Lockwoods At The Doorstep
Carol Lockwood had seen grandeur before—ballrooms dripping in chandeliers, estates built on old money, and mansions that screamed prestige. But nothing quite compared to the haunting magnificence of the Black Palace.
She had driven past it more times than she cared to admit, always stealing glances at its towering black stone walls and gothic spires, as if it held the secrets of a time long forgotten. The Salvatores were old money, sure, but the Blacks? The Blacks were something else entirely. Ancient. Untouchable. Regal in a way that made even Mystic Falls' wealthiest look like mere peasants. And now, after decades of silence, after the grand estate had lain abandoned like a relic of a forgotten dynasty, someone had returned.
And not just anyone. A young girl from England. A Black. The last of them.
Carol and Richard Lockwood had been keeping a close eye on the estate ever since news of its restoration began circulating among Mystic Falls' elite. They had watched as teams of craftsmen worked meticulously on the carved archways, the marble balustrades, and the celestial murals that lined the interior ceilings. Even untouched, the estate had always been immaculate, but now? Now, it was a statement.
They needed to meet her.
Not just because she was a Black, not just because she would hold a seat on the city council by sheer birthright, but because whoever she was, she was going to shake up the very fabric of Mystic Falls. And Carol Lockwood, for all her grace and composure, was not about to be left out of the loop.
So, with a carefully curated selection of sweet treats—because, of course, first impressions mattered—the Lockwoods made their way up the winding drive of the Black Palace. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of ivy and old stone, and as they crossed the grand wrought-iron gates, Carol couldn’t help but feel the weight of history pressing down upon her.
She had envied this house once, coveted it even. But tonight, she wasn’t here to dream about owning it.
Tonight, she was here to meet the girl who did.
Richard Lockwood prided himself on being a man of logic and foresight, but even he couldn’t shake the unease that settled in his chest when he first heard the news.
An heiress of one of the most noble houses in Britain, a duchess, had left her duchy, her wealth, her power, to move into the Black Palace—a house that had stood empty for decades, despite its undeniable claim as one of Mystic Falls’ grandest estates. And not just any heiress.
The true heiress.
The main-line Black.
Not one of the secondary branches that had once been involved in the founding of Mystic Falls, but the direct descendant of the family’s ancient bloodline. So why was she here? Why now?
Something wasn’t adding up.
As he and Carol ascended the elegant stone pathway, their eyes were drawn to the sleek, jet-black Rolls-Royce resting in the estate’s garage. Richard froze mid-step.
That car.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
Only three had ever been made.
One belonged to a Sheikh in Dubai, one was still unowned, and the third?
It was sitting right here.
Richard exhaled sharply, glancing at his wife, whose composed expression barely hid the gleam of utter shock in her eyes. He had seen old money before, but this? This was generational, the kind of wealth that whispered rather than shouted because it didn’t need to prove a damn thing.
A distant neigh pulled his attention to the sprawling lands surrounding the estate, where two majestic horses—one a striking obsidian black, the other a silver-coated beauty—galloped freely across the rolling fields. Their coats shimmered under the dying amber light of the evening sun, moving with the kind of elegance that only came from priceless breeding.
Richard had seen wealth. But this?
This was something else entirely.
As they stepped onto the patio, a sudden tingling sensation coursed through him, subtle, strange, electric, as though he had unknowingly walked through some invisible threshold. His wife shivered slightly beside him, her brows furrowing for a fleeting second before smoothing over into her usual poised expression.
Before he could dwell on it further, he raised his hand and knocked on the grand ebony doors.
Silence.
Then, another knock.
This time, the doors swung open—and standing before them was a young woman no taller than 5’6”, dressed in what could only be described as effortless opulence.
Carol’s sharp gaze immediately locked onto the luxurious blouse the girl was wearing—black silk, but not just any silk. It had a texture and sheen unlike anything she had ever seen before, its fabric almost too smooth, too perfect, too rich to be anything mundane. Her trousers, too, bespoke elegant practicality, tailored exquisitely in a way that suggested high fashion, yet designed for comfort and travel.
Her raven-black hair was neatly pulled back, not a strand out of place, emphasizing the delicate angles of her face—but none of that was what had Richard or Carol staring.
No.
It was the eyes.
A pair of piercing emerald orbs, bright, deep, almost inhumanly vivid, stared at them with a quiet kind of power. But even beyond their mesmerizing intensity, it was something else that rattled them.
The girl standing before them bore an uncanny resemblance to Elena Gilbert.
A resemblance far too striking to be a mere coincidence.
Carol’s breath hitched, and for the first time in a long, long while—she had no words.
Richard, for all his carefully honed instincts, could only think one thing.
What the hell is happening?
Lyra had already felt it the moment they crossed over into her wards—the distinct magical ripple that sent a whisper through the very fabric of the estate’s defenses.
A werewolf? No.
A genetic werewolf.
Ah. That explained it.
There was something strange about the land here, something old and deeply infused with magic—magic that even she, for all her Black lineage and otherworldly power, hadn’t quite unraveled yet.
Great. Another mystery. She really needed to have a talk with Alexander about all of this. She was too damn tired for surprises.
But first, the intruders.
With a calculated exhale, she opened the grand ebony doors completely, and there they stood.
A man and a woman, both slightly past their prime, perhaps in their early-to-mid forties. The man—broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, dark-haired—held himself with that stiff, rehearsed confidence that screamed politician. His expression was a peculiar mix of rigid composure and thinly veiled shock—like a man trying, and failing, to keep a poker face.
And then there was the woman.
Lyra’s sharp eyes took her in with one glance—blonde hair, forcibly curled into place, so over-sheened, coiffed, and hairsprayed that it practically looked like a wig perched on her head. A designer outfit, no doubt expensive, but worn with the air of someone trying just a bit too hard.
In her hands?
An assortment of sweets.
Ah. The final clue clicked into place.
The Lockwoods.
The mayor and his delightful wife.
Which explained the odd magical disturbance.
Werewolf blood. Genetic werewolf blood. The Watch must have made an exception to let him cross into her wards. How quaint.
Then she really looked at the woman—Carol Lockwood, or was it Catherine?—and Lyra’s perfectly composed face almost betrayed her amusement.
The way the woman’s eyes immediately zeroed in on her clothes—judgmental, calculating, trying to assess.
Oh. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Lyra schooled her expression into something polite, poised, and entirely unreadable, but inside?
She was already smirking.
This was a game, and she was about to enjoy playing them.
The man cleared his throat, voice overly formal, as though he was struggling to regain his footing.
"Good evening. I am Richard Lockwood, the mayor of Mystic Falls, and this is my wife, Carol. We just wanted to introduce ourselves and check up on the newest resident."
Ah, so that’s what had thrown him off.
Not just her presence, but something about her had shaken him.
Lyra tilted her head ever so slightly, allowing the corner of her lips to curl into the faintest hint of a smile.
She could play this game all night.
It was going to be fun.