I stood before the mirror, silent as stone. Then, like a
whisper through the cracks of my mind, a name came.
Alucard. What is that name? What does it even mean?
It hung there, haunting, then faded, leaving only questions.
But I pushed it aside, for I needed to see Nasira. I needed her
now. Then — a knock at the door. "Adam, are you alright?"
Sarah's voice, gentle, soft. I had been in there too long. Her
voice came again, light but edged with concern. "I think my
cooking was not the best, isn't it?" I blinked, shaking myself
back to the present. "No, no," I said quickly, "it's not that." I
opened the door, stepping out. Sarah was there, her gaze
searching me. "Uhm… Sarah," I began, my throat tightening.
She tilted her head, curious. Then, with more hesitation than
I'd ever felt, I said, "You see… the demon lady with me?"
Sarah nodded calmly. "Yeah. What is it?" I drew in a breath,
my voice faltering. "She… is Nasira." Sarah's eyes widened —
shock flickering like lightning. "Oh…" she breathed. "That is…
her?" She blinked, struggling to match the image in her mind
with the truth I'd given her. "Wow. She… doesn't look so
divine — no offence. The lady looks cool, still, but…" "Uh,
yeah," I muttered. "And she's probably my mom. I mean —
really my actual mother." Silence. Sarah didn't move. For a
heartbeat, I thought I had short-circuited her mind. The
thought must have been too much — the son of the Bird of
Hermes and the Vampire President of the United States
standing right in front of her.
Then without warning, A nudge. I turned, startled and
saw an expression on Sarah's face I'd never seen before.
Her brows lowered. Her lips pressed into a small, sharp
line. Sarah… was angry at me. She looked adorably
furious, like an offended angel, somehow both cute and
terrifying. Then she spoke, and even in anger, her voice
held that same quiet, soothing tone. "And you made her
angry?" she asked. "You said she is the reason you look
this way? That she might be a bad omen?" I blinked,
caught like a child with his hand in fire. That was it? No
apocalyptic revelation. No wrathful prophecy. My friend
was simply mad… because I had insulted my mother. A
true friend, if you ask me. Sarah crossed her arms — the
smallest gesture, but it cut deeper than any blade. "And
what else," she pressed, "have you told her, Adam? Hm?"
I said nothing — but she didn't need my words. "Go and
apologize." Her tone sharpened, though it stayed gentle,
never rising, never cruel. "Having a good mother is equal
to having the world in the palm of your hands. Not only
that, an angel mother we are talking about." I stood
there, thinking of everything. Of how Nasira always
stood beside me. How she never left, no matter how
coldly I pushed her away. And how, in all my arrogance, I
dismissed her — saw her only as a demon. And here I
was. I called her a bitch.
Sarah's voice broke the silence again. "Adam… you
told me you are going through a lot. That is right. But
you know… there might be another reason next to
having the USA after you." She looked me dead in the
eye — steady, unwavering. "Maybe it's you upsetting
your mom." Her words fell heavy. "This could cause
many, many bad omens. You have terrible luck — not
because a demon is following you. You have bad luck
because that demon is your mother — and you made
her sad." She stepped closer, her expression
softening but still firm. "Go, Adam." Her eyes
narrowed slightly. "I do not want a friend being
disrespectful to his parents, you know? Manners and
honor come first — and that is nobility to me. Not
money. Not wealth." For a moment, I thought, Wow.
She speaks like she's still living in old-time London.
But was she wrong? I didn't think so. I nodded
slowly. "Yes, Sarah. I will go." She gave me a small,
satisfied nod, then added, "Please go because you
want to apologize — and not just to stay my friend."
Wow, I thought again. What a girl. But then again —
it's Sarah. What else did I expect? One look at her,
and you knew her heart. I nodded once more And I
went. I went to see Nasira. My mother.
The garden was quiet when I stepped into it—too
quiet. The air felt heavy, weighed down by something I
couldn't name, and there she was… sitting on that old
stone bench, her back turned to me, her gaze fixed on
the ground. She didn't move, didn't even tilt her head
when she heard me coming. I swallowed the lump in my
throat and forced a smile. Always start with a smile, I
told myself. "Hey, lady, how are ya?" I said with mock
cheer, stepping closer, hands shoved in my pockets like
a boy trying to look innocent after breaking the window.
Nothing. Not a flinch. I chuckled, rubbing the back of my
neck. "You know, you could at least tell me if I look
handsome today. A guy needs some confidence before
he goes out in the world, you know?" Still nothing. I
rocked on my heels, trying again, louder this time, more
playful. "Oh! Oh! You remember when I first met you?
When you appeared out of nowhere like some…
mysterious specter?" I grinned, leaning a little closer. "I
was so terrified I couldn't even move my face. I must've
looked like a fish gasping for air. You scared me that
bad." Silence. The smile started to ache on my lips, but I
kept pushing it. "Okay, okay, fine, how about this—date
advice!" I snapped my fingers, as if struck by sudden
genius. "Come on, you've got to help me out. How do I
impress a lady? What's the trick? Flowers? Blood-red
roses? Should I write a poem?"
Nothing. Her head didn't turn, her shoulders didn't shake,
not even with the tiniest laugh. My voice wavered, but I
threw another stone at the silence. "Oh, and the office!
Remember the whole cooking with trash thing? You—" I
laughed, though it came out thin, strained. "You were
amazing, actually. Really." I stood there, smiling like a fool
into the void between us. And then the smile broke. My chest
tightened, my throat closed up. My voice cracked, and I
hated it. I was just… failing. The word slipped out before I
could stop it, soft as a prayer. "Mother." She didn't move—
but I saw it. The smallest jolt in her shoulders, the faintest
widening of her eyes. She didn't look at me, but I felt it. I said
it again, firmer this time. "Mother." The air shifted. My voice
shook. "I… I'm sorry. Truly. For everything." Silence... then,
after what felt like an hour she spoke. Her voice was low,
distant, like it had traveled a thousand years to reach me. "I
remember… the first time I held you in my hands." I froze,
my breath caught. "You were so small," she whispered, and I
could hear the tremble in her voice. "Your little fingers
curled around mine like you were afraid I'd disappear. You
laughed—oh, you laughed so easily back then. Every silly
face I made, every sound, you laughed. And then… you
started to walk." I swallowed hard. "You were a little
troublemaker," she said with the faintest, aching smile in her
tone. "Always climbing where you shouldn't, always finding
some way to make chaos. And then…" Her voice broke.
"The first word you ever said." Her breath hitched. "You
looked at me, so serious, and you said, 'Mama.'" A tear slid
down my cheek before I even felt it fall. "I couldn't believe
it," she said. "I thought I imagined it. But you said it again.
'Mama… love you.'" I couldn't remember it. Not fully. But
something deep in me—deeper than memory—did. My soul
stirred, a raw ache spreading through me, and my eyes
burned as more tears welled up. Then her voice changed.
"And that damn moment…" Her tone was sharp now, bitter
and cracked with rage. "…when they took you away from me.
My son. My soul was taken away by your forsaken father…"
Her shoulders shook. "Your name is not Adam, son of Mihail
Dracula," she said, her voice like a blade. "You are Alucard—
the opposite of Dracula. Yet…" She faltered, softer now. "…
both names, Adam, Alucard—they're good. As long as you are
still my son." It hit me like lightning. The weight of the name.
The meaning of it. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry, Adam… I
failed you. I wasn't there when you needed me. And I'm still
not there. I am but a corrupted ghost now." "No." My voice
was rough, raw. "Please don't say that. You did enough."
I stepped closer, my hand trembling. "I don't care what
creature you are," I said, my voice breaking. "You are my
mother. And that is enough." I saw her shoulders stiffen.
And then I said it. "Mom… I love you." She turned. Finally
turned. Her eyes wide and shimmering with tears.
"Oh, Adam…" Her voice shattered, and so did I. "I love you
more than the stars have nights to shine. I love you beyond
every shadow I've become. I love you in ways words can
never carry. You are my everything—my breath, my reason,
my heart. I love you, my son." She was crying now, really
crying, and so was I. I reached for her. She reached for me.
When we touched—really touched—it was like the world
itself held its breath. A spark, a warmth, something alive
and terrifying rushed through us, and we both gasped,
wide-eyed, almost frightened of it. And then we laughed.
We laughed through the tears, holding each other tighter,
shaking with sobs and joy all tangled together. But how?...
how could I hug a ghost? Was it like... the power of love or
something? It didn't really matter. For the first time, we
were just what we always should have been. Mother and
son. "So… you're the Bird of Hermes herself." She smirked,
almost teasingly. "Guilty as charged." "…So that means…" I
hesitated, then leaned forward. "The Greek gods existed?"
Nasira gave a soft, almost amused sigh. "Yep," she said
casually. "And they were nasty boys. Especially Zeus. What
a jerk." I nearly exploded from the sheer absurdity — from
the thrill of truth unraveling. "Zeus?" I stammered. Mother
caught the fire in my eyes — the wild, boyish excitement I
could not suppress. She smirked again, the way only a
mother would when her child is enthralled. "Yeah," she
said, "and let me tell you about Hades…"
Her voice dipped into mock gravity. "He's not that
intimidating. Actually kind of a wimp. Osiris could kick his
thick ass easily." I screamed. "Osiris?!! No freaking— Wait.
Wait. Mom… you're now saying—" She interrupted with
perfect calm. "Yeah. Even the Egyptian gods and the Norse
gods did." I screamed again, practically clutching my head.
"Lady. Madam. My queen. Slow down. How?" I blurted.
"Just… how?" I gestured wildly, words tumbling out like
broken glass. "Many gods in one world like that would
really ignite lots and lots of wars and conflicts!" Nasira
smiled thinly. "Correct," she said. "Despite them having
their own kingdoms… greedy bastards. Except the Egyptian
ones. They were based." I blinked. "You don't seem to like
them at all," I muttered. Her eyes sharpened, "Oh, let me
tell ya," And thus my mother spoke. And I listened. And
honestly? It was the best history lesson I have ever had.
The Bird of Hermes herself, the ancient fire reborn, telling
me everything. No edits. No state-sanctioned lies. No
victor's pen rewriting the truth. Pure, unfiltered, history.
It is true that history is written by the victors. But here I
was, listening to the voice that outlived the victors, that
burned their books to ash and remembered what they tried
to bury. It was… one of the greatest moments of my life.
I felt like a child again, a child at his mother's knee,
drinking in every story of blood, sweat, and tears. And I was
that crazy child — reacting to every twist, every revelation,
gasping, laughing, almost shouting. And my mother was
so engaged. It was amazing. Truly. Sarah had been right.
What a treasure I had. My mother, Nasira, was the
greatest gift I could have ever owned. And I felt it, her
happiness, her joy at my wonder, and it was
incomprehensible. Then her voice softened again, yet
carried a new weight. "Well, let me tell ya…" she began.
"So many gods, yes. But you know — there is one above
all. And maybe… some siblings of said god. They make the
order. The system we live in." Her tone shifted —
suddenly sharp, almost commanding. "Forget about those
gods. No — focus on this one." She paused. "It might be
from Egyptian origin." I blinked, then I thought 'Oh let me
guess. Is it our "lord and savoir" or should I say the
orchestrator of my eternal suffering' but I said nothing I
simply asked."…Who?" She gave me a look, sly and
knowing. "If anyone knows better…" she said, "ask Sarah."
I frowned, thinking. Sarah? She knows? Then it hit me like
a hammer. Maybe Mom is talking about Sarah's dad,
Michael? But no. Surely not. Sarah is a vampire and surely
her father is too. Of course the vampire is not the "one
above all." No disrespect to Sarah and what she is — ironic
how she feels more like an angel than a vampire. "I don't
get it," I muttered. "Really." I turned, already knowing
what I had to do. "But hey… I'll go ask." And so I went to
see Sarah.
As I moved down the hall, my thoughts still burned with
the mythic madness my mother had poured into me —
Zeus, Hades, Osiris, all tangled in truth. I turned back to
her, grinning despite the heavy shadow over my
existence. "Mom… that was amazing. Really. All this is
just… mind-blowingly absurd, and just great. Uh—you
know what?" I stopped, the words tumbling from me
without filter. "You are the best. Really." She gave me that
sly, sharp half-smile of hers — the kind only Nasira could
conjure. "Oh yeah?" she said, almost teasing. "You don't
say." The words lingered in the air — then the air itself…
changed. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses
on your skin, makes the hairs on your arms rise. Me and
my mother both felt it. Something was wrong. The house
— Sarah's little, beautiful house — was suddenly a tomb.
All the lights were off. And Sarah was nowhere in sight.
"Where did she go?" I asked, my voice carrying more edge
than I wanted it to. I moved to call her name, but my
mother's hand shot out, cold and firm against my arm.
"Shh," Nasira breathed. Her voice had sharpened, no
longer the soft lull of a mother but the whisper of a
sentinel. "Adam," she said, eyes cutting through the dark.
"I think it is best to be quiet." I frowned.
"Why?" She didn't look at me — her gaze prowled the
shadows like a predator. "This… isn't good." A chill slid
through me. "Adam," she said, quieter now,
"quietly search for Sarah." I didn't argue, though every
muscle in me tensed like a drawn bow. I didn't know what
was going on. Didn't know what to expect. I opened my
mouth, but then it hit me. Them. The eyes. They were
back. Worse. Stronger. Their weight was crushing. It was
as if existence itself had leaned down to breathe on my
neck, and every minute, invisible thing was watching. My
breath caught. 'No. No. Please. Not this again…' But then, I
stopped. I knew better now. These weren't phantoms.
These weren't hallucinations. This was my blood. My
instincts. My senses screaming louder than any human
could bear. I closed my eyes. I breathed. Deep. Steady.
And I focused. More and more, until the house, the walls,
the air itself blurred — and it felt as if my very eyes had
abandoned my skull. Suddenly, I was everywhere.
Looking. Seeing everything all at once. An out-of-body
experience that was not dream but instinct. My
consciousness flickered across streets, walls, corners,
moving with speed I could not measure. And then, for the
first time, I saw them. Auras. Shapes in the dark. I thought
they were human. But they weren't ordinary. Spies? FBI?
No. They held guns. Strange devices. They were too…
clean. Too… trained. And then, I saw one. Different. His
aura burned hotter, stronger, the others paled beside it.
I focused harder, every ounce of power threading through
me like lightning. I had to see his face.
And when I did… My blood froze. That familiarity. Like a
son looking into the eyes of a father he had forgotten, a
father he wished he never had. The face. The one that
haunted screens and news reports. The face the world
knew. Mihail the vampire. The President. My father.
'Here? Right now?' Then, I swear. He looked at me. Not
blindly. Not vaguely. He looked directly where my sight
drifted, straight at me — as if my spirit, my eyes beyond
my body, were nothing to hide from him. And in that
instant, I knew. He could see me. The shock ripped me out
of that strange second sight. My focus shattered — I
snapped back to reality so hard it nearly sent me to my
knees. I turned to my mother, whispering through
clenched teeth, "He's here." Nasira's expression hardened
like iron. "Let's find Sarah," she said, her voice a sharp
blade. "Now. And fast." I moved through the house like a
shadow — every step deliberate, every breath caught
between my teeth. The home, once warm and small and
beautiful in its simplicity, had been transformed by the
dark. The walls that had felt soft now loomed, towering
like jagged cliffs. The pictures on the walls — so innocent
in the light — now stared back as though their painted
eyes followed me. Every floorboard creaked like the
groan of something ancient, as if the wood itself mourned
what was coming.
The kitchen, once cozy, now looked like a crime
scene yet to happen. The once-inviting counters
were slabs of stone, and every corner breathed
shadow. The air was heavy — thicker than before —
like a fog that wasn't there but felt as if it might choke
you if you dared breathe too deep. Behind me, my
mother's voice cut through the silence like a dagger
of irony. "Dear me," Nasira whispered with that sly
edge only she could wield. "Where did that chick go?"
Her smirk curved in the dark — though I couldn't see
it, I could feel it. "Adam… she dumped you, buddy." I
let out a small chuckle. "I doubt that's the case," I
whispered back, my eyes darting over every inch of
the hallway. Then I heard it. A small sound — almost
nothing — but sharp enough to slice through the
tension. A squeak. I froze, head snapping upward.
There — hanging from the ceiling beam — a shape.
Small. Upside down. A bat. Its tiny claws gripped the
beam, its body a silhouette against the dark. What is a
bat doing in Sarah's house? I thought, narrowing my
eyes. I dismissed the thought at first — but then it
squeaked again. Louder. Insistent. "Shh," I whispered,
raising a hand. Then it struck me — Sarah is a
vampire. And bats… Bats are always tied to vampires.
I looked again — harder this time — and that's when I
saw it.
The bat's fur was not merely black — it was pure
black, the kind of black that swallowed light, that
drank the darkness around it. And its eyes — Grey.
A rare, soft grey. Unnatural. Beautiful. "…Sarah?" I
asked quietly. And to my surprise — The bat nodded.
For a moment, I forgot the fear, forgot Mihail, forgot
the eyes. Despite everything — this, right here —
Was the cutest thing I had ever seen in my life. With a
delicate flutter, she dropped down and flew toward
me, landing with impossible grace. Her tiny claws
clutched at my coat — then, without hesitation, she
slipped into the inner pocket of my coat like it was
the safest place in the world. I looked down, hand
gently pressing over where she rested, and
whispered, "Don't worry. You will be safe, okay?"
Her small squeak answered — soft, like she trusted
me. I wasn't scared. Not in the slightest. In all
honesty… I wanted this to happen. I wanted to know.
I wanted the truth. The source of the anxiety, the
unseen eyes, the feeling of being prey and quarry all
at once. Well, now I knew. And I wanted to end this.
My mother's voice came low, deliberate, almost
amused as she stared into the dark beyond the
window. "They are surrounding the house. Good.
They even brought anti-vampire tech."
A smirk cut across her lips, wicked and approving.
"Guess we'll have to use brute force if we get caught."
I turned to her, my voice firm. "Mother, look — I don't
want more deaths, okay? Not like last time." Her head
tilted, her smirk widening — and then she laughed, a
dry, cold laugh. "Oh, here we go…" She looked at me
like I was a character in a play she'd seen too many
times. "With the nice boy protagonist act. The forgiving
one. The 'Oh, look at me, I'm so noble, I give people a
chance at redemption.'" I tried to interfere "Mom, listen
—" She cut me off, her tone sharp as a dagger. "Oh, what
now? Are you going to give them a speech? Tell them,
'Oh, you are killers, but I won't kill you, because I am
not like you.' No, Adam. No." Her eyes burned into mine
like coals. "They took. They ruined. They killed." Her
voice hardened, each word an iron bell. "Forgiveness is
good. But in times like these? It leads only to self
destruction." She stepped closer, her voice quieter now,
but far more dangerous. "And it stops being 'kindness,'
Adam. It starts being foolishness. Think, Adam… think
about everything." I didn't say a word. Because she was
right. She was right. It is what it is. Really. I was done.
Done with all the hell I had been dragged through.
Done pretending to be a martyr in a world that only
carved martyrs to feed the wolves.
I should not be the "nice guy" anymore. No one stays
good in this world. The world forces you to be a
monster. And I am one already. Very well then. The
thought settled over me like a second skin. And then —
I felt it. The hunger. Subtle at first — a dry heat in my
throat. But then it deepened. Worsened. I could feel it in
my teeth, in my hands, in my veins. I won't mind, I
thought. I won't mind tasting some of that life juice —
the blood that runs through the living, pumping and
breathing and warm. The thought made my mouth
water. The taste of it — that divine intoxication — came
to me in memory, so rich I almost shuddered. It was
clear now. This is my true, unholy, forsaken nature.
This is what I am. The lion does not say sorry. It does
not ask permission from the prey. It takes. Because it
was made to be this way. And so was I. I sat down on a
chair — slow, deliberate — the old wood creaking under
my weight. I would wait. Wait for them to enter. Wait
for them to see. Sarah, still curled in my coat pocket,
squeaked — nervous, small. I placed my hand over her,
gentle but steady. "It's okay," I whispered. "Stay calm."
Then I heard my mother's voice behind me — proud,
sharp, like a war banner in the night. "This is my son,"
she said. "With a lion's heart." I didn't even look back.
"They'll know," I said quietly, staring into the dark,
my voice more a growl than words. "When enough is
enough." I leaned back in the chair, every nerve in my
body alive, every sense sharpened. I stared at the door
— the thin, fragile barrier between me and them. I
spoke, not loud, but certain — each word a promise.
"Come in, then…" I smiled — just a little — the kind of
smile a predator wears. "I am waiting." The invaders
came quietly — boots pressing against wooden floors,
guns raised, breaths sharp and shallow. Their
movements were precise, trained, but under the weight
of that darkness, even they began to falter.
I could hear it — the rhythm of their heartbeats, the dry
rattle of fear working its way up their throats.
Mother was standing behind me, and I swear I could
feel her grin even though I wasn't looking.
"They're inside," she whispered like a lullaby. "And
they're nervous already… oh, Adam, this is going to be
fun." The first one stepped further into the darkened
living room, the beam of his flashlight slicing through
the black. "Clear—" he began to say. But then the chair
behind him moved. All on its own. Just a slow scrape
across the floorboards. The man froze. "What the—"
Another chair shifted. A cupboard creaked open by
itself.
Something unseen slammed it shut so hard the walls
shuddered. Mother's hand flicked almost lazily, her
fingers barely twitching. She was playing with them —
the objects in the house were her toys. The agents were
her mice. "Nice touch," I whispered, leaning back in the
chair like I was settling in for a show. She gave a little
shrug, her lips curving. "Fear, my son…" she said softly,
"sweetens the blood." The second man's flashlight
jittered across the ceiling. He whispered, "What the hell
is going on—" And then the lamp next to him flew off
the table, smashing against the wall. He flinched, swung
his gun upward. "Shh," I whispered to myself, amused.
"Jumpier than rabbits, these ones." Mother's voice came
like a knife in the dark. "Let's make them dance." A
plate skidded off the counter. The coffee table flipped.
The sofa groaned, dragged an inch across the floor with
no hands touching it. The men panicked, their steps
quickening, bumping into each other in their attempt
to stay calm. "Y-You seeing this?" one stammered.
"Oh," Mother said sweetly, mock innocence dripping
from her words. "Maybe it's haunted." I couldn't help it
— a laugh slipped past my lips, low and cruel.
"Haunted? Oh, Mother, don't tease… this isn't a
haunting." I licked my lips, voice barely above a
whisper. "This is hunting."
The first man turned, backing toward the hallway. A
fork floated past his ear, spun slowly in the air. He
stopped breathing. I was already there. He didn't even
hear me move. I grabbed him, one hand across his
mouth, the other snapping his weapon aside like it was
made of glass. He screamed into my palm, muffled —
just before my teeth sank into his throat. The taste…
Oh, it was better when they were afraid. The second one
tried to run — but the hallway door slammed shut by
itself, Mother flicking her hand casually like she was
brushing dust from her sleeve. "Going somewhere?" she
whispered in the dark. He fired his gun wildly — bang
bang bang — but the bullets hit nothing. The painting
on the wall fell, shattering. The table flipped again.
The walls groaned. And then I was on him too —
dragging him down, silencing him with teeth and claws.
More came. One by one. They tried to move carefully,
whispering codes into radios that no longer worked —
Mother's telekinesis had already ripped them from
their belts and crushed them into splinters. Some were
taken from behind — some dragged into the black and
never seen again — their screams were sharp, but brief.
The house laughed with us. This is what it feels like, one
way to return the favor. 'Karma is a bitch' I thought to
my self.
Every movement of furniture, every flying object,
every slammed door was a punchline. Mother leaned
close to me at one point and whispered with a smirk,
"You're enjoying this far too much." I smiled,
bloodstained teeth flashing in the dark. "Oh, mommy…
I haven't even started." By the time the last of them fell,
the house was a massacre — a cathedral of broken
wood, shattered glass, and mutilated bodies.
I sat back in the chair, breathing slow, blood dripping
from my chin, the taste still singing on my tongue.
Mother stood behind me, her silhouette sharp in the
gloom, satisfied. Then, the lights came on. Bright.
Harsh. Revealing everything. The carnage. The red
handprints smeared across the walls. The pieces of
what used to be men scattered across the floor like
discarded dolls. And me — sitting calm in the center of
it all, blood covering my mouth. The door creaked —
and he walked in. He didn't flinch at the scene.
Didn't even blink. I looked at him — and smiled.
"Hey, daddy." He looked at me. No expression. I tilted
my head. "Welcome home." Still nothing. The last two
men behind him — the only survivors — held their guns
like children clutching toys they barely knew how to
use. Mihail finally spoke. "Alucard." I chuckled softly.
"Oh, I thought you'd be a bit happier to see us again."
From the shadow behind me, Mother emerged,
"Mihail," she said, her voice as sharp as broken glass.
He didn't move. Didn't need to. A smirk ghosted across
his lips, cool and confident. "Well then," he said softly,
"isn't this one big family reunion." He glanced around,
eyes sweeping over the bodies. Then he looked back at
me. "What about the girl?" he said, casual, almost bored.
"Let her join." I tilted my head further, licking the last
bit of blood from my lips. "Nah, Daddy…" I whispered,
my voice low, dark. "This is personal. Just me… my
mom… and you."