The moon shone brighter tonight. Or perhaps his eyes had dimmed, and the world had lost its shape without them.
How long had it been? The years unspooled without end. Seasons faded like old ink on paper, their colors leeched by silence. Winter's breath came and went. Petals drifted, waters froze, stars were born and burned.
Yet he remained.
A glass of wine in hand, beneath a moon as cold and constant as himself, he remained waiting.
Waiting for the River to stir.
Waiting for his beloved to return.
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B L O O D S W O R N E T E R N I T Y
V O W A C R O S S L I F E T I M E S
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Late autumn chilled the air, slipping between the shutters of sleeping homes. The last remnants of harvest lay bundled on stoops; baskets of apples smelling faintly of sweet rot and bundles of dry herbs waiting to be brought inside. Overhead, a silvered moon sat heavy in the sky, veiled in gossamer clouds. The cobblestone streets glistened faintly from an earlier rain, stretching through the town like veins of black glass.
It was supposed to be a quiet night in this small town in Duskmoore...
...if not for the sound of hurried footsteps, stumbling across the stone.
A young man sprinted through the side streets, lungs burning, coat flapping wildly behind him like broken wings. His boots skidded across the wet stones, nearly losing traction as he ducked into a narrow alley between a butcher's and a candle shop. The cloying scent of old blood and tallow clung to the damp air.
He didn't slow down at all. He couldn't.
He glanced over his shoulder—nothing. The street was empty. Just shadows and lamplight. No sound but his own ragged gasps and the frantic slap of his boots on stone.
But he knew they were following him. And they wanted him dead.
I didn't ask for this, he thought, the plea a desperate hammerbeat in his skull. I didn't choose this!
He had only wanted to live. Not in the dark forest, choking on decay. Not among the cold, ancient nobles who enslaved lesser spawn like cattle. Not crawling in the dirt to fight over rats and vermin, that hunger in his veins screaming louder every day until he could think of nothing else.
He just wanted to breathe. To feel normal again.
So why... won't they let me go?!
He broke through the far end of the alley, panting heavily. Lamplight spilled across the intersection ahead. If he could just make it to the bridge—if he could cross the river—
CRACK!
The sound split the air, a thunderclap in the silent town.
Something tore through his leg. Pain, white-hot and absolute, exploded in his thigh.
He screamed.
The world tilted, his leg buckling beneath him as if the bone had vanished. He collapsed, tumbling hard against the unforgiving cobblestone, his cry echoing off the close stone walls. His face struck the pavement with a sickening crack. Black blood gushed from the wound, its coppery-sweet scent filling his nostrils.
He writhed, clutching at his leg. The bullet hole burned, sizzling from the silver coating that felt like molten fire crawling through his undead veins. His vision blurred at the edges, tinged with gray. Still, he tried to crawl, dragging his ruined body through the slick of his own blood.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of boots on wet stone approached from behind without hurry. A slow, measured, and utterly inevitable cadence.
With dread pooling like lead in his stomach, the vampire twisted to look over his shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat.
A silhouette emerged from the mist and lamp-haze.
Tall, slender, draped in a midnight blue cloak, the fabric stirring faintly in the wind like a funeral shroud. No haste. No urgency. Just the calm, terrible certainty of death coming to collect its due.
The figure stopped a few meters away.
There was a certain grace to that figure that stopped the dead air in the vampire's lungs, a preternatural calm that felt more still than the stones beneath them.
The cloak shifted.
A slender, gloved hand—the leather the color of old blood—rose from beneath and pushed the hood back. The fabric sighed as it fell away.
And he saw her.
She was beautiful. It was the first, stupid, irrelevant thought that pierced his terror.
A cascade of pale gold curls, each one seemingly spun from captured candlelight, framed a face of an almost doll-like beauty, porcelain and delicate, carved by a master who had never known a flawed line.
The vampire's heart, which had been still for years, gave a single, painful shudder against his ribs. The girl before him looked almost unreal, a painting given life. He could have stared at her forever.
But that urge died the second he found her eyes.
They were the color of winter sky just before a blizzard, a pale, glacial blue that held no light, no warmth. They were chips of ancient ice, windows into a vast and frozen emptiness. There was no malice there, no anger, no triumph. Not even contempt. Just... nothing. A void that regarded his trembling form with the passive interest of a glacier surveying a crashing ship.
This was not the beauty of life, with its warm flaws and smiling crinkles; this was the beauty of a funerary statue, achingly lovely and utterly cold.
"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse and broken, his body trembling violently. "Please—I didn't mean to—I didn't mean to kill that girl. I was just too hungry. I only wanted to live normally, I swear. I don't want to go back there—back to that place—"
She didn't answer. She didn't even blink. Her expression remained as placid and unmoved as a frozen lake.
She stepped closer.
Her revolver gleamed faintly in the lamplight, silver and wood catching golden sheen.
"Please," he begged, the word dissolving into a sob. "Please, I can't go back to the forest. Every day was torture. I—I'll behave, I'll stay out of towns, I'll disappear—"
Click.
The hammer of the revolver cocked. The sound was final. Absolute.
His breath hitched in his throat.
Before him was the abyss of the barrel, a perfect circle of darkness pointed directly at his head. His eyes flickered from the barrel to her face, to those glacial eyes staring down at him. Not a hint of mercy. Not a flicker of thought.
He was going to die. Truly die.
"P-please... I beg of you..."
Nothing. Not a trace of emotion in those eyes.
Terror—pure, undiluted terror—surged within him, burning away the last of his reason.
"F...f..."
He clenched his teeth, baring his bloodied fangs—a pathetic, desperate gesture.
"F-fuck it!" he snarled.
Then, with a guttural cry fueled by primal fear, he used the last of his strength to launch himself from the ground, claws extending, lunging at the hunter.
She pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, but he was already in motion, a blur of desperate survival. The bullet went past him, richocheting off the cobblestone, where he originally groveled. He barreled into her, knocking her back a single, half-step. His dirty, ragged claws slashed for the pale column of her throat.
Steel hissed from its sheath.
A searing line of silver met his lunge. The shriek of claw against polished metal grated the air.
The narrow alley erupted into a violent, one-sided dance—a flicker of silver and a flurry of ragged shadows in the mist.
He slashed wildly, driven by panic. She parried easily, her blade a perfect, unbreachable arc. Each move was elegant and deliberate. Not a drop of effort wasted.
He lunged again, fangs bared in a snarl. Her foot slid back, her midnight cloak flaring like the wing of a great bird. She turned with the motion and drove the heavy hilt of her sword into his ribs. The crack of bone was a sickening punctuation in the night. He staggered, the wind and fight knocked out of him.
Another strike—a clean, precise cut. Silver flashed, and his shoulder parted, tendon and bone yielding with a wet tear. His shirt was soaked in black. The cut burned and sizzled loudly from the blade. He shrieked, a raw and animalistic sound, and fell to one knee.
Still, he forced himself up. Still, he fought, driven by a terror she could never comprehend.
He clawed at her face with his other arm in a final, pathetic gamble. She simply ducked beneath his arm, a whisper of movement, spun, and drove the pommel of her blade into the base of his skull. The impact was dull, final. He reeled, vision swimming.
The whole time, she never said a word. Never cursed. Never grunted.
She didn't even seem to breathe.
She just moved silently and gracefully, a waltz of death cloaked in blue.
Finally, with a guttural cry, he lunged for her legs in a last, desperate attempt to tackle her—
And her sword met him in the middle.
The blade drove straight through his abdomen with a soft, terrible sound, like a punctured wineskin.
He gasped—a wet, shocked exhalation.
The creature staggered back, the sword sliding free, and he fell, the cold wetness of the cobblestones a shock against his cheek.
Blood seeped fast from the sizzling wound, bubbling black and thick, steaming in the chill air. He pressed his hands to it, trying to hold his very life in, sobbing and choking. "P-please..."
The hunter stepped toward him, the soles of her boots stained black by the expanding pool of his blood.
"No more," he begged, voice cracking, disintegrating. "No more. Please... I'm sorry—I'm—"
She reached down. Her gloved fingers, cold even through the leather, curled into his hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat.
The last thing he saw was her eyes again. A beautiful, frozen lake.
And in that lake, he saw himself. So filthy. So small. So insignificant.
Shhhk.
The blade sang its final, merciful note.
His headless body slumped backward, steam curling from the wound.
Blood pooled quietly into the cobblestone cracks, a dark ink staining the seams of the world. The waltz had been brought to an end. The only sound was the gentle rustle of her cloak brought about by the breeze.
Footsteps echoed behind her, slow and steady over the wet stone, a stark contrast to the frantic, panicked rhythm that had just been silenced.
A tall figure stepped through the alley's fogged edge, the lamplight revealing a broad-shouldered man in a deep violet coat trimmed with tarnished silver. The coat bore the sigil of the Duskmoore guild, a blue rose crossed by two blades, stitched just above the heart. His beard was short and grizzled with gray at the chin. His nose was slightly crooked from a break never properly set. But his eyes—warm, brown, and lined with the ghosts of sleep and laughter—settled calmly on the headless corpse without a flicker of surprise.
"Well," Garen said with a grunt, adjusting the worn leather strap of the great axe across his back. "He sure picked the wrong night to wander."
Elise said nothing. She was already wiping her blade clean on a spotless section of the dead vampire's coat, her movements economical and devoid of disgust.
Garen stepped closer, his heavy boots carefully skimming the edge of the widening blood pool.
"You move faster than a damn ghost, lass," he muttered, watching her clean the silver steel with methodical care. "You're making me look slow."
"You are slow," she stated flatly.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Ruthless, as always."
She slid the pristine blade into its sheath with a soft, final click and turned to leave without another glance at her handiwork.
"You didn't have to come," she said, the cold air misting briefly before her lips.
Garen fell into step beside her with a weary shake of his head. "Come now, my lady. You know Count Whitefield would have our hides flayed and tacked to his wall if we let anything happen to you." The words were light, but the protective duty behind them was solid, unshakable.
Elise didn't respond. Her pale eyes stayed fixed on the mist-shrouded street ahead, scanning for any threats as they made their way back to Cerulea.
Garen smiled faintly to himself, a private expression of fondness for the girl next to him.
The gaslamps flickered behind them as they were swallowed by the mist, the alley falling silent once more save for the slow, steady drip of condensation from the eaves.
Another successful hunt.
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Morning light spilled through the tall, leaded windows of the Duskmoore guildhall, catching on dust motes that danced like gold specks in the still air.
The long room was a blend of function and faded grandeur—high timbered ceilings, slate floors worn smooth by generations of boots, the scent of gun oil, beeswax, and old parchment lingering in the corners. The main hall buzzed with a low hum of activity: the scratch of pens on official forms, the shuffle of boots, the murmured conversation of junior hunters heading to the training yards or the dining hall.
At the far end of the hall, seated beneath a tall arched window that bathed her in a cold, clear light, sat Lady Elise Whitefield.
Her desk was a fortress of order in the gentle chaos: manila folders fanned into neat rows, stamped papers aligned in neat stacks, a porcelain teacup—steam long vanished—beside a silver letter opener shaped like a stiletto. Her midnight blue cloak was draped over the chair's back, revealing the pristine high-collared white blouse she usually wore beneath. Her pale golden curls were pinned back in a severe but elegant style, and her gloved fingers turned the page of a trainee report with slow precision.
The door groaned open.
"Should've let me sleep in," grumbled a familiar voice, rough with sleep.
Cole slouched into the room like a bear roused too early from hibernation. His Duskmoore violet coat was wrinkled and half-buttoned over a rumpled shirt, his hair a riot of unbrushed dark curls, and his jaw shadowed with coarse stubble. He carried a tin mug of strong, black coffee in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other.
Elise didn't look up.
"Honestly," he went on, collapsing into the worn leather chair across from her with a grunt that spoke of old aches, "you kill one vamp and suddenly the whole bloody Guild expects you to fill out paperwork before dawn. In my day, you could gut a bloodsucker, pour whiskey on whatever wound you got, and call it a week."
She flipped a page, the sound whisper-soft.
Cole watched her for a moment before sighing heavily. "...Good mornin' to you, too, milady."
She kept reading.
Cole leaned back with a groan and threw his legs over the armrest of his chair. "Don't know why I bother. You're like a statue someone forgot to put in the garden."
A moment passed. The only sound was the rustle of her next page.
Then, without looking up, Elise murmured, "I ought to put a muzzle on you."
"Hah!" Cole let out a short, barking laugh. "Ah, she speaks."
A loud crash rang out from the back of the hall—two young hunters wrestling with a crate of practice bolts had dropped it, scattering metal across the slate floor.
Cole didn't even glance. He simply cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Hey! You two wanna get a beating? No? Then quit dropping shit!"
The boys flinched and scrambled to pick up the mess.
Satisfied, Cole leaned back and sipped from his mug. "Rookies these days. All muscle, no sense. One of 'em asked me yesterday if it's true vampires can smell fear. I told him—'Course they can, that's why we make you bathe, genius.' Truth is, I just can't stand the stink. Don't remember smellin' that bad when I was their age."
Elise turned another page.
Cole narrowed his eyes at the file she held. "You're looking at trainee files?"
"Yes."
"Why? What did the poor saps do to earn your scrutiny?"
"I have been rather absent from the guild this past year and missed the formal introduction of the new recruits. I am rectifying that."
Cole chuckled. "Of course. Only you would call getting to know the new blood 'rectifying.' So, who's the unfortunate soul right now?"
She passed the page to him without a word.
Cole took the sheet, his brow furrowing. "Edric Ellery. Huh. Subpar with a blade, sharp as a tack with the books. Bit timid, though. Word is he's some noble's son, a minor house from west of Velisandria."
"Really."
"Aye. Could explain the prissy manners." Cole shrugged. "Matters not to me. All these noble pricks act and sound the same."
Silence.
Elise's eyes flicked up from the next file, her gaze glacial.
Remembering who he was talking to, Cole gave an awkward, rumbling laugh. "Ah. Right."
"You forget yourself, Mr. Holman," she said, her voice calm and low.
"Aye, yes, my apologies, milady," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.
"We do not sound the same," she continued, returning her eyes to the paper. "He must have an accent, being from a different country."
Cole blinked, then snorted into his coffee. "You have a wicked way with a joke, my lady."
Elise simply hummed, the ghost of a point made.
Another group of hunters passed by in the corridor, their laughter and boisterous chatter echoing into the hall. One of them, a young man with a shock of red hair, sneaked a glance in Elise's direction before being elbowed sharply by his friend. Their voices hushed instantly as they hurried away.
Cole noticed. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"They're all terrified of you, you know."
Elise didn't respond.
"Lady of Duskmoore. Daughter of the Count. Prodigal monster hunter. Elegant noblewoman." He made a sweeping, theatrical gesture with his biscuit hand, scattering crumbs across his trousers. "You could stab a man with your stare."
He dusted the crumbs away. "Alas, you are well beyond the debutante balls. Everyday I hear about a new challenger plotting ways to earn a smile from you. Has no good man ever caught your eye? Did the Count ever plan on arranging a match?"
She remained a statue of focus.
Cole's smirk returned. He leaned even closer, his tone teasing. "Well, if there's no one in mind... I heard Garen's boy fancies you. Has the old man ever mentioned it?"
This time, Elise looked up, a single, pale brow arched in silent inquiry.
Cole's smirk widened. "Oh? Interested, milady? Fear not, I've met the lad. A bit green, needs to put some meat on his bones, but he's clever. You should ask Garen about him."
She tapped the top of the next file with a gloved finger. The message was clear: Enough.
Cole held up his hands in surrender, still smirking. "Point taken."
After a pause, he asked, "The Count still not back from the capital?"
"No."
"Hm." He sipped his coffee, the playfulness fading from his face. "Well, Duskmoore hasn't fallen apart yet. Velisandria's still run by humans. Which means you're doing fine."
"I'm managing."
Cole grinned. "That's noble-speak for 'I haven't burned the place down, yet.'"
From the back, another clatter echoed—the distinct sound of a training rifle hitting the floor.
Without missing a beat, Cole leaned back and hollered, "Drop that again and I'll get Helen to tan your hides!"
The hall quieted immediately.
He settled back, immensely pleased. "Discipline. That's what keeps 'em in line."
Elise gathered the stack of reports, aligned their edges with a sharp tap against the desktop, and set them neatly in her out tray.
Her work here, for now, was complete.
The teacup sat beside her, untouched and stone cold.
She rose without a word, gathering her cloak from the chair.
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Whitefield Manor loomed against the autumn sky, its pale stone façade gilded by the morning sun. Tall, glinting windows and pointed spires pierced a pale blue expanse. The gravel drive curved through wrought-iron gates, flanked by hedges trimmed to geometric perfection.
The moment Elise stepped through the front doors, the household staff bowed in near-unison.
"Welcome home, Lady Elise," intoned Hammond, the head butler. His silver-streaked hair was impeccably styled, his mustache neatly trimmed, and his posture ramrod straight. "The eastern drawing room has been prepared per your instruction. Brunch is ready at your leisure."
Behind him stood Edith, the head maid, her back straight despite her years, her uniform without a single crease. Her grayed hair was tied neatly into a bun, not a single strand out of place.
Before Elise could respond, a blur of auburn hair and frantic energy shot into the foyer.
"Lady Elise!"
Daisy skidded to a halt just short of colliding with her. Her freckled face was alight with joy, a red braid swinging wildly behind her. "You're back! I didn't expect you until supper! I was just airing out the west wing linens and—"
She cut herself off, suddenly aware of the stern gazes of Hammond and Edith. She quickly snapped to a practiced, formal posture, adjusting her apron. "Ahem. That is... welcome home, my lady."
Elise gave a small, acknowledging nod.
Daisy moved to gather her cloak, and Elise unbuckled the belt holster holding her revolver and silver sword, handing it over without a word.
"Where is Louis?" Elise asked.
Daisy huffed, her formality crumbling. "Gone since breakfast. Probably at some wine-tasting in Lorne or losing at cards in a tavern."
Elise's lips thinned. "Unbecoming." Her cool gaze shifted to Edith. "And Annabelle?"
The servants visibly tensed. Edith cleared her throat. "Lady Annabelle is... taking the air. In the garden."
"During her lesson hours?" Elise's voice grew dangerously soft.
Hammond and Edith shared a pained glance.
Elise exhaled, a faint, weary sound. "I see."
—{}—
Outside, the garden stretched like a small kingdom unto itself.
Manicured hedges framed meandering paths that curved through flowerbeds in full bloom—lilies and foxglove, snowdrops and forget-me-nots. Trellises tangled with climbing roses stood like archways to secret worlds. Marble benches sat in pockets of shade, beneath cherry trees just beginning to bronze at the edges.
And everywhere, blue roses bloomed.
Soft sapphire petals nodded in the breeze, glowing faintly beneath the cloudy autumn sun. They lined the main path, curled up trellises, and bloomed in generous clusters around the central fountain, where water whispered into the basin below.
At the garden's heart, beneath a gnarled white ash tree, a scene of mild chaos was unfolding.
A girl in a noticeably simple, slightly frayed cream dress—cinched with a ribbon in lieu of a proper sash—was perched on a low branch, her legs swinging freely.
Below her, a young footman stood with his arms outstretched, a picture of pure anxiety.
"Lady Annabelle," he begged, "please—Lady Elise has returned, you'll catch her attention—"
"Oh, who cares, let her come," came the airy reply.
Annabelle Whitefield reclined against the trunk, gazing up through the canopy of golden leaves. A leather-bound novel lay open in her lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Her long, chestnut hair spilled over her shoulder in artless waves, a ribbon clinging precariously to a half-up half-down style. Her hazel eyes blinked lazily at the sunlight.
"I wasn't born to practice needlework until my fingers cramp," she sighed, as if confiding in the tree itself. "Don't you ever feel there's a grander destiny for you, Frederick?"
The footman blinked. "My... uh, destiny is currently to ensure you don't fall and break your neck, my lady."
She sighed again, deeper this time. "No one understands. I'm a songbird in a gilded cage."
"Most songbirds aren't fed strawberries and cream for breakfast, my lady—"
"Don't be literal," Annie chided, though not unkindly.
Nearby, the music master, Mr. Bernard, massaged his temples. "Lady Annabelle, this is most irregular. I must report to Lady Elise on your progress, and thus far, our progress has been... rather impeded."
Annie groaned. "Elise, Elise, Elise. Must my entire life be dictated by her schedule? What about my dreams? What about my desires?"
"Lady Annabelle, please—"
Elise approached in silence, her shadow falling over the grass like a sudden chill.
Frederick jolted. "L-Lady Elise!" he gasped, scrambling into a deep bow.
Mr. Bernard turned to her and offered a respectful nod, his relief palpable. "Lady Elise."
Annie didn't notice until her sister spoke.
"Annabelle."
The younger Whitefield glanced over, then turned, swinging her legs petulantly. "Oh. It's you." She offered a lazy smile. "Back so soon?"
Elise gazed at her impassively. "You are not dressed for lessons."
"I'm dressed for freedom," Annie declared, stretching her arms wide. "Is one morning of authentic living such a crime?"
"Neglecting your education is."
Annie waved a dismissive hand. "It's just a little poetry and piano. It's not like the world will—."
"Down. Now."
The air left Annie's sails. With a dramatic pout, she closed her book, slid from the branch, and landed with a soft thud on the grass, brushing her skirts with undue force.
"You will return indoors," Elise stated, her tone leaving no room for argument, "and you will complete your lessons with Mr. Bernard."
Annie's face scrunched in frustration. She kicked at a loose pebble. "Sewing, curtsying, silent suffering... Why must I be trapped inside while the world is so vast? I'm not like those other simpering girls, content with their embroidery hoops and gossip!"
Elise crossed her arms. "What, precisely, would you rather be doing?"
"Living!" Annie spread her arms as if to embrace the entire estate. "I want to ride a stallion at full gallop! I want to feel the weight of a sword in my hand! I want to discuss philosophy and battle tactics, not which lace trim is most fashionable for the season! You wouldn't understand, Elise. You're just a girl after all..."
Elise's eyebrow arched slightly. "You would be thrown from a stallion. And a practice rapier would give you splinters."
"I could learn!" Annie insisted, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "If anyone in this stuffy house would ever give me a chance instead of trying to lace me into a corset!"
"Which you are also not wearing," Elise observed coolly. "You will rectify that when you go inside."
Annie let out a sound of utter exasperation. "You see? This is exactly my point!"
Having exhausted her patience for the performance, Elise turned to the footman. "Frederick."
He jumped. "Y-yes, my lady?"
"Inform Edith and the rest of the staff. Lady Annabelle is confined to the manor until her lessons are completed to Mr. Bernard's satisfaction."
Frederick bowed and scurried away.
Annie gasped, her hand flying to her heart as if struck. "You'd make me a prisoner in my own home? A caged nightingale forced to sing only your tunes?"
"Nightingales," Elise said, turning to leave, "do not read romance novels in hundred-acre gardens."
"They do if their souls are yearning for more!" Annie called after her.
Elise didn't look back.
Mr. Bernard let out a long-suffering sigh. "Come along, Lady Annabelle. We still have two hours of piano."
Annie pressed her lips into a thin, furious line, snatched her book from the grass, and stormed toward the manor, leaving the music master trailing in her wake.
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The sun had long since bled away below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, bruised indigo.
Within Whitefield Manor, only the soft golden glow of oil lamps held the shadows at bay. A rising wind whispered against the tall windows, making the sheer curtains shiver like restless ghosts.
The study in the east wing was a tomb of silence.
Elise sat alone at her father's vast mahogany desk.
The space was preserved in amber, exactly as Count Sirius Whitefield had left it: the silver-trimmed quill tray aligned to a hair's breadth, the crimson-stitched armchair facing the cold, empty hearth, the brass clock on the mantle ticking with relentless, metronomic precision. It smelled of old leather, drying ink, and beeswax.
Her hands moved soundlessly, flipping through correspondence, reviewing ledgers, stamping approvals with a firm, final thump. She hadn't spoken a word in over an hour.
But her perfect posture had begun to fray.
She leaned forward, the slightest of slumps, her chin resting briefly against her gloved knuckles. The fingers of her other hand tapped a silent, erratic rhythm against the polished wood—tap, tap... pause... tap. The motion stilled, as if she'd caught herself, then resumed a moment later. Her gaze fixed on a line of figures, but her eyes were unseeing, staring straight through the page. The only sound that filled the study was the soft hiss of dying coals in the fireplace.
She reached absently for the teacup at the edge of the desk, her fingers brushing its porcelain side. It was cold. She had not drunk from it. She made a mental note to stop wasting tea like this.
She turned the cup a precise quarter-rotation, aligning the handle perfectly with the edge of the ledger, and set it back down.
The door creaked open.
"Evening, my lovely lady~"
Daisy peeked in, her cheerful smile a bright, foreign thing in the somber room. She balanced a fresh porcelain teacup on a lacquered tray, steam curling invitingly from its surface.
Elise didn't look up. "You're up late."
"No, you are," Daisy chirped, gliding into the room. The scent of chamomile and lemon followed her. "I was waiting for you to come up, but you never did, so I made this for you."
"There was no need."
"Well, I brought it anyway." She set the tray down gently and fished a sealed letter from her apron pocket. "Oh, and this came for you—courier brought it just before the outer gate closed. From Lord Whitefield."
Elise's hand stilled above the paperwork.
She took the letter, her movements suddenly sharp and efficient, and broke the wax seal with a clean snap.
The handwriting was unmistakably her father's—precise, slanted, austere, each letter a command.
Her eyes scanned the contents, once, then again, ensuring no nuance was missed.
Ensure Louis continues overseeing the monthly tithes for the northern tenants.
Remind Annabelle to resume her elocution training. Tell her not to overwork herself.
Have the west ledger sent to the bookkeeper by week's end.
I will be back in a fortnight.
That was all. Terse. Direct. A checklist of obligations. No signature. And no inquiry into her well-being.
She folded the letter neatly, once, then again, creasing the edges with her thumbnail until it was a perfect, sharp rectangle. She set it beside the cold teacup.
Daisy studied her quietly. "Did His Lordship say when he's coming back?"
Elise's gloved fingers pressed down on the letter, flattening it against the desk. "Two weeks."
"Hm, pretty soon," Daisy nodded, trying to inject optimism into the heavy air. "He's been gone for a while. Do you think he brought gifts?"
Elise didn't respond. She only sat utterly still, her gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, her spine now rigidly straight, as if correcting its earlier lapse.
Two weeks. The words echoed in the silent room. She just had to maintain everything by herself for two more weeks. The topiary on the east lawn needs trimming. The west wing guest rooms must be dusted again. The Baron of Kalenrow's invitation requires a response—Louis will have to attend. Annabelle's lesson plans need reviewing. The guild's quarterly report is due. The... the...
"My ladyyy," Daisy waved a hand gently before Elise's unblinking eyes. "Shall we get you ready for bed? I've already drawn your bath and—"
Elise stood. The motion was so sudden and fluid it made Daisy startle back a step. She didn't look at her maid.
"...I'm going for a walk."
Daisy blinked. "A... walk? But it's the middle of the night?"
Elise was already in motion, gathering the paperwork into a neat, punishingly square stack. She moved swiftly out of the study, her boots whispering on the rug. Daisy scrambled after her as she took the stairs to her bedchamber.
"W-wait, Lady Elise, it's dark! Wouldn't it be dangerous?" Daisy frantically asked, her voice pitching higher with worry.
Elise said nothing. She crossed to her dresser, pulled out her leather belt holster, and buckled it around her waist with practiced, almost violent efficiency. She moved to the engraved walnut cabinet near the hearth, unlocked it, and retrieved her revolver. The oiled click-clack of her checking the chamber was the only answer she gave.
"My lady!" Daisy tried again, wringing her hands. "You've been working all day. You need to rest! It's already past your bedtime!"
"I'll be quick," Elise said, her voice low and tight. She swept her midnight blue cloak from its stand and clasped it at her throat.
"Let me come with you! Or a footman! Did you tell Mr. Garen? Anyone?" Daisy followed her to the door, a frantic shadow.
Elise's pace didn't slow. She descended the stairs, a swirl of dark blue fabric and purpose. Hammond, making his final rounds, saw her approach and, reading her expression instantly, moved to open the grand front door without a word.
"Oh, Lady Elise, where are you—" he began, his voice laced with concern.
"At least bring someone with you!" Daisy called from the top of the stairs.
But her mistress was already gone.
.
.
.
The crisp aroma of decaying leaves and damp earth lingered in the night air. Above, an endless expanse of ink-black velvet was pierced by bright, cold stars. Islands of warm light pooled on the cobblestone streets of Cerulea where gas lamps flickered, their glow casting long, dancing shadows that swayed with the whispering breeze. The night was profoundly quiet, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the soft, scraping rustle of dry leaves sweeping past the heels of Elise's boots.
She walked with steady, unhurried steps, the familiar, comforting weight of her revolver a constant at her hip. Her midnight-blue cloak flowed behind her, concealing the sharp silhouette of her form as she moved through the sleeping town's arteries.
It was foolish to be out alone at this hour. Unwise for anyone to wander Duskmoore's streets after dark, let alone a noblewoman, even one who was arguably the most dangerous thing in the shadows.
Yet she walked anyway, compelled by a silent, immense pressure that gnawed at the edges of her mind, refusing her rest. Her feet carried her without conscious direction—just away.
The grand wrought-iron gates of Whitefield Manor loomed behind her now. At their base, nestled within the stone planters that lined the estate's borders, the famous blue roses bloomed. Their petals glowed with a faint, ethereal luminescence beneath the moonlight, a soft sapphire against the dark stone.
Her gaze lingered on them for a breath too long, her gloved fingers giving a faint, involuntary twitch at her side. Then, without a word, she turned and continued on, allowing the deep, consuming night to swallow her whole.
The town of Cerulea was a creature that never slept, only changed its skin. No matter how familiar its streets had become over the years, there was always some new detail, something subtly out of place. Her icy eyes catalogued the quiet town as she walked, noting every shift.
An old flower shop had been replaced by a modiste's boutique, its window now showcasing headless mannequins in silk dresses instead of fresh bouquets. The pub on the corner had a new sign, its faded wooden lettering replaced with gilded paint that gleamed obtrusively under the lamplight. Even the cobblestones seemed different, a section repaved and smoother underfoot, a change made in her absence.
She never had time to notice these things before. Not when her days were a mosaic of duty, every waking moment dedicated to a purpose other than her own observation. But now, beneath the isolating hush of midnight, with no one to pull her away or demand her attention, she could see Duskmoore for what it was—a living, breathing entity, evolving steadily whether she was watching or not.
A low murmur of voices interrupted her thoughts. Ahead, two figures approached, walking in tandem through the dim glow of the streetlamps. Their steps were measured and synchronized, and as they drew closer, the familiar violet hue of their coats identified them instantly.
Fellow hunters.
The older of the two, a man with severe, neatly combed dark hair and a veteran's weary eyes, met her gaze and inclined his head in a gesture of deep respect. "Lady Elise."
She offered a small, silent nod in return.
The younger man beside him seemed to be a recruit by the fresh, unweathered look of him. He stared at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unease, his footsteps faltering. He had heard the stories, of course. Of Lady Elise Whitefield, the Porcelain Doll of Duskmoore. Her beauty was indeed as striking as the tales claimed—pale golden curls perfectly framing a face of delicate, symmetrical perfection, eyes the color of glacial ice.
Yet, there was something profoundly unnerving about her... a poise too exact, a grace too measured, a stillness that felt almost inhuman. She seemed less born and more... sculpted. Just like a porcelain doll.
The older hunter noticed his partner's gawking and drove an elbow sharply into the younger man's ribs.
"Mind your manners," he hissed under his breath. Then, turning back to Elise, he put on a more formal voice. "Good evening, my lady. Are you heading somewhere specific? Do you require an escort?"
Elise simply shook her head. "No need. Continue your patrol."
He nodded. "Very well. Stay safe out here."
She watched them go, their muted conversation fading as they disappeared around a bend. Only when the sound of their footsteps had vanished entirely did she resume her walk, her fingers ghosting over the checkered grip of her revolver, soothed by the cool, polished wood beneath her touch.
"Bastards! Filthy, cheating bastards!"
The tranquil silence of the night was shattered by a slurred, furious roar.
"I'll kill 'em! I'll—hic—kill every last one of 'em!"
The voice erupted from a narrow alleyway ahead, thick with drunken rage. A loud crash followed—the explosive shatter of a bottle against cobblestone, glass skittering across the ground.
Elise's steps halted. Her fingers instinctively curled around the checkered grip of her revolver. The damp chill of midnight now carried a heavy, acrid stench of cheap whiskey and vomit. She took a silent step forward, her eyes narrowing to slits.
"Hey... hey, you." The voice dropped to a vulgar, clumsy leer. "Where d'you think you're going, huh? Pretty little thing like you, all alone? What are you, some nobleman's lost pet?"
No other voice responded. Only a silence deeper than the night itself.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Don't pretend you don't hear me. Gonna walk away like you're better than me? Huh? I'm talkin' to you."
Still no response. Elise's brows furrowed slightly in cold disdain, walking faster.
"You think you're too good for me?! Too soft to fight back? I could take you right here—"
Another bottle exploded against the wall. Shards rained across the road.
"I said—don't fucking ignore me!"
The wind shifted.
The streetlamps above flickered. Once. Twice.
Then, one by one, they were snuffed out, as though pinched between invisible fingers.
Elise snapped her head up and looked around.
The entire street was plunged into darkness. All the lamps were extinguished.
Her breath hitched, every muscle in her body coiling tight.
The air turned frigid. A cold that bit to the bone.
She clenched her jaw and ran forward, her boots deliberately making no sound on the damp stone.
"You think... you think you're too good for me, don't ya?!" the man bellowed, his voice echoing in the confined space. "Get back here, you little... you—you—"
There, at the mouth of the alley, she caught a glimpse.
An unshaven man swaying about with a bottle in hand, eyes bloodshot with fury.
And facing him, a towering silhouette deeper within the shadows, utterly still, a void of absolute darkness.
The drunk lunged, a clumsy, furious motion.
Suddenly—
A flash of motion.
No sound. No warning.
A silver gleam cut the air like moonlight on a blade.
Schlk.
A wet, sickening tear. The sound of a seam ripping—but the fabric was flesh, the thread was sinew, the button was bone.
Elise's world narrowed to that single, horrifying point.
The man's head separated from his body with an unnatural, graceful ease. A precise, effortless severance, as if the air itself had sharpened into a blade.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, the head hung in the moon-sliced darkness. Time stretched, distorted, as if unsure how to proceed. The drunk's face was frozen in a mask of mid-curse fury, his eyes wide with a dawning realization that would never fully form. The sound of his last word seemed to still vibrate in the air.
Then, gravity reasserted its claim.
The head dropped, striking the cobblestones with a thick, wet thump, like a overripe melon hitting the ground. It bounced once, a grotesque parody of life, before rolling to a stop against the alley wall, its glassy eyes staring into a void only it could see.
The body remained standing for another impossible second, a fountain of arterial blood already welling at the neck. Then it crumpled, collapsing into itself like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the ground with a heavy, final thud. Blood gushed in rhythmic, violent pulses from the stump, painting the cobblestones and brick walls in hot, glistening crimson.
A fine mist of warm, coppery blood settled on the air.
A single, fat droplet spattered across Elise's cheek, shockingly warm, starkly metallic against her chilled skin.
She stood utterly frozen, her breath trapped in her chest.
From the impenetrable darkness, a figure emerged.
Tall. Impossibly tall.
His gloved hand was still extended, held in the aftermath of the strike. Blood trailed down his fingers in lazy, glistening rivulets. Each drop fell too slowly, too silently, as if the very air around him was thicker, more viscous. As if time itself bent to his will, reluctant to move on from the violence it had just witnessed.
He stood absolutely, unnervingly still. Like a monument—a statue sculpted not by mortal hands, but by something ancient, cruel, and divine.
Moonlight seemed to cling to him, a pale, reverent illumination that caressed the lines of his frame, afraid to touch the shadows he wore like a second skin.
But what truly stole the breath from Elise's lungs—what made her mind go white and silent—was his hair.
Silver.
A waterfall of molten silver, pouring in deep, silken waves down the entire length of his back, cascading past his waist to brush against his thighs. It caught the faint, fugitive moonlight and shimmered, each strand seeming to hold its own captive light, a living river of pale metal and starlight. It was a sight not of this world, stark and blinding against the severe darkness of his tailored, pristine clothing.
A nobleman's attire, immaculate and refined, now adorned with a fine, grotesque spray of crimson along the cuffs of his sleeves and the edge of his gloves.
And yet, his face...
She could not see it.
The magnificent fall of silver veiled most of his features like a curtain of secrets. What little the moon dared to touch was obscured by the deep, possessive shadows of the alley, blending the suggestion of pale skin and sharp angles into a tantalizing mystery.
Only the faintest curve of a jaw, sharp enough to cut, caught a sliver of light.
The air around him pressed against her skin, heavy and tangible, thickening with every thunderous beat of her heart like a presence. A physical weight that felt both sacred and profane.
Beautiful. Horribly, devastatingly beautiful.
Angelic and monstrous, woven together into a single, terrifying form.
Her pulse violently drummed against her ribs, so loud it drowned out the world.
Yet her body, honed by a lifetime of discipline, moved before her mind could break free. Her hand instinctively fell to her side, reaching for the cold, familiar weight of her revolver.
But her eyes—her eyes were traitors. They remained locked on him. On the unnatural, preternatural grace of the figure standing amid the visceral ruin of the corpse, as serene as a king in his court.
The gloved hand finally dropped to his side, the movement casual, unhurried. A king dismissing a subject. The river of silver hair rippled with the motion, shimmering like silk soaked in a galaxy's light.
Then, slowly, as if he had felt the weight of her stare like a physical touch, he began to languidly turn his head.
A chill, colder than a grave, slid down her spine.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, a frantic, animalistic warning.
Something ancient and infinitely cold stirred behind that veil of silver—a consciousness that made every primal instinct in her body scream to move, to flee.
But she was locked in place, caught in the devastating gravity of his presence, a fly suspended in amber.
Like staring into the eye of a storm.
He remained there, poised and utterly still, as if he had all the time in the world.
Until finally, her mind snapped out of it, breaking free from the spell.
Her fingers closed around the checkered grip of her revolver, the polished wood a sudden, grounding warmth against her ice-cold skin.
In one fluid, explosive motion born of pure survival instinct, she drew the weapon, leveled it at the center of that silhouetted head, and pulled the trigger.
Once. Twice.
The man—no, creature—didn't even flinch. He merely tilted his head with languid, almost bored ease, as though watching her bullets drift past him on a lazy breeze. Then, without a word, he began to walk towards her, his steps a slow, inevitable approach, like the tide coming in.
Elise's heart hammered against her ribs. Gritting her teeth, she fired again.
BANG! BANG!
The bullets screamed through the night, but he evaded them with an infuriating, effortless grace, a blur of motion too swift to follow.
Another shot.
CRACK!
This time, her bullet struck true.
It slammed into the left side of his chest, silver tearing through the fine dark wool of his coat and the white linen beneath, embedding itself deep with a wet, sickening thump.
And yet, the impact did not send him stumbling nor make him cry out.
He simply... jerked. A single, full-body convulsion that was there and gone in an instant. Then, utter stillness. Steam curled from the wound, the silver sizzling against undead flesh. A black stain bloomed across his pristine white shirt, spreading like a grotesque flower.
Definitely a vampire.
An abomination draped in a gentleman's skin. A monster she had been trained to hunt and kill.
A bead of cold sweat trailed down Elise's cheek.
What the hell is he?
The burn should have been excruciating, crippling. It should have set his blood on fire.
Yet he remained standing, as still and steady as a monument, seemingly impervious to the searing agony.
No noble could take a silver round to the heart and remain standing. Not without screaming. Not without burning from the inside out.
Her fingers tightened around her revolver, the wood biting into her gloved palm.
Did he come from the deep forest?
Her breath hitched in her throat, and her eyes widened in dawning, horrific disbelief at what happened next.
Slowly, with an eerie, fluid grace, he reached up. His gloved fingers probed the bloody ruin of his shirt, slipped inside the wound, and wrapped around the embedded bullet. There was a wet, sucking sound as he pulled it free.
A wisp of smoke rose from the open hole in his chest.
Elise's stomach plunged into a void of ice.
The silver bullet gleamed in the dim light, slick with viscous black blood, held lightly between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a trinket. He turned it over once, inspecting it with mild curiosity, and then flicked it aside. It landed on the cobblestone with a small tink.
The sound echoed in the silence like a death knell.
Then, the hole in his chest began to close. Flesh knitted itself back together, weaving over the void until only smooth, moon-bleached skin remained, unmarred beneath the torn fabric of his shirt and coat.
Elise had seen vampires writhe and scream from a mere graze by silver. This one had been shot through the heart, a wound that should've at least comatosed a noble type. And he had... healed.
Her grip on the revolver tightened, but her fingers felt numb.
This was wrong. This violated every known law.
With a ragged breath, her finger tightened on the trigger for a final shot.
Almost.
She was a breath away from firing—
Then, he was gone.
The air displaced in front of her. He suddenly appeared before her, so close she could smell the faint, clean scent of neroli and the cold, metallic tang of fresh blood on his clothes.
His bloodied gloved hand snapped out and slapped the revolver from her grasp, sending it flying several meters out. The weapon was wrenched away, clattering and spinning across the ground until it came to rest several meters away, the polished metal now gouged and scarred.
Before she could blink, before she could even register, his hand swung back—a blur aimed at her temple. It was the same effortless motion he'd used to decapitate the drunkard.
Too fast.
In that split second, her own hand shot down, fingers barely brushing the hilt of her hidden dagger.
No. Too late.
There was no way she could block it in time.
Elise's mind emptied of everything but the certain, final impact—
...
It never came
His hand stopped. A hair's breadth from her skin. The wind from its sheer velocity gusted against her face, whipping her pale curls into a wild, momentary dance.
Cold sweat traced a path down her temple. Her eyes, wide and trembling, were fixed on the gloved hand that had come so close to ending her.
It simply hung there in the air. The only sound was her own ragged, terrified breath..
Then, before she could process this mercy, her body acted on pure, frantic instinct. She ripped the dagger from its sheath. Gripping it with both hands, she drove it deep into his abdomen, twisting the blade with a final, desperate grunt.
Smoke hissed from the wound. Black blood welled, soaking into the fine white fabric of his shirt.
And yet... nothing. No cry of pain. No flinch. Not even a tremor.
His legs remained upright, a statue weathering a storm, his chest level with her eyes, barely seeming to rise with breath.
Elise's breath hitched. A denial screamed in her mind. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the dagger free and plunged it in again.
And again.
And again.
Black droplets pattered onto the cobblestones like dark rain.
Silver hair rippled around her like moonlit curtains.
Still, he did not fall. Not even a stagger.
As if in a trance of denial, Elise pulled the dagger out once more, its blade coated in his thick, dark blood, her arms trembling with the effort.
Then, before she could plunge the blade into him again, she felt something brush her cheek.
She froze.
His other hand—clean, untouched by the drunkard's blood—cupped her cheek. The leathered touch was impossibly tender, a heartbreaking caress that brushed her messy, sweat-dampened curls away from her eyes.
Her breath stopped. The world fell into a profound silence.
And in that silence, she heard it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Her eyes widened.
Was that... a heartbeat?
Slowly, disbelievingly, she let her gaze travel upward from his bloodied abdomen, toward his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
No. It was impossible. A vampire's heart was a dead, still thing. It only imitated life in the fleeting moments of feeding. And yet, beneath the frantic drum of her own pulse, she could hear his beating. A steady, accelerating rhythm against the silence of the night.
With a mixture of dread and a terrifying, pulling curiosity, she lifted her gaze further, slowly, to finally see his face.
And her world shattered into silence.
The wind died. The distant sounds of the sleeping town vanished. The very air seemed to still, holding its breath.
Everything ceased to exist except for the twin points of light burning in the darkness above her.
Eyes.
Not the piercing, predatory gold of a noble.
Not the dull imitation of a human's.
Red.
The red of apocalypse. Of ruin.
Twin pools of liquid fire burned through the veil of night—searing, luminous, impossibly vivid. Red like a dying star. Red like the last drop of life spilled on an altar.
They glowed. From within. An inner, fathomless fire, something ancient and terrible that was never meant for mortal sight.
Time splintered. Stopped.
The weight of his presence crashed over her, absolute and freezing, like being plunged into the heart of a glacier, the ice locking around her, eternal and inescapable.
Her useless hands lost their strength, and the dagger slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground.
Those eyes didn't just see her.
They unmade her. They dissected her soul, measured every fear, every failing breath, and found her infinitely small.
And yet, Elise couldn't look away. She was pinned, a butterfly under glass.
The rest of his face was a beautiful mystery lost to shadow, a canvas for the masterpiece of his gaze. Only the eyes remained.
Red. Absolute. Eternal.
Not a commoner.
Not a noble.
Far, far worse. Something that had witnessed the dawn of time and would see its end.
Ancient.
Devilish.
Divine.
They held no fury, no hatred. But then... what did they hold?
What was that sense of sorrow that seemed to gleam through those eyes?
Why was he looking at her like that?
Are those... veins? she thought distantly, seeing a glimpse of darker threads spidering along the left side of his face.
"Such cruelty..."
His voice was silk spun from shadow, smooth and unhurried, cleaving through the sacred silence he had created.
"To make me dream again."
The words slithered down her spine like a shard of absolute zero, freezing her from the inside out.
Then, slowly, oh so slowly, his other hand rose. He caught the collar of her blouse, the blood from the gloves staining the pristine white fabric coppery red. And with one decisive, effortless yank, he ripped it open. Buttons pinged against the cobblestone, one by one, like tiny, breaking bones.
She inhaled sharply, her voice caught in her throat, her body frozen in place.
The night air kissed her newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a heap of midnight blue—a final, silent surrender.
His breath, cold as a winter grave, ghosted across her throat.
Then, his fangs pierced deep.
Icy shards sawed into her flesh, into the warm, pulsing vein beneath.
"Ah—"
A strangled cry tore from her lips.
An unbearable, white-hot agony detonated through her nerves as blood surged forth, siphoned greedily from her body. It was nothing like the sharp sting of a blade or the dull ache of a bruise. This was worse, primal. A violent theft, a desecration of her very being.
She thrashed instinctively like a wild animal caught in a trap, but his grip only tightened, crushing her with terrifying ease. One arm banded around her waist, an iron coil that locked her in place, while the other cradled the back of her head with an obscene, intimate tenderness, keeping her throat in perfect offering.
He drank.
And drank.
Elise could barely think. Her heartbeat pounded wildly in her ears. Her body bucked, kicked, twisted, but it was useless. A petal in a storm.
Then—
He froze.
It was just a moment. A fractional hesitation.
But she felt it.
A sudden, profound tension coiled through him. A pause in the relentless pull. The smallest, sharp intake of breath against her skin, as if something in her blood had reached out and struck him to his very core.
His breath shivered against her neck, a tremor in the glacier.
And then he resumed.
But now it was different. Deeper. Hungrier. It was no longer just feeding; it was a ravenous consumption. He was lost in the intoxicating taste, his breath fluttering erratically against her failing pulse. The more her strength waned and her struggles grew weaker, the deeper his fangs seemed to sink, the tighter he held her—devouring, savoring, consuming.
He wasn't feeding on her blood.
He was indulging in it.
He was losing himself in her.
Elise's frantic struggles faltered, then stilled completely.
A single, sharp flicker of clarity cut through the haze of pain and terror.
Escape was impossible. She would never break free of his grasp—not by force.
Yet, that tiny pause... that hitch in his breath when he first tasted her. It was real. A crack in his impossible composure.
Something about her blood... something in her... had enticed him. Had shaken him.
So she made a choice.
She stopped fighting. And she let go.
Her trembling, blood-slicked fingers, which had been clawing at his arm, instead reached up. They wrapped weakly around the broad expanse of his back, pulling herself flush against him in a way that was almost... an embrace. A yielding. A silent, submissive offering of herself.
A last gamble.
She could feel his rapid heartbeat drumming against her own chest, faster and faster and faster, a rhythm that mirrored her own fading pulse.
They say a vampire's cold, dead heart only beats again when it drains the blood of another life.
...But do they all beat with such immense power?
Do they all seem so... alive?
And then—
He shuddered.
A shaky, ragged breath escaped him, a sound of pure, unguarded instinct. The hand cradling her head slid lower, splaying possessively against the small of her back, his grip tightening to an almost painful degree. His other arm crushed her against him as though trying to merge them into one being. As if she were the only anchor in a raging sea.
He was lost in his greed. He didn't notice her other hand moving.
With the last draining reserves of her strength, her free hand fumbled desperately at her thigh holster, her gloved fingers slippery with his blood. The world wavered, tilting on its axis, darkness creeping like ink at the edges of her vision.
Her heartbeat was slowing.
Her grip on reality was slipping.
Then, her fingertips brushed over cold metal.
With a final, silent prayer and a burst of her failing will, she yanked the flare pistol free, pointed it at the sky between their closely pressed bodies, and pulled the trigger.
FWOOSH.
A burst of searing red light erupted directly above them, a miniature sun that ignited the darkened street in a sudden, shocking crimson brilliance. It painted his silver hair in waves of fire.
The vampire froze.
His breath hitched against her ravaged neck, a sharp, arrested sound.
For a single, suspended second, the frenzied pull of his feeding ceased. He understood.
She had distracted him.
She had played him.
In that heartbeat of stunned hesitation—
She let the spent flare pistol clatter to the ground and clutched onto his back with both trembling hands, pulling him even closer, pressing her weakening body into the hard plane of his chest, offering her bleeding neck more fully.
No matter what, she could not let him leave.
Her cold, cracked lips brushed the shell of his ear.
"...Hold me," she whispered breathily.
And that undid him.
He faltered. A low, wrecked sound vibrated through his chest and into hers. His restraint shattered completely. His arms locked around her like iron bands, crushing her to him as if the world outside the circle of her blood no longer existed. As if he needed the feel of her to breathe.
He buried his face in her neck and resumed drinking.
Desperately. Frantically. Like a man dying of thirst who had just found water.
Elise's knees gave way entirely, but he caught her, holding her upright effortlessly. His hand splayed across her back like a brand, pulling her closer, closer, as if he could devour her very essence through her skin. His breathing turned ragged, uneven, a mirror of her own fading gasps.
She didn't know if anyone had seen the flare.
She didn't know if help was coming.
She didn't know if she could hold on much longer.
All she knew was that she had to keep him there. To buy every second she could.
Her vision blurred into a smear of crimson light and silver hair. Her thoughts scattered into fragments. Her fingers, once wrapped around him, began to slip.
But she didn't let go.
She held him, whispering a lie with her body, drawing him deeper into the web of his own hunger.
Her vision darkened, the edges closing in like a tightening noose. Everything began to numb. Even the feel of his bite faded into a distant, rhythmic pull, a tide drawing her out to a dark sea.
"There! That street—that's where the signal was!"
"Shit—that's where Lady Elise was!"
Panicked voices cut through the night, sharp and urgent.
The vampire froze.
Elise felt the relentless pull of her blood cease abruptly.
For a long, suspended moment, he didn't move. His fangs remained deeply buried in her flesh, his body rigid. But the spell was broken. The sounds of shouting men, of boots hammering on cobblestone, of steel being drawn—the world crashed back in around him.
Then, with a quiet, shuddering exhale, he withdrew.
But he didn't let go. He couldn't.
His face hovered near her ravaged throat, his skin and lips smeared with her blood. He was utterly still, as if in shock.
Slowly, his arms shifted.
He pulled her limp body fully against his chest. One arm wrapped around her back, supporting her weight, while the other hand came up with a devastating gentleness to cradle the base of her skull.
He held her there, against his shoulder. Blood, breath, and a profound, echoing silence were the only things between them.
Elise's eyes could barely stay open, her lids heavy as lead. Yet, even through the numbness and the fading of her senses, she felt the difference.
This was no longer the crushing grip of a predator.
This was something else. Something tender. Careful.
Like a mourner's embrace.
As if the world had stopped, he clung to her.
His chest rose and fell in a single, trembling breath. His entire body stilled, as if in silent prayer.
Then, the voices and footsteps grew louder, more desperate.
Reality returned loudly and brutally.
His fingers, tangled in her blood-matted curls, tightened for a fleeting, heartbreaking second.
With a soft, almost pained sigh, he slowly knelt, lowering them both to the ground. He laid her down with exquisite care, his gloved hand cushioning her head from the cold stone.
Through the thickening haze, she felt his touch one last time—a tender brush of his fingers against her cheek, pushing a stray curl from her forehead.
He stood and turned to leave.
But then, he felt a feeble tug.
Despite the catastrophic blood loss, a spark of stubborn will flared within Elise. Her trembling hand shot out, grasping weakly at the hem of his trousers.
He stilled, though he didn't turn back.
She used the very last dregs of her strength to drag her body an inch forward, her hand closing around the leather of his boot. But she was too weak. Her body went numb, her vision tunneling into a narrow, blurry point.
He remained there for one more breath, a statue in the night, before he took a step. Her hand slipped from his ankle, falling limp to the cobblestone.
Elise gritted her teeth, a silent snarl of defiance, and tried to crawl after his shrinking form. The world grew blurrier, darker. She blinked once.
And he was gone.
Vanished into the shadows as if he were made of them.
Her breath hitched. She scanned the empty alley left and right, but saw nothing. No hint of his presence remained. The only evidence was the cooling, blackened bloodstain soaking into her leather gloves.
Boots thundered across the cobblestones.
"Lady Elise!"
Large, rough hands grabbed her shoulders, rolling her over. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her neck.
"Lady Elise? Lady Elise!"
"Good god, she's been bitten! Put pressure on the wound! Now!"
She was being lifted from the cold ground, her name called repeatedly by voices that sounded distant, muffled, as though she were sinking deep underwater. A pair of shaking hands pressed a wad of cloth firmly against her throat. The pain was a white-hot brand, but she was too far gone to feel it properly. Her vision swam, the world tilting on its axis as voices rose and blurred into meaningless noise.
"Stay with us, my lady! Don't close your eyes!"
"Why the hell was she alone? Where was her escort?!"
"She dismissed us! We saw no signs of activity on this route!"
"You should've disobeyed! What will we tell Count Whitefield?!"
The arguments grew more and more muted, fading into a dull roar.
Her fingers twitched at her side, then weakly curled. With a monumental effort, she lifted her hand and grasped a handful of the coat of the hunter holding her.
The man jolted. The arguing halted abruptly.
"Lady Elise? Can you hear us?" he frantically asked.
Elise's pale lips parted. She had no strength left, but she forced the words out on a dying breath.
"Find... Helen..." she whispered, her voice a raw thread of sound. "...Red eyes... Silver hair..."
A brief, stunned silence descended upon the group.
Then, a deeper, more authoritative voice, thick with dread, cut through the night. "Get her to the guildhall. Now. Move!"
She felt herself being lifted swiftly from the ground, the world jostling around her.
She wasn't sure if they had understood.
She wasn't sure what came next.
The last thing she saw was the cold, star-flecked sky of Cerulea, flickering between consciousness and oblivion, before the darkness surged up and swallowed her whole.