The carnival's kaleidoscope of lights dimmed behind Mathew as he stepped into the quiet London streets. The chill night air bit at his skin, yet his mind was ablaze with revelations. The world he thought he knew had cracked wide open, leaving him with more questions than answers.
As he drove back to his mansion, the hum of the car engine did little to quiet his racing thoughts. Nephilim. A child of an angel and a demon. It sounded like something out of one of Isabel's stage acts, not the grim reality he now faced. And then there was Belial—a prince of hell, watching him like a hawk.
Pulling into the circular driveway, the sight of his mansion's gothic façade offered no comfort. The towering structure stood like a sentinel in the dark, the windows glowing faintly with the promise of warmth inside.
Mathew stepped through the front door, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack. The familiar scent of aged wood and the faint crackle of the fireplace greeted him. Alden appeared moments later, ever the dutiful butler, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Welcome back, sir," Alden said with a slight bow. "Shall I prepare some tea?"
Mathew shook his head. "No, Alden. Join me in the sitting room instead. There's something I need to discuss with you."
Alden's brows furrowed slightly in curiosity, but he gave a nod. "Of course, sir."
Mathew led the way into the sitting room, the fire casting flickering shadows across the elegant furnishings. He sank into his usual chair, gesturing for Alden to take the seat across from him.
Once Alden was seated, Mathew leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Alden, what I'm about to say might sound... unbelievable, but I need you to listen carefully."
Alden inclined his head. "You have my full attention, sir."
Mathew exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Tonight, I learned something about myself—something that changes everything I thought I knew." He paused, meeting Alden's gaze. "Isabel told me I'm a nephilim."
Alden's usually composed expression faltered, his brows knitting together in confusion. "A nephilim?" he repeated, his voice slow and uncertain. "That's... impossible. Those are creatures of myth."
Mathew shook his head. "Not a myth, Alden. I showed her the marks on my back, she said the scars are the marks where wings should have been. She said I'm the result of an unholy union between an angel and a demon."
Alden's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He sat back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests as if to steady himself.
"I know it's hard to believe," Mathew continued, "but it explains so much. My ability to see through demons, my immunity to their tricks... it all makes sense now."
Alden finally found his voice, though it was tinged with disbelief. "Sir, I've known you since you were a child. Your parents—the ones whose portraits hang on these walls—they raised you with love and care. How could this be true?"
Mathew leaned back, his eyes fixed on the fire. "That's what I need to find out, Alden. Isabel believes someone tampered with your memories, suppressing anything that could reveal the truth. She's coming tomorrow to lift the spell."
Alden's face paled slightly. "Tampered with my memories? Sir, I... I don't know what to say."
Mathew turned to him, his expression serious. "Alden, I need you to think. Was there ever anything unusual about my childhood? Anything that didn't add up?"
The older man was silent for a moment, his gaze distant as he searched his thoughts. "Your parents were devoted to you," he said slowly. "But now that you mention it... there were moments when your father would disappear for weeks without explanation. And your mother—she would grow quiet whenever someone asked about your birth."
Mathew's heart sank. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Alden spread his hands, frustration flickering across his face. "Because I didn't think it was relevant, sir. And if my memories truly were tampered with, I wouldn't even know what I've forgotten."
Mathew leaned forward again, his tone firm. "Tomorrow, when Isabel lifts the spell, I'm going to find out the truth. I need to know who my real parents are—not the ones whose faces are painted on the walls, but the ones who gave me this... curse."
Alden's expression softened, and he leaned slightly toward Mathew. "Sir, if I may... curse or not, you've done more good in this world than most men could ever hope to. Whatever your origins, they do not define you. Your actions do."
Mathew's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. "How can I judge monsters, Alden, when I'm one of them?"
"You're no monster," Alden said firmly. "You're a man with a purpose—a purpose you've never wavered from, no matter the challenges. That is what defines you, not the blood in your veins."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Finally, Mathew looked up, meeting Alden's steady gaze.
"Thank you, Alden," he said quietly.
The butler inclined his head. "Always, sir."
As Alden rose and excused himself, Mathew remained in the sitting room, his thoughts churning. The answers he sought were closer than ever, but with them came the risk of uncovering truths he might not be ready to face.
Tomorrow would bring clarity—or chaos. For now, all he could do was wait.