down to the highways far below, where tiny cars were beginning to move again, one after another, and where the people on the sidewalks had started to walk. He looked farther still, out across the sea, as if there were a place on the other side of the world that he could see as clearly as his own hand.
He saw nothing there that he recognized. It was only a feeling, like the shape of a footprint in the snow after the person who made it had gone.
His eyes slowly returned to their usual crimson. He took one more sip of tea, then set the cup down on the saucer with a soft clink. He reached out and picked up a small silver bell from the table, and he rang it twice.
Ting. Ting.
For a minute, nothing happened. Then the heavy double doors at the end of the room opened, and a man stepped inside. He walked quickly but without any noise, as if his shoes did not quite touch the floor.
He was a tall man with black hair that was combed neatly back from his forehead. His skin was perfectly white, like candle wax. His eyes were a gleaming red, a little brighter than his master's. He wore a black butler's coat with a silver chain, and he stopped three paces from the chair and bowed with his hand across his chest.
"Why did you call me, my lord?" he asked.
The man in the chair did not turn his head. His eyes were fixed on the window.
"Herman," he said, "call all the members of the Vampir Councir. Also call the vampire witches in every country. Do it quickly, and tell them this."
He paused.
"Tell them that Alejandro Theodoro Tepes Van Wilhelm calls them to a meeting."
Herman's back straightened. It was the name of the Strongest Elder of the Vampir Councir, and he knew what it meant when it was spoken in that tone.
"Tell them," Alejandro continued, "that an intruder has entered this world and committed a grave violation. This intruder has stopped the time of the entire world."
Herman's eyes widened.
For a moment, the polite mask on his face cracked. His lips trembled. His hands, which had been so neatly folded, clenched into fists at his sides.
"S-such heresy!" he burst out. His voice rose, and it shook with rage. "How dare that bastard use Lord Dietrich's power!"
The words rang through the quiet room.
Then Herman realized what he had done. He gasped and dropped to one knee on the carpet and pressed his hand against his chest.
"Please accept my humble and deepest apologies, my lord!" he said quickly. His head was bowed so low that his forehead almost touched the floor. "It slipped from my mouth. It will not happen again. I was only deeply angered that someone has used the power of the Vampire Prince."
Alejandro finally turned his head and looked at him.
"You do not need to apologize to me, Herman," he said. His voice was calm and almost gentle. "I understand your anger. I am angry, too."
He turned back to the window, and his fingers tightened slowly around the arm of the chair. The wood creaked softly under his grip.
"Someone has manipulated the time of this whole world," he said. "And I had gone to such lengths to forbid even Dietrich from using it. I took that power away from him with my own hands. I kept it sealed for years. And now some stranger has used it carelessly, as if it were nothing more than a toy."
His voice dropped lower. It grew cold in a way that made the candles in the room flicker.
"How dare someone stop time so carelessly."
He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. It was the kind of breath that a man takes when he is trying to push a storm back into a bottle. When he opened his eyes again, the anger was gone, and only a quiet, steady calm remained.
Herman raised his head.
"Then I will do my utmost to call all of them, my lord," he said firmly. He pressed his fist against his heart. "This humble servant of yours will not disappoint you."
Alejandro's lips curved into a faint smile. He lifted his teacup and took a sip, and it was done with the grace of a man who had been drinking tea for six hundred years.
"Then I shall expect great news soon."
Herman bowed once more, stood, and left the room. The doors closed quietly behind him.
The smile slipped from Alejandro's face and left it blank again, as smooth and as empty as a sheet of paper. He sat in the huge chair with his teacup in his hand and looked out at the fjord.
"So," he murmured. "It seems we have visitors. And they are not from this world. They are from another."
The snow kept falling outside. The tea steamed gently in his cup.
He gave a short, quiet snort.
"Haah. This will be interesting."
***
Meanwhile, in a distant land, far from both Europe and America, where no map had ever drawn a border and no traveler had ever set foot, a woman sat on a throne.
It was not a throne made of wood or stone. It seemed to be built out of light itself, tall and white and shining, with a back that rose so high that it disappeared into the ceiling of clouds above it. Around it, a vast hall stretched into the distance, with columns as wide as towers and a floor as polished as the surface of a still lake. The air smelled of olives and marble and the cold sharpness of a battlefield after rain. Far above, where a roof should have been, there were only stars.
She sat with her chin resting on her fist and her other hand draped over the arm of the throne. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were curved in a lazy smile, like a cat who had just heard a mouse in the walls.
"Ohhhhh," she said slowly. "I smell an intruder from afar."
Her voice was rich and deep, with a strange, echoing quality, as if many voices were speaking at once.
"From far, far away. Far beyond this universe."
She tilted her head. She seemed to be listening to something that no one else could hear.
"And they have the power to stop time like this," she said. "Hmm."
Her eyes opened.
They were golden. They were not the soft gold of honey or the pale gold of wheat. They were the gold of the sun at noon, so bright and so pure that anyone who looked into them would be struck completely blind. The light poured out of them in long, glittering beams, and the stars above the hall seemed to dim when she looked at them.
"Emilianias," she said.
She said the name softly, and it carried an old, old anger.
"How dare you let your own creation slip from your watch and travel to this world."
She laughed. It was not a loud laugh. It was low and rich and dangerous, and it rolled across the empty hall and came back from the far walls.
"But do not worry. Soon enough, they shall meet their end."
She raised one hand and watched the light play on her fingers.
"At the hands of the one who speaks the words: 'Kill. Destroy. Devour all civilizations.'"
She said the last words very softly, as if they were a prayer, or a curse. The torches along the walls trembled, and the shadows on the floor seemed to move.
"Emilianias and even me knows how capable that one is," she said to herself, because there was no one else to hear. "After all, that person is the very reason that hatred exists in this world."
Her smile slowly faded.
"If it weren't for him, there would have been no second rebellion in the heavens after Lucifer first rebelled. Hmm. Though I admit, unlike Lucifer who didn't even reach God, and who was defeated by Michael without ever being touched..."
She paused. Her golden eyes narrowed.
"...that person was defeated by none other than his own father."
She drew a long breath.
"God."
The hall seemed to grow colder. A pillar somewhere in the dark gave a small crack, as if it had heard the word and flinched.
"And compared to Lucifer," she went on in a whisper, "he did so much damage to the heavens that only a single city remains. The Silver City, where God resides. Everything else burned."
She was quiet for a moment, and her gaze drifted into the distance. She looked like a woman who was remembering a very old war and a very old wound.
Then, with a soft rush of wind, someone appeared in front of the throne.
-WOOSH!
It was a woman. She dropped to one knee on the polished floor with her head lowered and one fist pressed against her chest, and she held that position without moving, like a soldier before a general.
"I greet the Mistress," the woman said.
Her hair was long and silver, falling past her waist in smooth waves. It shone in the starlight like a river of liquid metal. Her eyes were strange and striking. They did not match. The left was a clear, cool blue, like a winter sky, and the right was a glowing crimson red.
She was a vampire witch, a rare and dangerous kind. And she was the same woman whom Max had met when he was twenty-five years old, back when he was in his prime as a hitman and the world was still afraid of his name.
"At ease, my dear," the golden-eyed woman said. She waved a lazy hand. "Now give me your report."
The silver-haired woman did not rise. She stayed on one knee, with her gaze fixed on the floor.
The golden-eyed woman sighed. She did not seem surprised.
"Seems, my Mistress," the silver-haired woman began, "that the Witch Organization has begun to hunt down Irmela. They are closing in on her. Meanwhile, Harkia has taken positions around the perimeter and is protecting her from them."
The golden-eyed woman looked down at her dead in the eyes. Then she snorted, and it turned into a short, amused laugh.
"Haha. So those fools haven't learned their lesson. Not even after everything that happened." She leaned back in her throne and crossed her legs. "Morgana is dead. She is dust. Why can they not simply move on?"
"That, I do not know, Mistress," the silver-haired woman said. She was still bowing.
"Hmmm." The golden-eyed woman tapped one finger against her cheek. Her tone changed, and became lighter and almost playful. "And how about the other one?"
"The other one?"
"Have you found him yet, my dear?"
The silver-haired woman hesitated. Her brow furrowed. "Who, Mistress? The son of the Half-Blood Prince?"
She meant the son of Dietrich, the quiet man with amber eyes who had once been the most wanted fugitive in America.
"No, no, no!" the golden-eyed woman said, waving her hand with a pout. "Not him. The other one. My dear lover."
She said it in a singsong voice, like a girl speaking about her favorite sweet.
"Oh." The silver-haired woman bowed her head even lower. A faint trace of sweat shone at her temple. "I'm sorry, Mistress. I cannot find him. I cannot feel his presence in this world at all-"
"Mistress Athena," the woman added, correcting herself quickly.
The woman on the throne was none other than Athena.
"Ughh," Athena groaned. She slumped in her seat and pressed her hand to her forehead like an actress in a play. "What a bummer. Ohh well."
Then her smile came back, slow and sweet and a little frightening.
"We will find him soon. Soon enough. And then you will have him, too, my dear. But this time, he will be mostly mine."
She giggled. It was a soft and girlish sound that did not belong in the vast cold hall. Her golden eyes began to change. The light in them slowly curved and softened and stretched, until the pupils took the shape of two glowing hearts.
"My dear lover," she sighed dreamily. "Erronyxius Nyxson."
The name drifted up into the dark and was lost among the stars.
***
Meanwhile, at the ball, Max suddenly turned his head to the side.
"HAAACHOOOO!!!"
It was an enormous sneeze. It was so loud that a waiter carrying a tray of glasses nearly dropped it, and the old lady beside the buffet table gave a small yelp and clutched her pearls.
"Bruh," Max said. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and blinked rapidly. "Am I getting sick?!"
He was holding Bell's hand and leading her across the polished floor, weaving between the groups of chatting guests toward the golden doors of the elevator at the far end of the hall.
Bell raised her right eyebrow and gave him a flat look. "Max. You're a vampire. How can you get sick?"
"I dunno!" Max said. He sniffed and shook his head. "It's weird. It's been happening off and on since I entered this ball. And this is literally the first time that it has ever happened to me. I don't even catch colds."
"Hmm. Let me think."
Bell tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling. She tapped her chin with one finger and narrowed her eyes. It was the face she wore when she stood over a flask in her laboratory and waited for a reaction to complete.
"Aha!" she said suddenly, and she snapped her fingers.
Max looked at her. "Did you get an idea about why I sneeze all of a sudden?"
"Yes!" Bell said, with a proud grin. "It's because someone is talking about you behind your back!"
Max raised his left eyebrow.
For a moment, he only looked at her. Then he slowly lowered his eyebrow, rubbed his chin, and began to nod. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to fit.
"Yeah," he said at last. "Now that you say it, it actually makes sense. It does. I've been sneezing every time, like clockwork. But who here would be talking about me?"
"Maybe." Bell shrugged and gave a little scoff. "But who knows? There are a lot of people in this room who love to gossip."
"Yeah, who knows," Max said. He waved his hand dismissively, and the sneeze seemed to have been forgotten. "But whatever. I really don't give a fuck."
"Yeah, don't give a fuck about them," Bell agreed, and she squeezed his hand with a happy smile. The excitement had come back into her voice. "Now, come on! Let's go! Take me to this secret place you keep talking about."
She was practically bouncing on her heels. In her mind, she had imagined it a hundred ways in the last hour, a garden, a rooftop, a secret library, or a room full of stars. She couldn't wait any longer.
Max smiled at her eagerness and nodded.
They reached the elevator, and the golden doors slid open with a soft chime. Inside, the walls were mirrored, and the light was warm. He led her inside, and she stood close to his side, still holding his hand.
The doors closed behind them with a gentle sound, and the music of the ballroom faded into a distant murmur.
Max raised his free hand and looked at the long row of glowing buttons on the panel. Each one had a number engraved on it in silver. His finger moved up past the lower floors, past the meeting room where the investors had gathered, past all the floors that held offices and halls. At last it stopped.
He pressed the button for the number thirteen.
The button lit up with a soft golden glow, and the elevator began to rise.