Under the Cursed Moon - CH - 84

The rain came softly to Seattle, washing the windows of the old brick building where Maltheon had rented a small top-floor studio. The curtains stayed drawn. The lights stayed off. But the man inside was perfectly still, seated in a high-backed chair that hadn’t moved since he arrived.

The city moved noisily below—horns, chatter, music. But to Maltheon, it was little more than distant static.

He was not here to mingle.

He was here to wait.

Maltheon had served the Volturi long before Riven had been born. He had stood at Marcus’s left side during the rise of the southern covens. He had seen centuries of rash choices—newborns who thought speed was power, rebels who thought fire was victory.

But fire died.
And time did not.

“Let the fools burn hot,” he thought. “I will burn slow.”

He knew that Forks was already under the eyes of two foreign vampires—Riven, who had inserted himself directly into the Cullen household, and Lysara, cloaked in the treetops near their land. Two unknowns in a small, tightly monitored place like Forks? It was risky.

Sooner or later, someone would be discovered.
And when they were, the appearance of a third outsider would be unforgivable.

So Maltheon had made a choice.

He would disappear from the board for now.

Let the others push forward. Let them plant seeds and draw attention. When the dust settled, when trust was either gained or broken, he would arrive. Carefully. Casually. Quietly. And no one would think twice of it.

Maltheon had found a quiet bookshop near the edge of the city—a place run by an old man who didn’t ask questions and rarely made conversation. He bought a few books each week: history, philosophy, and poetry. Always with cash. Always wearing gloves.

“Good taste,” the man muttered once, bagging a worn volume of Thoreau.

Maltheon offered a faint smile. “Solitude suits me.”

At night, he hunted deer outside the city limits—only ever animals. He left no trail, no missing persons. His gold eyes, a mark of his restraint, allowed him to walk the streets unnoticed, even in the daylight gloom of Seattle’s constant overcast.

From the window of his apartment, Maltheon kept a leather-bound journal. Each entry was written in an archaic Volturi dialect, invisible to the untrained eye.

“Lysara remains too close. Riven’s shield has earned him tolerance. But two anomalies in Forks will draw suspicion. I will wait.”
“Let them observe the child. Let them gauge the town. My time will come when the tension drops.”
“The boy, Teddy Black, is of interest. Raised by wizards, trained among wolves. If anyone will be the first to sense danger—it is him.”
“But I will be long-gone before he ever sees me.”

Maltheon occasionally wrote coded messages to the Volturi, but only sent them when necessary.

Tonight, he folded one, tucked it in an envelope, and placed it in the bottom drawer of his desk, under a false bottom panel.

He would wait.

Weeks. Months. Years.

To an immortal, it was nothing.

Because the longer he waited, the less dangerous he appeared.

And when the Cullens and Blacks lowered their guard, when their attention turned elsewhere—
That would be the moment he would walk calmly into Forks.

And no one would suspect that the man with the old smile and the gold eyes was part of something far older and colder than anything they had ever known.


Riven had said it without hesitation:

“Blood is blood. What difference does it make?”

That was on his first day in the Cullen home, when Carlisle gently warned him that animal blood wasn’t a substitute—it was a sacrifice.

Emmett had chuckled.
“You’ll see.”

And now… he had.

In the woods north of Forks, Riven crouched over the carcass of a mountain lion, its body still warm. He drank, quickly at first, then slower, his instincts taking over.

But even as the blood slid down his throat, he felt it again:
The ache.

It didn’t vanish.
It lingered, like ash coating his throat, heavy and dull.

His body wanted more.

Not more volume.
More purity.
More human.

That night, Riven stood in Carlisle’s study, pacing like a caged predator.

“It’s not working,” he muttered.

Carlisle, calm as always, watched him from behind his desk. “What’s not?”

Riven stopped. “The blood. I’ve killed two elk and a lion in the last thirty-six hours and I still feel like my throat is on fire.”

“That’s normal at first,” Carlisle said. “Your body is rejecting the shift. It wants what it’s used to.”

“But I’m still thirsty.” Riven looked up, frustrated. “More than before. It’s worse.”

Emmett leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Told you. It’s not about the taste, man. It’s about the urge.”

Carlisle stood and retrieved a sealed medical cooler from the corner of the room.

“This is human blood,” he said. “Donated, sealed, clinical. I use it for study. If you want to understand the difference… we can test it. But if you take it, you’ll need to control yourself.”

Riven hesitated, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Carlisle opened a single blood bag and held it in front of him, letting the scent spread.

Riven’s eyes darkened instantly. His breathing stilled.
Then—

He lunged.

Before Carlisle could react, Riven snatched the blood bag from his hand, tearing into it with desperation.

Blood ran down his chin, splashing onto his shirt, his eyes burning with need, not control.

When he finally dropped the empty pouch, panting like a beast, he blinked slowly, ashamed.

“…I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. “I thought I could… I thought I was better than this.”

Carlisle looked at him with sad understanding.
“You’re not worse than anyone else. You’re just… not ready.”

From the hallway, Edward had been watching silently, and Riven knew it.

Later, Emmett found Riven seated on the roof of the house, staring out at the night sky.

“You alright?” he asked, tossing a can of oil he’d been using on his Jeep.

“No.”

Emmett sat beside him. “You think we didn’t go through this? Ask Edward about the first time he smelled human blood after trying to quit. He nearly threw himself into a river.”

Riven didn’t respond.

Emmett leaned back. “You know what I think? You’re serious about this. You just don’t know how deep it goes. That’s not weakness. That’s just step one.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like burning,” Riven said quietly.

“It does.” Emmett stood. “But the burn means you’re still fighting. That’s something.”


The sunlight was thin that morning—pale and barely warm—but the Cullen house glowed quietly beneath the filtered light, tall trees swaying softly overhead. Inside, the family had dispersed into their usual morning routines.

Riven sat in the lounge with Jasper, a steaming cup of nothing between them. Vampires didn’t drink coffee, but the motion of holding something—pretending—was something Riven understood.

They had been speaking quietly, sharing old war stories and forgotten covens. Jasper, though reserved, had taken a mild liking to Riven’s subtle humor and clipped, observant manner.

“It’s strange,” Riven said, tilting his head, “how much a vampire remembers… but how much we try to forget.”

Jasper gave a quiet laugh. “That’s the real curse of immortality. We’re always trying to rewrite who we used to be.”

Before Riven could respond, the sound of tires crackling over gravel snapped both of their heads toward the windows.

A vintage deep green muscle car, gleaming with chrome and humming with quiet, well-tuned power, pulled into the Cullen driveway.

Riven rose instinctively.

From the passenger side, a young girl with bronze curls and radiant eyes leapt out of the car and rushed straight into Bella's arms.

“Mom!”

“Renesmee,” Bella said with a smile, hugging her tightly.

Edward stepped outside next, greeting his daughter with warmth. “How was the trip?”

Renesmee’s eyes sparkled. “It was… magical.”

And then, from the other side of the car, stepped two adults.

The man was tall, dark-haired, wearing a long coat over fitted clothes and boots caked faintly in dirt. His green eyes took in everything at once with quiet calculation.

Beside him, a woman with flowing brown hair and a brilliant, sharp smile locked eyes with Carlisle, then Alice, and finally—Riven.

They approached calmly, like people who were used to being welcomed, but never unaware.

“Harry,” Carlisle greeted, stepping forward to clasp the man's hand.

“Carlisle,” Harry said with a warm grin.

Hermione gave Esme a brief but affectionate hug. “You’ve redecorated the windows.”

“We had time,” Esme replied with a laugh.

It was Alice who gently ushered Riven forward. “Harry, Hermione, this is Riven—he’s staying with us for a while.”

Harry extended a hand toward Riven. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Riven took the hand, feeling the strength behind the calm grip. There was no tension, no display of dominance, no power game. Just—presence.

“Likewise,” Riven said. “I’ve… heard a bit about you.”

Hermione offered him a small, warm smile. “Oh dear. Hopefully only the good bits.”

“Mostly good,” Riven said, a touch of amusement breaking through his normally composed tone. “Your family has an… unusual reputation. Especially among our kind.”

“We tend to cause that,” Harry replied.

“Were you the ones who took Renesmee on that trip?” Riven asked.

Harry nodded. “We visited some quiet places. I thought she could use a little wonder after everything.”

“Did it help?” Riven asked, glancing toward Renesmee.

The girl had returned to Edward and was now talking animatedly about some underwater glass city they’d seen.

“She says it was magical,” Hermione replied. “That’s enough for us.”

Harry looked at Riven for a beat longer, as though trying to read something beneath the exterior.

“You seem calm,” he said.

“I try,” Riven answered carefully.

“You’ll find calm doesn’t come easy in Forks,” Harry murmured. “The rain is soothing, but everything else is built on sharp edges.”

Hermione leaned slightly toward Riven. “You’re trying the vegetarian path, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Riven admitted.

“Hard, isn’t it?” she said, not unkindly. “Carlisle has tried offering you help, but I imagine he’s letting you build your own strength first.”

Riven looked surprised. “You know about that?”

Hermione gave a knowing smile. “Let’s just say… this town is small. And Carlisle is like a proud parent when he talks about people choosing discipline over indulgence.”

Riven didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded.

“Well,” Harry said, clapping his hands once, “we won’t stay long. Just dropping off Ness. We’ve got another meeting in Seattle.”

He turned to Edward. “Don’t let her talk you into another glass sculpture project. Last time, she distroyed the whole living room.”

Edward sighed, “Too late.”

Everyone laughed softly.

Hermione looked to Riven one last time. “Good luck with your journey. There’s strength in restraint. I hope you find yours.”

“Thank you,” Riven replied, and he meant it.

As the car disappeared into the trees, leaving only the smell of rain and oil behind, Riven turned slowly and walked back into the house.

Later that evening, seated on the edge of his bed, he opened his journal once again.

The hybrid girl is travelling out of America with the Blacks.
Met Harry and Hermione Black. Presence strong. Aura calm.
They do not resemble warriors. Yet everyone—Cullens, Volturi, shapeshifters—respects or fears them.
Why?
He paused, tapping the pen against the page.

I shook his hand. There was no threat. No power.
Just… peace.
But perhaps that is the most dangerous power of all.

He closed the book slowly and stared into the dark woods beyond the Cullen windows.

Somewhere out there, war had already started.

But this man—this wizard—was still smiling.

And that unsettled Riven more than anything.