Under the Cursed Moon - CH - 85

Dr. Ivy Kestrel had never wanted power.
She wanted truth.
The kind written in ink so ancient it cracked like old skin. The kind that was buried beneath myths, erased by rulers, and twisted into bedtime stories for generations.

She was a historian—not just by profession, but by obsession.

And it was that obsession that led her straight into the cold, eternal hands of the Volturi.

The archives beneath the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze were not open to the public. But Ivy—then still a young postgraduate researcher—had charmed and begged her way into the hidden floors.

That was when she found a set of 17th-century journals, written in a dialect no one had seen in centuries. The author wrote of “cold gods,” of immortal rulers who lived among humans, watching, hiding.

She believed it was symbolic at first—poetic paranoia.

But the ink had a smell like dried blood.

Two nights later, a man with red eyes and a velvet coat knocked at her rented door. His name was Corin, and he spoke softly, like someone always standing at the edge of a cliff.

"You want to know the truth of history, Ms. Kestrel?" he asked. "Then come see the ones who lived it."

They didn’t threaten her.
They tempted her.

A library hidden beneath Volterra, with tomes bound in thick leather, scrolls written by civilizations erased from the world, maps charting kingdoms that no longer existed.

They didn’t ask her to join the Volturi.
They asked her to serve alongside them.

“We cannot walk in sunlight,” Aro had said to her, smiling thinly. “And there are some doors that open only to the living. But you, Ivy… you can walk between worlds.”

She had hesitated.
For one night.
Then she said yes.


Ivy, now known locally as Dr. Kestrel, leaned over a work table inside the Forks library. Her notebook brimmed with interviews, folklore, and census records. But her true entries—the ones in the leather-bound Volturi codex hidden inside her suitcase—held very different observations:

Day 12: Confirmed location of Black family business. Phoenix Equipment Factory is embedded in community. All Quileute leadership tied to them economically.
Day 13: Magical residue detected in park area near Black mansion perimeter. No visible entry points. Assumed layered wards. No breach attempt made.

The work was exhausting. But it was also exhilarating.

Real history… is here.

Ivy had never seen herself as a traitor to humanity.
In her mind, she was a custodian of truth.

What governments covered, what religions erased, what kings and lords buried—vampires remembered.

She didn’t kill. She didn’t feed. She didn’t lie.

Not to herself.

But she had made her choice the day she stepped into Volterra.
To the Volturi, she was a tool.
To herself, she was a seeker.

That night in her room, as she sipped wine and transcribed notes, her cellphone vibrated faintly.

She whispered: “Hello—Dr. Kestrel.”

Aro’s voice came through in a whisper:

“You are progressing well. Avoid contact with the Blacks until Riven secures influence. Hermione Granger will be cautious if your entry point is social, not academic. We will send no further orders unless crisis arises.”

The call ended .

Ivy looked into the mirror, then at herself—her eyes, her hands, the notebook she held filled with pieces of stolen lives.

She whispered to herself, “This is what it takes to learn the truth.”

And she turned back to her writing.


It was on a cloudy Thursday afternoon, just after Hermione had finished reviewing production reports at the Phoenix Equipment Factory, that Sue Clearwater caught her near the tea station in the admin wing.

“Saw someone who might interest you,” Sue said, handing Hermione a cup of steaming cinnamon tea. “Historian. Real one. Name’s Dr. Ivy Kestrel. She’s been spending days at the Forks library, digging through old township records.”

Hermione raised a curious brow. “A historian in Forks?”

Sue grinned. “Yeah. Said she’s working on a book. She even asked me if the tribe kept oral records from the first timber barons and settlers. I told her I’d ask around… but she might want to speak to you. You’re the one who’s got half the old Pacific coast folded into your vault.”

Hermione gave a small, intrigued smile. “Hmm. Historian, you say? Alright. Set it up.”

The meeting was casual, unceremonious—Hermione was reviewing a shipment chart in the community hall when Sue brought Ivy over.

“Dr. Kestrel,” Sue said, “this is Hermione Black. The one I told you about.”

Ivy extended her hand politely, dressed in practical travel slacks and a neutral brown coat. “Hermione. It’s an honor.”

Hermione shook her hand with a curious tilt of the head. “So, you’re the historian who’s been haunting the library?”

Ivy smiled faintly. “Guilty. Forks has more texture than I expected. You don’t often find a town where half the oral legends line up with scattered territorial maps from the 1800s.”

Hermione chuckled, interested already. “You must be getting all sorts of strange looks in town.”

“Only from the ones who think the town’s history starts with their grandparents,” Ivy replied.

Sue smirked. “Told you you’d get along.”

Hermione folded her arms thoughtfully. “You’re not American?”

“Born in Boston. Studied in Florence. Spent five years chasing stories about the Pacific migrations. I like to follow where the truth hides.”

“I can relate to that,” Hermione said with a nod.

They sat for a short while on one of the benches behind the factory, sipping tea as trucks rolled by in the distance.

“I take it you’ve already seen the public archives?” Hermione asked.

Ivy nodded. “What little’s been preserved. Mostly lumber contracts and Catholic parish records.”

“I’ve got something more interesting than that,” Hermione said after a pause. “When we were renovating the Black Mansion and found a chest sealed behind a false wall in the cellar. It’s older than anything we’ve dated so far in Forks. Possibly pre-Seattle. Diaries, land maps, charts, and something that might be a timber ledger written in a French-Algerian dialect.”

That got Ivy’s attention—but not too much. She tilted her head mildly. “You don’t say.”

Hermione smiled at her reaction. “You’re not begging. I like that.”

Ivy shrugged. “I’m here to see, not to take. But I would like to look.”

“Well, I’m not giving them away,” Hermione said firmly, “but I’ll let you photograph some if you bring a good lens.”

“I have one,” Ivy replied. “Canon EF 50mm. High clarity. And I take careful notes.”

Hermione reached into her bag, retrieved a worn slip of parchment, and scribbled down her address.

“Next Sunday, then. Morning. The house is warded, so just knock. No one gets in without invitation.”

“Understood,” Ivy said, folding the note carefully and slipping it into her coat.

As Ivy walked back toward town that evening, she kept her pace steady and face neutral. Her pulse barely rose—her training from Volterra ensured that.

But inside, she was buzzing.

Inside the Black Mansion, she thought. Documents. Possibly magical. Older than Seattle. Protected, yes—but visible. Accessible.

She reached into her satchel once she got to her room and opened her Volturi field log.

Hermione Black contact established. Offer extended to view private historical documents at Black Mansion on Sunday. Will bring equipment. Advise non-intrusive scanning. Initial approach successful—academic respect gained.

She underlined the next entry twice:

Target trusts me.


Lysara had never feared battle.
She had fought in the fire-pits of Lhasa, scaled the snow-choked ridges of the Carpathians, and drained assassins in the tombs of Alexandria.

But this—

This was worse than any war.

She was bored.

And not just bored in the passing sense of a long night—she was eternally bored, in the way only a vampire can be when they are ordered to do nothing but watch.

No talking.
No feeding nearby.
No direct contact.
No action.

Only the endless gaze through lenses and shadows.

Lysara crouched high above Forks’ tree line, her high-powered binoculars pressed to her eyes. She shifted slightly on the branch, adjusting the angle.

In the clearing far below, she saw Renesmee playing with Rosalie, the hybrid girl laughing.

And nearby, Edward Cullen, watchful and calm.

She knew better than to focus too long on Edward—his gift worked on the present, and if her thoughts wandered…

Pine needles. Rain. Pine needles. Rain. Pine needles. Rain.

She repeated it over and over in her mind like a broken mantra until the moment passed.

Still, her frustration built with every hour.

“Remain unseen.”
“Avoid confrontation.”
“Do not interact with the other agents.”
“Do not hunt in Forks.”
“You are not there to act. Only to see.”

She had committed every line of Caius’s orders to memory.

They had assigned her to Forks because she had survived hundreds of years with complete obedience and invisibility. She was the best ghost they had.

But Lysara was not built for shadows.
She was a hunter.

The sun was low when she slipped silently out of the forests and made her way down toward the highway. A grey hoodie covered her face, her red eyes concealed behind a pair of tinted glasses.

Seattle was her salvation.

The city buzzed with noise and indifference. Crowds pulsed through the streets, music boomed from bars, and neon lights gleamed off rain-slick sidewalks. It was loud, chaotic, teeming with potential prey.

But she never fed openly. Never without control.

She had her methods—late-night predators, those who walked behind women in alleys, those who whispered cruel things into their phones. Those were her targets. The ones no one would miss.

That night, she found one easily. A man following a young woman into a parking garage.

Lysara stepped from the shadows before he could reach his victim. The woman screamed and fled.

“Go,” Lysara whispered to her, almost gently.

Then she dragged the man into the dark.

Later, perched on the rooftop of a vacant hotel, Lysara stared out across the Seattle skyline.

Blood still stained her shirt. Her eyes burned gold, then slowly cooled.

She pulled out the small black stone given to her by Aro—an enchanted piece, no larger than a coin. She pressed it between her fingers, and a pulse of red shimmer flickered in its core.

She whispered aloud, voice bitter.

“This is madness. I’m a weapon, not a scout.”

But no response came. There never was one. Not unless she failed.

She pocketed the stone again.

“You are the eyes.”

The words echoed in her mind.

By the fourth week, the tension was getting worse.
She hadn’t spoken to another vampire.
She hadn’t had a real conversation in over twenty days.

One night, as she watched the Cullens from afar—her telescope trained on the mansion’s upper balcony—she saw Riven laughing with Emmett and Jasper.

They handed him a hunting blade. He looked proud. Smiling.

That made Lysara’s hand tighten around the scope.

He gets to speak. He gets to walk among them. And I sit in a tree like a corpse with a heartbeat.

The forest canopy above Forks swayed gently in the morning breeze. Thin rays of sunlight pierced through gaps in the needles, illuminating patches of moss far below.

High above, nearly hidden in the shadowed heights of a massive Douglas fir, Lysara lay still, perched on a hand-built platform no wider than a table. Her black cloak blended perfectly into the bark.

She moved slowly, deliberately, adjusting the scope of her high-powered telescope to fix on a second-story window of the Cullen house.

Through it, she could see movement—Renesmee and Bella sitting together with a book. Edward passed through occasionally. Everything was calm.

And that was when she felt it.

A gentle tap—on her shoulder.

Her entire body went stiff. She whirled around, fingers curling, a hiss rising in her throat.

And there, standing on the narrow edge of the wooden plank like it was solid ground, was a child. A small boy with wild black hair, clear eyes, and a curious grin.

“What are you looking at?” he asked innocently.

Lysara blinked—completely stunned.

How did he…?

“How did you get up here?” she asked before she could stop herself.

The boy tilted his head. “I climbed,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I always climb trees. My dad says I’m part squirrel. What are you looking at?”

Lysara stared, searching his face for signs of trickery, but there was none. Just curiosity. And wonder.

“…I’m watching animals,” she said slowly, trying to regain control of the situation. “That’s all.”

His eyes lit up. “Really?! Can I see? Can I have a turn?”

Without knowing why, Lysara found herself handing the telescope to him.

The boy crouched beside her, squinting through the lens.
A few seconds later, he gasped, “Whoa! There’s a deer! A big one!”

Then he looked up at her, beaming. “This is so cool! I’m Teddy. What’s your name?”

Lysara hesitated.

“…Lysara,” she said quietly.

“Hi, Lysara!” he chirped. “This is the best hiding spot I’ve ever seen. Did you build this?”

“I… yes.”

“That’s awesome! You must be really good with trees.”

And so, without planning it, without understanding how or why, Lysara found herself talking.

They sat together, her legs folded, his swinging off the edge of the platform as they passed the telescope back and forth.

She pointed out a pair of red-tailed hawks circling above.
He showed her a fox creeping through a distant fern bed.

They talked about different animals, the best climbing trees, and which mushrooms were cool-looking but definitely not for eating.

Teddy spoke endlessly—about his mom, who was super smart, and his dad, who was “the best father ever,” and about his best friend Ness, who knew how to surf and beat him in chess sometimes.

Lysara mostly listened.
But it was the first real conversation she had had in weeks.

And strangely, it didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like a breath of air after drowning.

As the sun climbed higher and the air warmed, Teddy rested his chin on his knees.

“You know, you don’t talk like the people around here,” he said.

Lysara raised an eyebrow. “And how do I talk?”

“Like you haven’t said anything in a really long time. Like someone who’s really tired of being quiet.”

That made her pause.
And then—unexpectedly—she smiled. Just a little.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“I get that from my mom,” he said proudly. “So… can I come back and watch animals with you again?”

Lysara considered it, weighed the danger, thought of the Volturi’s strict orders.

And then she looked at the boy—bright-eyed, kind, clever.

“…If you can find me again,” she said.

Teddy grinned. “Deal!”