PROLOGUE
The Horror in the Neonatal Ward
The night shift was always the hardest. Not because of the work—the work in this department was usually quiet. No, it was the silence that made Petra Meyer uneasy. That absolute silence that exists only in hospitals at three o’clock in the morning, when the world seems to hold its breath and even the city outside appears to be asleep.
Petra walked down the corridor of the neonatal ward at the Klinikum rechts der Isar, her rubber soles squeaking softly on the freshly mopped linoleum. The neon light hummed above her, a monotonous buzz she barely noticed anymore after fifteen years on the job. In her hand, she held her clipboard with the checklists. Everything was as usual. Vital signs stable. Temperature constant. Eight newborns, all sleeping peacefully.
She glanced through the window of the nursery. The small cribs stood in two neat rows, each with its name tag. The monitors displayed reassuring green lines—heartbeat, breathing, everything normal.
Petra smiled. This was her favorite part of the job. These tiny beings, so new to the world, so fragile. Protecting them while their parents slept at home, exhausted from the birth and the first exhausting days. It was a responsibility she took seriously.
She walked on to the break room to reheat her coffee. The microwave hummed, and Petra stared absently at the rotating cup. Four more hours until the shift change. Four more hours, and then the morning nurse would take over, and Petra could go home—to her own little son, who had just turned three.
The microwave beeped. Petra took the cup, blew on the steaming coffee, and—
A sound.
Barely perceptible, but there. A faint creak, like a window being opened.
Petra frowned. All the windows on this ward were locked; she had checked them herself. That was protocol. Infants were sensitive to drafts, to temperature fluctuations. And the security rules were strict—all windows had to be locked at night.
She set the coffee down and went back into the corridor. Everything was still. No movement. Maybe she had imagined the sound. Fatigue after a long shift could play tricks on you.
But then she saw it.
At the end of the corridor, near the nursery. The window was ajar. Not wide open, maybe ten centimeters. But definitely open.
A cold draft swept through the hallway.
Petra quickened her pace, her heart suddenly racing. That was impossible. She had personally checked every window less than an hour ago. Every single one.
She reached the window, pushed it shut, locked it with trembling fingers. Outside, Munich lay in darkness, only a few streetlights casting weak pools of light onto empty streets. The hospital courtyard below was deserted.
Petra took a deep breath. Maybe the cleaning staff had left it open. Yes, that had to be it. A simple mistake.
She turned toward the nursery. Through the glass window she could see the cribs, the small figures beneath their blankets. Everything seemed fine.
But when she opened the door and stepped inside, she felt it.
The temperature was different. Colder. As if someone had opened a refrigerator.
And there was something else. A smell. Faint, but unmistakable. Metallic. Like copper. Like—
Blood.
Petra’s breathing quickened. She moved from crib to crib, checking each baby. All were sleeping. All were breathing calmly. Normal little breaths, chests rising and falling in the rhythm of life.
But at the seventh crib, she stopped.
Lukas Berger. Born four days ago. A healthy boy, 3,200 grams, no complications.
He was sleeping, just like the others. But his face was turned upward, and on the left side of his neck were two small red dots.
Petra leaned closer. Her heart was pounding so loudly she thought it might wake the babies.
The marks were fresh. Tiny, no bigger than pinpricks. But clearly visible. And around them, on the delicate baby skin, a faint redness.
“What the hell…” Petra whispered.
She reached for the emergency call button and pressed it. Her gaze flicked back to the window. Had there been a movement? A shadow detaching itself from the window frame?
No. That couldn’t be. They were on the fourth floor.
The door flew open. Dr. Mehmet Yildiz, the physician on duty, rushed in.
“What’s going on? The alarm—”
“The baby,” Petra said, pointing at Lukas. Her voice trembled. “Look at his neck.”
Dr. Yildiz stepped closer and pulled out a small flashlight. He examined the marks, frowning.
“Looks like insect bites,” he said finally. “Two mosquito bites, maybe?”
“In November? On the fourth floor? With the windows locked?” Petra’s voice sharpened. “Doctor, the window was open. I know I had closed it, but it was open.”
Dr. Yildiz looked at her, then back at the baby. He gently palpated the area. Lukas didn’t stir, sleeping deeply.
“The skin isn’t warm. No swelling. No fever.” He took his stethoscope and listened to the heart. “Heartbeat normal. Breathing normal.” He looked at Petra. “It doesn’t look like anything serious. The baby probably scratched himself, or it really was an insect that somehow—”
“That wasn’t an insect,” Petra interrupted. “And the baby didn’t scratch himself. He’s wearing mittens.”
Dr. Yildiz was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “What do you think it was, then?”
Petra opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was she supposed to say? That she had found a window open on the fourth floor? That the air smelled like blood? That she felt watched?
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I want this documented. And I want the parents informed in the morning.”
“Of course.” Dr. Yildiz made notes. “I’ll add it to the chart. Two superficial skin lesions, cause unclear. We’ll observe the baby overnight. If anything changes, call me immediately.”
He left the room, and Petra was left alone with the sleeping infants.
She went back to the window and checked it again. Tightly locked. But as she looked out into the darkness, she saw him.
Only for a moment. Just a heartbeat.
A figure. On the roof of the opposite building. Too far away to make out details. But it stood there, motionless, staring back at her.
Petra blinked.
The figure was gone.
She stepped away from the window, her hands trembling. That had been nothing. Shadows. Fatigue playing tricks on her mind. It had to be.
But for the rest of the night, she stayed in the nursery. Sat on a chair beside Lukas’s crib. Watched the baby. Watched the window.
And tried to convince herself that everything was fine.
The next morning, when Anna and Michael Berger came to visit their son, Dr. Yildiz told them about the “insect bites.” Nothing serious, he assured them. Just a small irregularity. The baby was completely healthy; all examinations were normal.
Anna took Lukas in her arms and pressed him to her chest. “My poor little one,” she murmured, kissing his forehead.
She didn’t notice that his body was cooler than usual. Not by much—just a little. Barely perceptible.
And she didn’t notice how his tiny eyes, when he briefly woke and looked at her, had a reddish shimmer for a moment. Just a moment, then they were their normal brown again.
Michael signed the discharge papers. They packed their things, placed Lukas into the baby carrier, and drove home.
To their beautiful apartment in Schwabing, with the nursery they had so lovingly prepared. With the mobile above the crib, casting little stars onto the ceiling.
Everything was perfect.
Everything was normal.
But that night, when Anna tried to breastfeed Lukas, he refused the breast. For the first time. He turned his head away and began to cry. A high, piercing cry that wouldn’t stop.
And when Anna, desperate and exhausted, prepared a bottle of formula, he drank greedily. But the next day, he refused the bottle as well.
“It’s just a phase,” the pediatrician said. Babies could be difficult sometimes. It would pass.
But it didn’t pass.
And with each day, Lukas grew paler.
With each day, he slept more during the day and was wide awake at night.
And with each day, the two small marks on his neck grew darker. Not larger. But deeper.
As if they weren’t wounds.
But scars.
Scars of something that would return.
Far away from the Bergers’ apartment, in the ancient catacombs beneath Munich’s city center, a figure opened its eyes. Red eyes, glowing in the darkness.
It smiled.
“It is done,” it whispered into the silence. “The child is marked. The seed has been planted.”
Another voice answered from the darkness. Old. Female. Powerful.
“Good. When the time is ripe, we will bring it to us. A child of the night. An innocent vessel. Perfect for our purposes.”
“And if they try to take it back?”
A laugh, cold as ice.
“Then they will fail. Like all before them.”
The figure rose and moved through the winding tunnels, deeper beneath the city. To a chamber where others were waiting. Dozens of them. All with red eyes. All hungry.
The gathering had begun.
And Munich, unaware, slept above it.
End of the Prologue
In three weeks, Erik Schönwaldt would receive the call.
In three weeks, the hunt would begin.
But this night belonged to the shadows.
And the shadows were hungry.
CHAPTER 1
The Invitation
Erik Schönwaldt woke at 3:47 a.m. Drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The dream had come again. Always the same. Always Clara.
She stood over the burning body of the vampire, a torch in her hand. But in his dreams she didn’t turn toward him with that look of release. Instead, she opened her mouth and screamed—a scream that never ended. And the vampire rose again, burned and mutilated, dragging her down into the flames. Again and again. Every night.
Erik sat up and rubbed his face. His apartment was dark; only the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtered through the half-open blinds. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked reproachfully: 03:47. 03:47. 03:47.
Three weeks. Three weeks since Castle Falkenstein. Three weeks since he had watched Clara die. Since he had watched his great-grandparents die. Since he had killed the vampire.
Or had Clara killed it? Erik was no longer sure. The memories blurred, merging into a nightmare of fire and blood and ash.
He got up and went into the kitchen. The linoleum was cold beneath his bare feet. He didn’t turn on the light. Somehow the darkness felt more familiar now. Safer.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Erik opened the refrigerator; the light briefly blinded him. He took out a bottle of water and drank deeply. The water was ice-cold, almost painful. But the pain was good. It distracted him.
The box lay on the kitchen table.
Erik stared at it. For three weeks it had stood there, unopened yet omnipresent. Inside were the remnants of his journey into the darkness. Elise’s letters. The photograph of his great-grandparents in front of the castle. The iron key engraved with the words “West Wing.” A fragment of Clara’s diary he had found in the hall before they left the castle. The small wooden figurine Mr. Bachmann had given him.
Evidence. Memories. Warnings.
Erik had tried to forget them. Had tried to return to his old life. He had gone back to work, tried going out with friends, tried to pretend that nothing had happened.
But the world looked different now.
He saw shadows where there had been none before. He heard things in the silence that shouldn’t have been there. And sometimes, when he walked through the streets, he felt it—a presence, something old, something hungry, lurking in the corners of civilization.
His therapist—yes, he had a therapist now—called it post-traumatic stress disorder. She said the events at his grandmother’s house, the fire, the deaths, had traumatized him. That was normal. It would pass.
But Erik hadn’t told her the truth. He couldn’t. How do you tell someone about vampires? About servants who were a hundred years old? About a castle that didn’t exist on any map?
They would think he was insane. Maybe he was.
But then he looked at the box again, at the evidence, and he knew: it had been real. All of it.
Erik went back to the bedroom, knowing he wouldn’t sleep again. He pulled on a sweater, sat down at his desk, and opened his laptop.
That was the other thing that had changed: the news. Erik used to ignore the news, too busy with his own life. Now he read it daily. Hourly. Looking for patterns. For clues.
For signs.
He scrolled through the online edition of the Süddeutsche Zeitung. One article caught his eye:
Mysterious Deaths on the Rise in Munich
In the past three weeks, five young people have been found dead in Munich, all showing similar symptoms: severe anemia, pale skin, and unexplained wounds on the neck. Authorities are assuming a previously unknown viral infection…
Erik read the article twice. Then a third time.
Five dead. Severe anemia. Wounds on the neck.
His heartbeat quickened.
No. That couldn’t be. The castle was hundreds of kilometers away. And the vampire was dead. Dead and burned to ash.
But what if there were more? What if the vampire of Castle Falkenstein hadn’t been the only one?
Erik stood up and began pacing the room, his thoughts racing.
He remembered the vampire’s words shortly before it died: “You could have been immortal…”
And something Clara had once said, in a lucid moment before the bond pulled her back: “There are more. Many more. In the cities, in the shadows. They hide. They hunt.”
Erik had thought it was delirium. The desperation of a woman who knew she was going to die.
But what if it had been the truth?
He returned to the laptop and continued researching. Other cities, other incidents. Hamburg: three unexplained deaths in the past month. Berlin: a series of “drug-related deaths” with unusual symptoms. Cologne: a pattern of missing homeless people.
Everywhere the same signs. Anemia. Wounds. And authorities blaming illness, drugs, coincidence.
Because they didn’t want to see the truth.
Because they couldn’t believe what Erik now knew: the monsters were real.
He closed the laptop and rubbed his eyes. It was nearly five in the morning. In two hours he had to go to work—to his boring, safe, normal job at an insurance office.
But he wouldn’t be able to focus. He already knew that.
Erik went back to the kitchen and made himself a strong coffee. While the machine gurgled and hissed, he stood at the window and looked out at the awakening city.
Somewhere out there, in Munich, something was killing people. Something the world believed to be impossible.
But Erik knew better.
The question was: what was he going to do about it?
The coffee was ready. Erik poured it into a mug and took a sip. He burned his tongue and swore softly.
And then he saw it.
The letter.
It lay on the doormat, half pushed under the door. Erik was sure it hadn’t been there earlier. He had woken at three o’clock, had walked through the hallway. He would have seen it.
But there it was now.
A cream-colored envelope. No stamp. No return address. Only his name, written in an old-fashioned, flowing script:
Erik Schönwaldt
Erik set the coffee down and walked to the door. His heart began pounding again. Carefully, as if the letter might explode, he picked it up.
The paper felt heavy. Expensive. Old.
He turned the envelope over. On the back was a seal of dark red wax. Pressed into the wax was a symbol: an eye pierced by a sword.
Erik’s hands trembled slightly as he broke the seal.
Inside the envelope was a single card. Heavy, cream-colored paper with an embossed golden edge. The handwriting was the same as on the envelope:
Mr. Schönwaldt,
You have survived what most do not survive. You have seen what most will never see. You have fought the darkness and won—though at a cost.
There are others like you. People who know the truth. People who fight.
The incidents in Munich are no coincidence. They are not a virus. They are what you already suspect.
If you wish to learn more about what lurks in the darkness—and how to fight it—call this number:
089 / 555-0347
Come to Munich. Tomorrow, 2:00 p.m. Café Frischhut at the Viktualienmarkt.
Bring with you what you took from the castle. Especially the key.
We have been waiting for you.
— The Night Watch
Below it was the same symbol as on the seal: the eye with the sword.
Erik read the card three times. His mind struggled to process it. Someone knew about Castle Falkenstein. Someone knew he had been there. Someone knew about the key.
How was that possible?
And who were “the Night Watch”?
Erik went to the box and opened it for the first time in weeks. The smell of old paper and burned wood rose to meet him. He reached for the key and held it up to the light.
The iron key gleamed dully. The ornaments on its handle seemed to shimmer in the morning light, as if they were more than mere decoration. The small plaque read: West Wing.
Why did they want this key in particular?
Erik put the key back and picked up his phone. The number on the card stared at him. 089—Munich’s area code.
He could ignore it. He could throw the letter away, seal the box, and continue his life. Go to work, go to therapy, pretend everything was normal.
But there were those five dead in Munich. People no one had been able to save because no one knew what had really killed them.
And there were the faces of his great-grandparents, Elise and Friedrich, who had been trapped in that castle for a hundred years.
And Clara. Always Clara, who had sacrificed herself so that others could live.
Erik picked up his phone and typed in the number.
His fingers hovered over the green button.
If he called, there would be no turning back. He knew that instinctively. This was the moment his life would take a direction he could never abandon.
Erik thought of the article. Of the five dead. Of the families who had lost someone and would never know why.
He pressed the green button.
The ring tone. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then a voice. Female. Calm. With a slight accent Erik couldn’t place.
“Mr. Schönwaldt. We have been waiting for your call.”
Erik cleared his throat. “Who are you?”
“My name is Dr. Helena Konstantin. I lead an organization that deals with… unusual cases. Cases the authorities do not understand. Or do not wish to understand.”
“The Night Watch.”
“Correct.” A pause. “We have followed your story. Castle Falkenstein. The vampire. Your great-grandparents. What happened there.”
Erik’s grip on the phone tightened. “How do you know about that? The castle… the police couldn’t find it. They think I made it all up.”
“The police are searching with the wrong tools,” Helena said. “They look for things that exist on maps. In registries. But some places exist only… in between. In the cracks of reality most people ignore.”
“You sound insane.”
Helena laughed softly. “Many people say that, Mr. Schönwaldt. Until they experience it themselves.” Her voice grew serious. “But you have already experienced it. You know the darkness is real. That monsters exist. The question is: what will you do now?”
Erik was silent for a moment. Outside, the sun was rising, bathing the city in golden light. A new day. A normal day. For everyone else.
“The incidents in Munich,” he said at last. “Today’s article. That wasn’t a virus, was it?”
“No.”
“And you know what it is.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want from me?”
Helena exhaled. “Your help. We have resources, information, tools. But we need someone like you. Someone who can go into the field. Someone who can face the darkness.” A pause. “Someone who has already hunted—and survived.”
“I’m not a hunter,” Erik said. “I’m just… someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Are you?” Helena’s voice softened. “Or are you someone who made a choice? Who returned to the castle even though he could have fled? Who devised a plan and set a tower on fire to free innocents?”
Erik closed his eyes. Images flashed. The burning hall. Clara with the stake in her hand. His great-grandparents, hand in hand, walking back into the house to die.
“They had no choice left,” he whispered.
“But you did,” Helena replied. “And you made the right one.” A pause. “The people dying in Munich, Mr. Schönwaldt—they have no choice. They don’t even know what is hunting them. But you do. And you can do something about it.”
Erik opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the box. On the key. On the letters from his great-grandmother, written in desperation and hope.
“What about the key?” he asked. “Why is it important?”
“I’ll explain that tomorrow. In person.” Helena’s voice grew more urgent. “Come to Munich, Mr. Schönwaldt. Listen to what we have to say. After that, you can still decide to walk away. But give us—give these people—a chance.”
Erik went to the window and looked down at the street. People were heading to work, carrying coffee cups, hurrying to subway stations. Everything normal. Everything safe.
But it was an illusion. He knew that now.
“Tomorrow, 2 p.m.,” he said. “Café Frischhut.”
“I’ll be there.” Helena sounded relieved. “And Mr. Schönwaldt?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. You’re making the right decision.”
She hung up.
Erik stood at the window for a long time, phone in hand. The sun climbed higher, driving away the shadows. But Erik knew: the shadows always returned. As soon as the sun went down.
And this time, he would be ready.
He called in sick at work. Then he packed a bag. Clothes for a few days. Toiletries. And the box. The entire box with everything he had taken from the castle.
At eight o’clock in the morning, he left his apartment.
At nine, he was on the train to Munich.
At two p.m., his new life would begin.
But Erik didn’t know that yet.
All he knew was this: he could no longer look away.
The darkness had called him.
And this time, he would answer.
CHAPTER 2
The Café at Viktualienmarkt
Munich greeted Erik with a gray sky and the smell of rain.
The main train station was overcrowded, a sea of people pushing through the halls. Announcements boomed from the loudspeakers, blending with the screech of trains and the hum of thousands of conversations. Erik stood still for a moment, the box tucked under his arm, his travel bag in his hand, and let the wave of noise and movement wash over him.
It had been three years since he’d last been in Munich. A weekend trip with friends—beer in the English Garden, tourist stuff at Marienplatz. He’d liked the city back then: lively, but not as hectic as Berlin. Cozy, in a very Bavarian way.
Now it looked different.
Erik couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something had changed. Maybe not the city itself, but his perception. He noticed the shadows beneath bridges, the dark corners between pillars. He noticed people who looked too pale, too thin, their eyes glassy from lack of sleep—or from something else.
Stop it, he told himself. Not every homeless person is a vampire. Not every shadow is a threat.
But the paranoia refused to fade.
Erik followed the signs to the subway. The Night Watch had sent him an address—a hotel near Viktualienmarkt. Nothing special, but clean and affordable. And most importantly: close to the meeting point.
The subway was packed. Erik had to stand, squeezed between a man who smelled of cigarettes and a young woman so absorbed in her phone that she didn’t notice her handbag bumping against Erik’s leg. He held the box tightly against his chest, instinctively protecting it.
The key was inside. And the letters. And all the other things that proved he wasn’t insane.
“City Center,” the automated voice announced. Erik pushed his way out through the crowd.
The rain had started—fine, persistent. Erik pulled up the collar of his jacket and made his way through the pedestrian zone. The hotel was easy to find—a narrow building wedged between a souvenir shop and a Turkish takeaway.
The room was small but clean. A narrow bed, a wardrobe, a tiny bathroom. Erik placed the box on the desk, the bag on the bed, then stood at the window and looked down at the street.
People hurried past, umbrellas overhead, rushing from shop to shop. Normal people with normal lives. Jobs, families, worries about bills and relationships.
Did Erik envy them? Or did he pity them for not knowing what lurked in the shadows?
He checked the time. 12:37 p.m. More than an hour until the meeting.
Erik showered and changed into fresh clothes. Then he took the key out of the box and held it up to the light.
In daylight, it looked even more ordinary than at night. Just an old iron key, rusted and heavy. The ornaments were barely recognizable, worn down by time and use.
But when Erik held it in his hand, he felt it. A kind of warmth. A pulsing, almost like a heartbeat.
You’re imagining it, he told himself. It’s just metal. Just a damn key.
But then he remembered how the key had glowed in the subway depot. How it had created a barrier that trapped the vampire. How Clara had said, “It doesn’t just open doors…”
Erik slipped the key into his jacket pocket. The pocket felt heavier than it should have.
At 1:45 p.m., he left the hotel.
Viktualienmarkt was only a five-minute walk away. Erik walked slowly, taking in his surroundings. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still hung low, making the day gloomy and gray.
The market was crowded. Stalls selling fruit and vegetables, meat and cheese, flowers and spices were packed closely together. The smell was overwhelming—a mix of fresh bread, grilled sausages, herbs, and the sweet scent of overripe fruit.
In the middle of the market stood a maypole, surrounded by beer garden tables. And at the corner, in an old building with a green façade, was Café Frischhut.
Erik stopped in front of the entrance. Through the windows he could see the interior—rustic wooden tables, a counter with a glass display full of pastries, old photographs on the walls. It looked cozy. Normal.
But Erik knew: nothing was normal anymore.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The café was warm, filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. About a dozen tables, most of them occupied. Tourists bent over city maps. Locals reading newspapers. An elderly couple silently eating cake.
And in the farthest corner, at a table by the window, sat a woman.
Erik recognized her immediately, though he had never seen her before. There was something in the way she sat—upright, alert, her hands folded around a coffee cup. She watched the door, watched him, and when their eyes met, she gave a slight nod.
Dr. Helena Konstantin.
Erik walked over to her table. With each step, he studied her, trying to form an impression.
She was in her mid-forties, he guessed. Elegant in a timeless way—dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, a dark blue pantsuit, minimal jewelry. Her face was striking: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes of an unusual gray. Intelligent. Alert. And tired—the kind of tiredness that didn’t come from a sleepless night, but from years.
“Mr. Schönwaldt,” she said as he reached the table. Her voice was the same as on the phone—calm, controlled, with that slight accent. Eastern Europe, perhaps. “Please, have a seat.”
Erik pulled out a chair and sat down. He draped his jacket over the back but kept his hand in his pocket, feeling the weight of the key.
“You brought it,” Helena said. It wasn’t a question.
“How do you—”
“It shows.” A small smile. “The way you hold your pocket. Protectively. As if you were carrying something valuable. Or dangerous.”
Erik slowly withdrew his hand. “Probably both.”
“Probably.” Helena signaled to a waitress. “Would you like something? The coffee here is excellent.”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
The waitress came, took the order, and left. Helena waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.
“I assume you have questions.”
“Thousands,” Erik said. “But let’s start with the most obvious one: who are you?”
Helena leaned back. “I’m a historian. Specializing in European mythology, folklore, and… occult phenomena. I’ve taught at various universities—Vienna, Prague, Oxford. But ten years ago, I left the academic world.”
“Why?”
“Because I learned something the academic world couldn’t accept.” She looked him straight in the eye. “The myths are true. Not all of them, not exactly as they’re told. But there is a core of truth in them. Vampires exist. And they have existed as long as humans have.”
The waitress brought Erik’s coffee. He took a sip—hot and strong—and let her words sink in.
“The Night Watch,” he said. “What is it?”
“An organization,” Helena replied. “Very old. Very discreet. Founded in the thirteenth century by a group of monks who realized that the world needed protection from what lurks in the darkness. Over the centuries, it has evolved, changed. Today, we’re no longer monks. We’re scientists, historians, former soldiers, priests—people from all walks of life. But we all share the same goal.”
“Killing vampires.”
Helena shook her head. “Not necessarily killing. Protecting. Maintaining balance. There are vampires who live peacefully, who don’t hunt humans. Who follow the rules. We have no conflict with them.”
Erik stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Helena’s face was serious. “The world is more complicated than you might think, Mr. Schönwaldt. Good and evil aren’t absolute categories. There are vampires who were once human, who didn’t choose to be turned, who try to hold on to their humanity. Who drink only animal blood. Who help others.”
“And the vampire at Castle Falkenstein? Was that one of the ‘good’ ones?”
Helena’s gaze hardened. “No. Absolutely not. What happened there… that was one of the worst forms of vampirism. A predator that held innocents captive, tortured them for decades. What you did—killing it—was the right decision.”
“I didn’t kill it,” Erik said quietly. “Clara did. And it cost her her life.”
“I know.” Helena’s voice softened. “We’ve heard about her. About everyone who died in that castle. And we honor her sacrifice.”
Erik clenched his fists. “If you knew about the castle, why didn’t you help? Why did you leave them there?”
“Because we only learned about it three weeks ago.” Helena leaned forward. “The castle was hidden, Mr. Schönwaldt. Not just physically, but… magically. It existed outside the normal world. We’d heard rumors, old stories from the Black Forest. But no one could find it. Until you did.”
“I had the letters. The GPS coordinates.”
“You had more than that.” Helena’s eyes glinted. “You had a blood connection. Your great-grandparents were there. The castle called to you because you belonged to the family. That’s why you could find it where we failed.”
Erik took another sip of coffee, trying to organize his thoughts. “What about Munich? The five dead?”
Helena’s expression darkened. “That’s why we contacted you. The situation here is… complicated. And potentially catastrophic.”
She took a tablet from her bag, unlocked it, and slid it across the table to Erik. On the screen were photos. Autopsy photos.
Erik forced himself to look. Five bodies. All young, between twenty and thirty. All with the same pale skin, sunken eyes. And all with the same wounds on the neck—two small punctures, clean, almost surgical.
“The official explanation is a new form of anemia,” Helena said. “Caused by an unknown virus. The authorities believe the wounds are insect bites.”
“But they’re not.”
“No.” Helena scrolled further. “The blood was extracted. Not drunk. Not on site. It was drained with precision. As if it were being collected for something.”
Erik looked up. “For what?”
“That’s the question.” Helena took the tablet back. “Normally, vampires kill through exsanguination—they drink the blood directly. Fast. Efficient. But here… someone is being methodical. Collecting blood. And we believe it’s for a ritual.”
“What kind of ritual?”
Helena hesitated. “We’re not entirely sure. But we’ve found… indications. In old texts. In prophecies. There is an event some vampires seek to bring about. An event that would multiply their power.”
“What kind of event?”
“The Eternal Night.” Helena’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “A darkening of the sun. Not global, but local. Munich would be plunged into darkness, and vampires could hunt freely. Day and night. Thousands would die.”
Erik leaned back. It was too much. Too big. “That’s… that sounds like science fiction.”
“It sounds impossible,” Helena corrected. “But much of what you’ve experienced sounded impossible too—until you saw it.” She looked at him intently. “We have three months to stop them. The summer solstice. June 21. On that day, the ley lines are strongest. If they can complete the ritual…”
“Then Munich becomes a vampire city.”
“Yes.”
Erik rubbed his face. “And what does this have to do with me? I’m not a soldier. Not a mage. I’m just—”
“You’re someone who defeated one of the most powerful vampires in Europe,” Helena interrupted. “You’re someone who showed courage. Intelligence. The ability to make decisions under pressure.” She placed her hand on the table, almost as if she were about to reach for his, then stopped. “And you have something we need. The Soul Key.”
There it was. The real reason.
Erik pulled the key from his pocket and placed it on the table. In the café’s dim light, it looked unremarkable. Old. Harmless.
Helena stared at it as if Erik had laid a treasure before her.
“May I?” she asked.
Erik nodded.
Helena carefully picked up the key, turned it, examined the ornaments. Her fingers traced the engravings, and Erik could have sworn the key began to glow faintly.
“Remarkable,” she whispered. “I’ve only read about such keys. I thought they were myths.”
“What is it?”
Helena gently set the key back down. “An artifact from a time when magic and science weren’t yet separate. Forged by alchemists, probably in the fifteenth or sixteenth century. It doesn’t just open physical doors, but also… barriers. Between life and death. Between reality and… something else.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous.” Helena met his gaze. “In the wrong hands, this key could unleash unimaginable horrors. But in the right hands… it could be the weapon we need to stop the ritual.”
Erik took the key back, feeling the pulsing again. “And you think I have the right hands?”
“I think the key chose you.” Helena smiled faintly. “These things… they have a will of their own. They choose their bearers. It led you out of the castle. Helped you defeat the vampire. That wasn’t coincidence.”
Erik put the key away, suddenly feeling very tired. “What do you want from me, Dr. Konstantin?”
“I want you to join us. The Night Watch. We’ll train you, give you the tools and knowledge you need. And together, we’ll hunt the vampires responsible for the deaths.” She leaned forward. “But above all, I need you to help me save Munich. Help me prevent the Eternal Night.”
“And if I say no?”
Helena’s gaze grew sad. “Then I’ll respect your decision. You can leave, return to your life. We’ll try to manage on our own. But…” She hesitated. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly return. Not after what you’ve seen. The darkness has touched you, Mr. Schönwaldt. It will never let you go.”
Erik looked out the window. Outside, people on the market went about their everyday business. Buying vegetables, laughing, making phone calls. The world kept turning, unaware of the threat lurking beneath their feet.
He thought of the five dead. Of their families. Of the people who would die if no one acted.
And he thought of Clara. Of her smile just before she died. Of her words: “For all of us.”
Erik turned back to Helena. “I have one condition.”
“And that is?”
“No secrets. You tell me everything. About the vampires, the ritual, your organization. I want to know what I’m getting into.”
Helena nodded slowly. “Agreed. Full transparency.”
“Then I’m in.”
For the first time, Helena showed a genuine smile. “Welcome to the Night Watch, Mr. Schönwaldt.” She stood and extended her hand. “Or may I call you Erik?”
Erik stood as well and shook her hand. Her grip was firm, warm. “Erik is fine.”
“Perfect.” Helena released his hand. “Then let’s go. I want to show you where we work. And introduce you to the team.”
“Team?”
“You didn’t think I did this alone?” Helena laughed softly. “No, Erik. The Night Watch is larger than you think. And everyone has a role.” She placed money on the table for the coffee. “Come. It’s time you learned the truth about Munich.”
They walked toward the door. But before Erik stepped outside, Helena caught his arm.
“One more thing,” she said seriously. “From now on, your life will be dangerous. The vampires we hunt—they hunt us too. You must stay alert. Always. Trust no one blindly. And if you ever feel like you’re being followed…” She looked him straight in the eye. “Don’t run. Fight.”
Erik nodded slowly. “Understood.”
They stepped out onto the market. The clouds had parted, and a weak beam of sunlight broke through. But Erik saw the shadows between the stalls, the dark corners where the light didn’t reach.
And he knew: Helena was right.
The darkness would never let him go.
But this time, he wouldn’t run.
This time, he would strike back.