Chapter 1: The Rise and Fall of Derek Callahan

Derek Callahan wasn’t just the most powerful dark lord the supernatural underworld had seen in a thousand years—he was their Jesse James, their Keyser Söze, a name that sent chills down even the bravest monster’s spine. His legend was the kind that haunted American ghost stories, the stuff of late-night horror marathons and whispered warnings in dive bars across the country.

His name carried an electric charge in the air—whispered at midnight in the rain-slicked alleys of New Orleans, invoked over bourbon and candlelight in backroom conjure shops from Brooklyn to Baton Rouge. Every creature that slithered, stalked, or soared in the shadows waited for the day he’d rally them, ready to follow him up to the very gates of Heaven, guns blazing and magic roaring. Sirens would wail in the distance, neon lights flickering, the scent of bourbon thick in the air—a storm brewing in every American city where monsters hid.

But fate had other plans. Before Derek could seize his destiny, he was ensnared by a phoenix-witch with eyes like wildfire and a smirk that could break a thousand hearts. She drew him into the Heavenly Council’s trap, leaving his soul scattered to the winds and his legend tarnished in a single, shattering moment.

It was the kind of betrayal folks would murmur about for centuries at the Rusty Nail Saloon in Memphis or at the crossroads outside Clarksdale. The underworld reeled, hope crashed, and every would-be rebel nursed their wounds over cheap beer and heartbreak. It was the oldest con in the book, and for all his power, Derek never saw it coming.

I risked everything to seize a single wisp of his essence, then hid like a stray dog beneath the crumbling bridges of Chicago, nourishing him with my own blood for five hundred years before finally bringing him back.

I became a shadow in the world of men—living in the cracks, the forgotten places, haunting abandoned subway tunnels in New York and rundown cabins in the Ozarks, nursing that faint spark of him with my blood, day after day, year after year. I watched the world change: the Civil War’s cannon smoke, the birth of jazz on Bourbon Street, the hum of highways snaking across the land, the awe of moon landings watched on static-filled TVs. All the while, I bled for him in silence, clutching that sliver of soul like a secret too dangerous to share, remembering the night I watched the first fireworks on the Fourth of July, wishing he could see them too.

Adversity reveals true devotion; distance tests endurance. Each drop of blood I gave, each year I spent hiding, I hoped Derek would finally see who truly cared for him—who’d stood by his side through the worst of it all, and who he’d choose to stand beside him in the end. My hands shook with longing at the memories, my chest tightening with every sacrifice, every lonely night spent waiting for a sign.

I told myself that when he woke—when he was whole again—he’d see me, really see me, for the first time. That he’d realize who’d been there all along, who’d sacrificed, who’d loved him in the dark and the cold. That maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be the one. My hope kept me up at night, fingers tapping restlessly, sleepless as the city outside my window.

I expected that after his rebirth, he would follow the script straight out of a Hollywood blockbuster—the dark lord bathing the Celestial Heights in blood, vengeance on his mind. Who could have predicted that instead, he’d get tangled in a tragic romance with the goddess of the Celestial Heights? A thousand years ago, that little phoenix betrayed him, stabbed him in the back, and then killed herself for love. When Derek learned this, he forgave all her betrayal, as if he’d been cast in a star-crossed lovers’ drama.

The story played out like a Southern gothic ballad—think "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" but with monsters, blood, and forgiveness. He was the villain, she the tragic heroine, and I—well, I was just the shadow at the edge of their stage, watching him give away the heart I’d saved.

Fine, let them have their tragic romance. I accept defeat; I won’t accompany him any longer.

I tried to tell myself that was enough, that I could walk away with my dignity. But the ache in my chest said otherwise. I clutched my chest, pacing the floor, trying to convince myself I could let go. In the end, I was always the one left holding the pieces.

Yet I never expected that love would be theirs, and suffering would be mine. Before I left, Derek held the last wisp of the little phoenix’s essence and said to me, "Morgan, if you could use your blood for five hundred years to bring me back, you can surely bring her back too, right?"

His words were soft, almost pleading, but there was a cold edge beneath them—his voice tight, his hand pressing the feather into my palm like a business deal. My blood and pain had become just another currency to buy back his lost love.

That night, I dreamed of Derek again. In my dream, he asked, "Do you really like me? Will you never betray me? Dig out your heart and let me see."

His voice echoed in the darkness, cold as the Mississippi River ice in January, but I could feel the desperation beneath it. The old wounds, the old doubts, the endless need to be sure—like he could only trust what he could see, what he could hold, what he could hurt.

A monster’s heart is only bright red for the one they are loyal to and love. Ever since Derek was deceived by the goddess Lila, he’s become suspicious, believing everyone around him is false and harbors ulterior motives—a real Tin Man story, always looking for a heart he can trust.

It’s the curse of the betrayed: never trusting again, always looking for the knife in the dark. I understood it, even as it hurt. In this world, monsters or not, trust is a dangerous luxury.

But I can’t blame him. The first time he gave his heart, he was tricked so thoroughly that even his soul was scattered. I’d wrap myself in an old flannel blanket, light a candle in the darkness, and remind myself that at least now he was armored. At least now, he wouldn’t be anyone’s fool.

At least now, he’s armored, and I can pretend I’m protecting him, even as I bleed.

At least he won’t be fooled by a woman a second time.

I told myself it was a kind of progress, a kind of victory. Maybe I was just lying to myself.

I obediently reached into my chest, grasped the weakly beating heart, and calmly dug it out into my palm. The bloody heart was still attached to blood vessels, blood dripping from my hand onto the ground. I groaned in pain. I really am a lowly creature with many hearts; if I lose one, another will grow. Digging out my heart is a small matter for me.

The pain was sharp, hot, like pressing your hand to the hood of a car left in the July sun. Blood pooled in my palm, thick and bright, the metallic scent filling the air. I bit down on a scream, forced a smile. For Derek, I’d do it again and again, until there was nothing left but scars and memories.

But the heart is still a monster’s lifeline. No matter how many hearts I have, it still hurts to be cut open. Yet when Derek saw the vivid, crimson heart in my palm, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. I knew he was reassured.

He reached out, tracing a finger through the blood, his hand trembling, eyes hungry and uncertain. That smile—God, I’d have given anything to see it for myself, not just as proof of my pain. But it was enough. For a moment, he believed me.

I smiled faintly too.

It was the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry. The kind you give when you know it’s all slipping away, but you have to pretend you’re fine.