Chapter Eighty-One: London’s Fog and the Invitation

After completing the transaction in Vatican City, I began searching for the whereabouts of the next spirit stone.

Yi Yi seemed deeply fascinated by the classical culture of Europe, so I took her across the English Channel to another city steeped in history—London.

Unlike Rome’s radiant sunshine and Florence’s artistic atmosphere, London greeted us with its iconic, slightly damp and chilly mist. We stayed at the Savoy Hotel by the Thames. From our window, Big Ben loomed faintly through the haze, resembling a tranquil oil painting.

“Father, the air here smells… like a book after the rain,” Yi Yi leaned against the windowsill, describing the sensation in her own unique way.

“A very apt comparison,” I chuckled, draping a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. “It’s the scent of history settled into the air.”

Our days here were even more leisurely than in Italy. During daylight, we visited the British Museum. I recounted the stories behind the ancient artifacts from every corner of the world—Egyptian stone tablets, lost porcelain from China. Yi Yi listened intently, her sketchbook filling with mysterious jars and vessels adorned with intricate patterns.

In the evenings, we attended West End musicals. When the familiar melody of “The Phantom of the Opera” filled the theater, Yi Yi was utterly captivated by the grandeur of the stage and the compelling drama, her face alight with concentration.

I savored this peace. Watching a play with my daughter was a warm and novel experience like no other.

I already knew that the “Heart of Cain” rested deep beneath this city, held by an ancient clan of bloodlines. But I was in no hurry. Like a patient hunter, I understood that sometimes the finest prey would come to you of its own accord.

Especially when this “prey” fancied itself the hunter.

On our seventh night in London, I was playing chess with Yi Yi in our hotel room. She learned quickly and was already matching me well.

Just as her little knight captured my bishop and she grinned in triumph, the door was gently knocked.

Knock, knock, knock.

Three taps—neither too light nor too heavy, exceedingly polite.

The hotel staff would never disturb us at this hour. My mind swept out, sensing nothing outside the door.

But I knew—it had arrived.

I rose, opened the door, and found the corridor empty. Only a beautifully crafted card lay quietly on the carpet.

The card was black, its edges embossed with dark golden rose patterns. I picked it up. Elegant, calligraphic English, reminiscent of medieval manuscript scribes, was written upon it:

“Esteemed visitor from the East:

London’s fog welcomes all mysterious and powerful souls. Yet even in the densest mist, your radiance is a bit too dazzling.

If you do not mind, allow this humble shadow to prepare a glass of ‘SangUiS VirginiS’ (the Blood of the Virgin) for you tomorrow night under the rising moon, so we may enjoy the moonlight together.

The address will find its way beneath your feet.

Your humble neighbor,

A. ThOrne”

Yi Yi curiously leaned over. “Father, what’s this?”

“An invitation,” I smiled, flipping the card. On the reverse, a seal of red wax bore the image of a heart entwined with thorns.

“A very… English invitation from our ‘neighbor’.”

The following evening, after dinner, I dressed Yi Yi in an elegant deep blue velvet dress, while I donned a tailored black suit.

“Father, are we really going? That ‘neighbor’ feels a bit odd,” Yi Yi adjusted her dress, a hint of caution on her face.

“Of course we are. It would be rude to decline such a gracious invitation,” I tied a lovely bow for her and smiled. “Besides, haven’t you always been curious about the vampire castles in stories? Tonight, we’ll see one for real.”

When midnight struck, I took Yi Yi’s hand and stepped out of the hotel.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom, classic and without any license plate, waited silently at the curb. The driver, dressed in a tailcoat, was pale as though he’d never known sunlight. He opened the door for us with the grace of a butler.

Inside, there was not a sound; the ride was so smooth it felt as if we were gliding across velvet. The streets outside whipped by, until the car entered a remote estate shrouded in dense fog.

A vast, quintessential Gothic castle emerged beneath the moonlight, its silhouette wrapped in thorny vines. This was the “residence” mentioned in the invitation.

Led by the butler, we entered the castle. Contrary to expectations, the interior was not grim or frightening, but radiated extraordinary luxury and taste. A roaring fire blazed in a massive hearth, priceless classical paintings adorned the walls, and Bach’s “Air on the G String” drifted through the air.

At the end of a long gallery, a man stood with his back to us before a grand floor-to-ceiling window, admiring the moonlit scene outside.

He turned, revealing a strikingly handsome face, almost otherworldly. He appeared about thirty, with long silver hair casually tied behind him, skin pale from years out of the sun, and deep violet eyes brimming with centuries of loneliness. He wore a perfectly tailored vintage suit, every gesture steeped in aristocratic elegance.

“Welcome, mysterious power from the East,” he bowed slightly, executing a flawless noble salute. “I am Alistair Thorne, master of this dilapidated stone house.”

“Jiang,” I replied calmly.

Alistair’s gaze lingered on Yi Yi, a flicker of amazement and admiration in his violet eyes—yet without any improper desire.

“And this young lady, so lovely as an elfin shadow of the night,” he bowed again. “Please allow me to apologize for my earlier intrusion. After all, when a being as powerful as yourself appears suddenly in my ‘dining area,’ it would be rude not to say hello.”

His tone carried a unique, leisurely English humor, making “predation” sound like a discussion of afternoon tea.

“Your ‘dining area’?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, an unfortunate metaphor,” he shrugged gracefully. “I mean, the whole of London’s night is the Thorne family’s back garden. You are like a diamond suddenly dropped into the pond—far too conspicuous.”

He snapped his fingers. A pale-faced maid brought two exquisite crystal glasses: one filled with liquid as red as blood, the other bubbling with pale pink juice.

He handed the juice to Yi Yi, then raised his own glass to me in a gesture.

“So, Mr. Jiang,” he smiled, revealing a pair of faintly visible fangs, “let us talk. About why you are here—and about your rather… ‘healthy’ aura of life. What, exactly, is that all about?”