The moon was high. Blood soaked the parking lot like rainwater. Bodies lay twisted—wolves and vamps, all torn and silent. But the night wasn't done bleeding.
And neither was Anita.
She stood atop a cracked streetlamp base, red hair matted with sweat and streaks of black blood. Her eyes gleamed violet in the dark, narrowed and sharp, mouth curled in that lazy grin she wore when the killing got good.
Both her hands dripped blood—but none of it hers.
A werewolf lunged at her from behind, leaping with fangs bared. Big one. Muscle stacked. Smart enough to aim for her blind spot.
But not fast enough.
Without looking, Anita flicked her fingers—and blood burst from the corpse at her feet, shot into the air, and skewered the wolf through both eyes before he even landed.
He howled, stumbled mid-leap—then her dagger met his throat.
SHNK.
One smooth slice. Head off clean.
The body dropped at her feet, steaming.
She didn't stop. Not even to blink.
