Demon Hunter ITERATUS vol I Raymond Cruz (full-DVDRiP).mov

The Demon Hunter: Iteratus

Vol I Raymond Cruz

BOOK 1—RAYMOND CRUZ: DEMON HUNTER

 Chapter 26

March 7, 2025 — 5:04am. Elevator doors swing open, and a dark, quiet man steps out. His beard as black as his sport coat and slacks. His tan-coloured face, his solemn hazel eyes turn into a shifty stare  as he surveys the cold concrete hallway.  At the end of the way, a young bus boy in a red bow tie holds open a steel door to let in his collection of garbage bags. 

The dark, quiet man suddenly calls out: ‘Hold the door, please!’ the young bus boy motions to him to come over. The dark man hauls two thick, industrial-sized garbage bags out of the elevator and waddles over to the bus boy at the steel door with them in hand.

The bus boy holds open the door to reveal a tiled alcove that smelled of putrid waste. In the center, a greasy-rimmed hole that led to a dark, seemingly-bottomless pit. The man stares.

‘Garbage chute,’ the bus boy says, smiling at him. He continues to stare into the black void.

‘Don’t worry it all goes down there truck comes and picks it up.’

The dark man smiles warily. ‘That’s how it works.’

‘Sure is.’ The bus boy chuckles.

The dark man toss both heavy bags into the chute and a moment later a loud thud is heard as they hit the bottom. He turns to the bus boy and the two get into a staring contest.

‘Okay, now.’ He says to the bus boy. ‘Goodbye.’

The young worker eyes him curiously as the dark man quickly grabs the exit to the staircase. 

Walking up the staircase, his phone vibrates in his pocket and he checks to see who it is. Annoyed to see who is texting him, he grumbles to himself and he steps through the door one floor up and out into a beautiful hotel lobby.

He drowns in the light of the epic crystal chandelier  hanging over the center of the floor. The sounds of a grand piano echoes in the piece which is illuminated in a warm golden glow. The security desk, with a tired old black security guard  behind it, sits at his left.the dark man turns to the security guard, motioning for a writing apparatus.

‘Can I get a pen to sign out?’ The dark man asks the security guard.

‘It’s okay’, the man says with a wave of his hand, preoccupied with his phone call. 

Outside the luxury hotel, the dark man stares up at the light snow falling gently from the dark sky. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and searches frantically around his person for a lighter.

‘Excuse me,’ a soft voice calls out from beside him. ‘You need a light?’

The dark man turns and sees a beautiful woman of his age in a black dress with a lady’s winter coat draped over her shoulders; cigarette in hand, smiling coolly at him with warm eyes connecting with his. The dark man asks accepts that she light him up and quickly thanks her. He all but turns to walk away.

‘I know you,’ she says suddenly.

‘You do?’ He stares at her curiously.

‘You’re Raymond Cruz. You went to JFK High School. I’m Lisa.’

The dark man called Raymond Cruz smiles politely at her and draws from his cigarette. ‘Yea I remember you.’

She laughs and comes closer, flicking her cigarette. ‘You look good. We came a long way since math class’

Raymond Cruz grows exponentially shy. ‘Uh huh. You still sing?’

‘I do. You still play guitar?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We used to play together at lunch. You on the guitar and I would sing. Your girlfriend was that Maya girl. And I drove you two all the way home after your car got two flats.’

Raymond coughs. ‘Yeah I remember.’

Lisa tosses her cigarette butt as she eyes a black steel crucifix at the end of a chain around his neck. Raymond eyes the necklace on her. A black steel crucifix at the end of it. Then he unintentionally eyes the beauty mark on her left breast. He looks away, back at her eyes. 

Awkwardness ensues.

‘We have the same cross,’ Lisa says, smiling.

‘Heh. Yeh.’

Raymond coughs again and looks away.

‘You should totally come up and have a drink in my room. Maybe a coffee. Maybe something else.’

‘Lisa, I’m sorry. I’m married.’ Raymond steps back.

Lisa is visibly devastated. She looks down at the ground. ‘I didn’t see a ring.’

‘Yea I don’t wear it when I work.’

‘Baby?’

‘Expecting.’

‘Expecting a baby. Wow ok. So embarrassing.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s not your fault.’

Lisa, no longer pretending to be polite, turns away in disappointment. Raymond breaks the silence.

‘I’ll just go.’

He quickly walks down the front steps of the luxury hotel. A fat old Russian man calls to him from his car. ‘Taxi.’

‘No.’ Raymond continues past him and halfway down the block on the wet, snowy street.

He turns into an alley, where a black sedan waits for him, the engine running. He gets into the driver’s seat.

His hands are semi-frozen. He puts them on the heater vent. ‘Stupid.’

He sighs. ‘Fuck man, too much awkward for one night.’ Suddenly, Raymond receives a phone call on his Bluetooth car speaker.

‘Yes, Al.’

‘Nice to hear you answer now finally.’ The raspy voice belonging to an overweight old man coughs and spits.

‘I was working, Al. What you think?’

‘You activated voice command, Ray. who was that?’

‘Nothing . Smoking a cigarette with someone I knew from high school.’

Al moans. ‘What, Al?’

The overweight man moans louder. ‘Old cheerleader girlfriend wanted to recreate high school days exchanging cooties under the bleachers? I don’t like.’

‘Huh?’

‘You need to quit smoking Ray. You’re gonna be a dad now. And be good to your wife. She needs you. She needs you in good health.’

‘I know. Don’t worry.’

‘Speaking of which, smoking is not the only threat to your health. Did you get the SNVP-3?’

‘Getting it this week.’

A moan rumbles over the speaker once again. Raymond Cruz grows frustrated and worried. ‘What IS it, Al?’

‘Your injection is coming up.’

Raymond is a little upset. ‘I was BUSY. I’ll get it.’

‘Without the SNVP-3 I can’t make no BrainFormium-D, Ray. And I need time to prepare the formula.”

‘Fuck, Al, my last injection was Jan 9, next injection is April 9. It’s been 2 months. I have a month to get this stupid formula.’

“Okay. I trust you. Anyway, when we have our supply for one year I won’t pressure you anymore. I care about you, Ray.’

Raymond grumbles back at him.

‘I’m serious . I don’t want to see you become a vampire again.’

‘Okayyyyy’

‘We kill vampires. And you’re one of the best, I’d hate to have to put you down because you become one of them.’

Silence. Ray stares angrily into space.

‘Get your condition under control, Ray. You’re going to be a dad and there’s not a lot of people in your profession to come by. You’re much needed, alright?’

‘Fine. anything else?’

‘Yes. I have an emergency and time is a factor here.’

Ray is surprised. ‘Emergency…at sunrise?

‘I’m messaging you since before, God damn it. You don’t answer your phone?’

‘Al, it’s Friday. It’s the weekend. It’s sun up. If that message is anything other than a message saying I got my transfer of 1200 dollars, that’s 400 dollars a head times 3 vampires, then I don’t wanna—‘

‘Where’d you leave the bodies?’

‘In the garbage chute.’

‘We need to Be careful and find a new solution with that Ray. These vampires are breaking out into the day now, last thing we want is for one to come back to life in the middle of the city dump in the middle of the day.’

His eyes sinking into his skull, his anxiety ever-increasing, Ray lights another cigarette. Only this time it is a marijuana cigarette, which the intention to sedate his consciousness into accepting one final grueling task for the night. ‘We need to find out why these vampires are breaking out into the day.’ He says, taking a savage haul. What the old man would say is he knew he was smoking on the job.

‘We do. We do need to find out why they are breaking out into the day time now. Til then we just keep doing the best we can to kill them before sun up. And today’s sun up is at 6:21, so you got time to go in your messages and put the address I sent you in your little GPS there.’

‘I don’t wanna take another contract, I wanna go home.’

‘One last contract Ray. You’re looking for apartments with your pregnant wife. you need the money.’

‘How much per head? How many vampires?’

‘3 vampires at 120 per head.’

‘Al! What the fuck! You want me to take a contract when I’m tired at 120 per head?!’

‘There’s a fourth head, Ray. This last one is their leader, a much older vampire, and the bounty is 4500.’

‘Wow okay you got my attention.’

‘This leader is old Ray. He’s a demon demon. Straight from hell. Sent by Satan himself. This isn’t some for the weak of heart shit.’

‘Uh-huh. Al, this address is in the east. Some poor trap house demons?’

‘Hurry. You have one hour to sun up.’

‘And I want the transfer right away, Al. Don’t make me wait,  alright?’

‘You have 59 minutes.’ Al hangs up. Raymond doesn’t leave right away, he finishes his marijuana cigarette. 

The radio music depresses him. He laughs in the mirror. ‘Why do I need my injection? Put me down, Al! I’m too old for this shit.’

The robotic GPS voice comes to life over the speaker. ‘Take a right.’ 

Raymond shifts into drive. ‘Vampires in the day. I sleep in the day, I guess that doesn’t make me a vampire, Al. I’m gonna be a dad not a fuckin vampire…’

He makes his drive down the Boulevard to his destination, his mind drifting further away in the opposite direction.

————

Chapter 27

5:46am. Parked. Raymond continues to talk to himself. ‘What am I good for if the demons come out in the day now? Do they not care? Do the demons not give a shit how things work?

He tosses his final cigarette butt out the window and does the sign of the cross with his right hand as he looks at his sunken eyes in the mirror. He grabs a blade from inside his coat and holds it close to his face and kisses it. The dagger is all black, with a cross engraved in the black pewter handle.

‘I love you Jesus. One more contract for the night. One more contract before the sun comes up. The vampires need to be killed for now they try to break into the day. I will kill them because I am the contract vampire killer.’

He looks down and eyes his phone. 7 percent battery left and he curses the device.

‘Fuck! I didn’t charge my phone. Stupid shitty charger. Doesn’t stay charged. Need to buy a new one not a shitty one from the gas station.’ He puts the phone in his pocket and steps out the car.

The house is a dilapidated one-story bungalow with boards on the windows, but a pink light piercing through the cracks of the wood indicate that the house is occupied still.

Fence unlocked, door unlocked, Raymond steps inside quietly. He heads straight for the kitchen. 

The house is a disaster. Looks like a tornado passed through the kitchen and into the living room.

Raymond removes a charger wire from his pocket and proceeds to plug his phone into the wall, removing centuries-old tin cans and dirty plastic bags to make space on the counter.

THUD! He hears a noise and proceeds to the hallway, hand moving deeper into his coat.

An ominous black door stands at the end of the hallway. Pink light leaks out onto the floor from underneath. He could hear faint feminine laughing coming from inside the room. He gulps, hand in his coat; puts his left hand on the door and slowly pushes it open.

The room is bathed in hot pink light from the TV which has fallen to the floor carelessly onto a pile of dirty clothes and rags. Two naked women with blood running from their mouths down to their bony chests look up at him lazily. They smile devilishly, revealing their sharp fangs.

A third naked woman covered in blood lays to their left on a bloody mattress propped up against the wall. Her stomach large, but somewhat deflating, an umbilical cord stretches out from her bloody genitals, a deceased baby connected to it stiff on the floor in a red mess of afterbirth on the ground. 

The mother, also a vampire, flashes a sharp-fanged smile at Raymond as she clasps the decapitated head of a man and drinks his brains from the severed hole.

Raymond slowly steps closer. The three vampire women moan. He stops.

The mother vampire starts playing with the umbilical cord sticking out of her. She spins and twists the organic cord, moaning with pleasure.  ‘you here to eat with me, or feed me?’ She says to Raymond. The vampire hunter says nothing.

She waves a hand at him and makes a demand. ‘Fuck me.’

Raymond’s black steel cross flies off his neck. The mother vampire catches it, dips it in the blood of the severed neck; she then moves the cross down to her mangled genitals and proceeds to pleasure herself with it.

‘Fuck me!’ Her demand grows more adamant.

The two other women begin to laugh.

Ray pulls out a gun; aims it at the mother with her dead baby, grips tightly to the black cross engraved into the handle. ‘You a vampire?’ He asks her.

Suddenly, a tall skinny pale man with long grey hair steps into the room from a side door. He has no clothes except for a pair of baggy ripped up slacks. His white torso covered in sores. His eyes even more sunken in than Raymond Cruz’s eyes. He smiles ominously at the vampire hunter. His voice breaks the silence.

‘The one who does what is sinful is of the devil, because the devil has been sinning from the beginning.’ He looks at the women on the floor, pointing at Ray as they look up at him in admiration. ‘The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil’s work.’

Raymond chuckles. ‘John 3:8. Bible quotes huh? You going to try to spin them verses for the Devil?’

From the kitchen, they can all hear the ring tone of Ray’s cellphone as he receives a call. It’s echoes through the kitchen and the hallway to them. 

Ray shoots at the demon man, aiming for his head. The demon evades the bullet with demonic speed and is hit in the shoulder.

The vampire women pull on Raymond’s trousers, attempting to seduce him as the demon leader escapes the room. The mother vampire levitates to her feet, thrusting her naked body upon him and attempting to kiss him. Raymond pulls his black blade from its hidden sheath and drives it into the vampire woman’s chest, dragging it down to her belly and ripping her open.

He is then jumped by the two other vampires. Grabbing onto his leg, one of the vampires trips him to the ground. The other sits on his face and coos fiendishly at him.

‘Eat me. Drink me. Have some blood!’

Raymond reaches up and drives his blade into her rib cage and drags it down, ripping her open. She falls to the ground, lifeless. The final vampire woman runs out into the hallway towards the kitchen. Raymond gets up and runs after her.

His phone once again vibrates and rings loudly.

Opposite the vampire and his phone, Raymond chases her around the center island counter until he makes it to the wall plug. He grabs his phone. The vampire woman attempts to lunge at him but he smashes her against a cabinet. She is frail and surrenders quickly. Raymond puts the phone to his ear.

‘Al, this is not the fucking time.’

‘Baby?’

Raymond is stunned to hear his wife on the line. ‘Karina. Baby.’ The phone drops to the ground and the call is ended. The vampire taunts him with her hands in the air. 

‘Karina! Karinaaaa!’

Raymond plunges his blade into her guts; she falls to the ground. Disgusted, he wipes her guts from his hand and picks up his phone and dials his wife. She answers. ‘Karina, sorry.’

‘Where are you?’ She says softly. A little sadness in her voice. ‘Why aren’t you home in bed with me? Why don’t you answer?’

‘Baby I was charging my phone. I’m working. What’s wrong?’ Using his blade, he quickly saws off the head of the vampire woman. The voice of his wife grows ever sadder.

‘I had bad dreams in the night. And I woke up and you’re still not here.’

‘Baby, you know you don’t need to call me because I’m busy at night. Do I need to repeat what I do for a living?’

‘You’re still working? I don’t believe you.’

Raymond sighs. He collapses to the ground next to the vampire’s decapitated body. ‘Baby. Our fight has been killing me. I don’t want to fight with you anymore. I had the worst day in my life. I’m sorry for everything I said bad to you.’

Silence.

‘You’re still angry?’ Raymond’s voice broke. ‘You don’t want to forgive me for everything and start fresh?’

‘I just want honesty from you.’

‘Like how?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘If we can’t have relationship with trust, Raymond Cruz, I don’t know what we have for this baby on the way. I have bad dreams and you’re still not home.’

Raymond grows frustrated. ‘Because I’m working! How many times I say don’t call me when I’m working because it’s a distraction!’

‘But I don’t know what you’re really doing when you say you’re working.’

Raymond walks to the room at the end of the hallways and saw off the heads of both remaining female vampires. He looks around. The demon leader is nowhere to be found.

‘Now I tell you, Karina, my love, If we can’t have relationship with trust…’

‘It’s simple. I just need you to tell me the truth Raymond.’

Raymond gets mad, ‘Well how many times I have to tell you the fuckin truth before you believe me, Karina!’

The Demon walks into the room. Ray wipes blood from his mouth and gets a small taste of it on his tongue. Human blood. His eyes start to burn, a symptom of the vampire still refusing die inside him. How long til my injection? He wonders.

‘Fuck you! Don’t come home.’ Karina cries.

Raymond grows concerned about the deliciousness of the blood on his tongue. He snaps.

‘Fine!’ Raymond yells.

Silence. Raymond grows desperate. ‘I’m sorry, Don’t hang up. I want to be with you. I want to be a father.’ But she hangs up before he finishes his sentence.

The Demon smiles and points at Ray, ‘You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father’s desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.’

Raymond looks up at him and sneers. ‘John 8:44. You have all the bible verses to provoke me huh?’

Raymond tackles the demon, but the creature’s supernatural strength is a wall of resistance for the vampire hunter. The demon grabs Raymond by the collar, lifting him up into the air; his sharp talons digging into Raymond’s chest and drawing blood.

‘The Lord Jesus Christ is my saviour. God is the father!’ Raymond yells. He pulls his gun, the demon is frightened and ready to toss his body to the side. Once again, the hunter only clips the demon in the arm.

His phone rings. 

‘Baby.’

‘Who the fuck is Lisa?’

‘Who?’ More blood drips to his tongue and he spits it out before the vampire in him can enjoy it.

‘She added you on Facebook. How long you been fucking Lisa?’

‘Baby!’

The Demon lunges at Raymond. He shoots the demon square in the chest. Screaming, the demon recoils, turns to the window and bursts through the glass and wooden boards to the outside.

‘Our father who art in heaven , deliver us from evil!’ He heads out the door to join the demon in the front yard.

6:21. Sun up. Rays pierce through the thick grey clouds. It isn’t night anymore.

‘Baby listen. She’s just a person from high school I saw downtown.’

‘And you gave her your Facebook. You couldn’t tell her you were married.’

‘I didn’t give her my Facebook. She tracked me down, even after I left her alone and told her I was married.’

‘Why would she do that? You flirted with her?’

‘No!’

‘Then why would she add you knowing you are married.’

‘Because she’s some sort of sociopath, apparently. I don’t KNOW why, baby!’

‘After all the problems we’ve been having I’m supposed to believe you’re not interested in your female friend from high school?’

Raymond wants to answer, but the job remains to be done. Weighing his options, he decides to put down his phone and take the utmost advantage of a clear shot he has to the center of the demon’s forehead. The demon falls backward into a pile of rubbish in the yard. Raymond pants and wipes sweat from his own forehead, and put the phone back to his ear.

‘Karina, my love. I’m dying.’ The blood is sweet in his mouth. The small traces taste good and Raymond could feel his body’s desire to convert into a vampire once again. Fearful, he resists the urge to let himself go and allow it to happen.

‘Stop it.’

‘I’m DYING, my love. I give up, I’m dying. You love me no more.’

A pause on the line. ‘Do you love ME?’

‘Yes! Don’t you love ME?’

Silence. Raymond begins to cry. The sky grows ever brighter with the light of the rising sun. Karina could hear his sobs. ‘Baby.’

‘What.’

‘baby…’

‘What is it, Raymond Cruz?’

‘I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn, by falling in love.’

‘Huh?’ She in confused at first, but then she digests his words. ‘Baby I love you.’

‘I love you too and it means the world to me having a baby with you.’

‘Me too, my love.’

‘Did you eat?’

The Demon rises. Despite the light from the sun, the demon is awake. He does not burst into a hail of flames and ash, but instead rises to his feet. Karina is on the line, oblivious.

‘I finished the other half of the tuna sandwich I made, I wasn’t very hungry.’

The Demon approaches.

‘Baby I know you’re not hungry but you gotta eat okay’

The demon’s eyes turn read, his voice deepens. ‘Now we take the day, consuming the light with darkness…’

‘…and you know I don’t like eating when I didn’t finish digesting my last meal…’

‘Baby huh uh…’

The Demon smiles. ‘For Satan…Satan is an angel of the light.’

Raymond frowns. ‘2nd Corinthians chapter 11. And I will keep on doing what I am doing in order to cut the ground from under those who want an opportunity to be considered equal with us in the things they boast about. For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.’

He runs forward and swipes at the Demon’s chest with his blade. The demon grabs a hold of his arm and twists it, opening wide his mouth full of sharp fangs and attempting to bite Raymond’s shoulder. 

The hunter quickly grabs his gun and shoots the Lord of Hell in the face, blasting his skull to bits.

Karina continues on the phone, ‘I may as well get more bread since I’m headed to the store to get meat for today’s supper.’

‘Uh huh.’

He cuts off the head of the Demon and throws it into the garbage bag with the other heads. He notices Karina stopped talking. ‘Baby?’ She doesn’t answer. ‘Baby you still mad?’

She sighs. ‘No baby. I found an apartment I think. It’s a really good one fully furnished. One room for us one for the baby.’

‘Oh yeah baby? That’s great. Where?’

‘Downtown.’

‘Baby, downtown?’ He throws the garbage bag with the four heads over the fence and grabs the two large garbage bags for the corpses.

‘Baby I know you grew up downtown but homes downtown isn’t the same price as when we were kids. Downtown sounds a little expensive. 4500 per month? I just had a contract worth that. Uh much. How bout that. you think we can afford that?’

The rest of the bodies get sorted into the bags. A garbage truck passes down the street. Raymond waves down the workers. ‘Excuse me!’ 

He runs past the fence gates to them with the corpses in hand. ‘I have some trash. Thank you.’

He walks to his car, throws the bag with the four heads in the back seat. ‘Baby I’ll call you back. I have the other line.

‘Yes, Al... Send me the transfer , I sent you the picture .’

He starts the engine and begins to drive away from the broken down neighborhood.

‘Vampire chick fucked herself with my cross. My chain. Just like exorcist, yea.’

He turns the corner.

‘I will go get the formula now, Al. Is that what you want. I have to pick up milk for my wife, I’ll go get this stupid formula at the same time.’

At the stop sign, he waits for a young mom to cross the street with her baby stroller then he continues to drive off into the horizon.

——————————

BOOK 2— ECLIPSE

Chapter 173

August 12, 2026. 5:48pm. The village of San Lorenzo clings to the rugged hills of northern Spain like a forgotten relic, its cobblestone streets winding through clusters of weathered stone houses. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, and the distant toll of a church bell echoes through the valley. Raymond Cruz stands in the shadow of an ancient oak tree, his breath ragged, his body trembling. His veins pulse with a dark, unnatural energy, and his vision swims with shades of crimson. The vampire curse is taking hold, and he can feel the demon within him clawing at the edges of his sanity.

"Raymond, mate, you’ve got to snap out of it!" Shane’s voice is high-pitched, tinged with panic. The young British assistant stands a few feet away, his lanky frame trembling, his glasses askew. His hands are raised in a feeble attempt to calm Raymond, but his fear is palpable. "You’re not a monster, Raymond. You’re a bloody hero! Remember that!"

Raymond snarls, his fangs glinting in the light. His mind is a storm of rage and hunger, the demon’s voice whispering in his ear, urging him to give in, to feed. The villagers have gathered in the square, their faces etched with terror as they watch the transformation unfold. A child whimpers, clutching her mother’s skirt, and the sound sends a fresh wave of hunger coursing through Raymond’s veins.

"Shane," Raymond growls, his voice a guttural rasp. "Get the fuck out of here. Now."

Shane shakes his head, his fear giving way to a stubborn determination. "Not a chance, mate. I’m not leaving you like this. We’ve been through too much together."

Raymond’s claws flex, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. He can feel the demon’s influence growing stronger, his humanity slipping away. "You don’t understand, you idiot," he hisses. "I’m not in control anymore. If you don’t leave, I’ll kill you."

Before Shane can respond, a blinding light erupts in the square, forcing Raymond to shield his eyes. The villagers gasp, some falling to their knees in awe. When the light fades, a figure stands at the center of the square, his presence commanding and otherworldly. He is tall, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw, his piercing blue eyes glowing with an ethereal light. His wings—massive and feathered—spread wide, casting a shadow over the square. This is Kael, the physical embodiment of an archangel.

"Well, well," Kael says, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look what we have here. Raymond Cruz, the great demon hunter, reduced to a snarling beast. How the mighty have fallen."

Raymond snarls, his claws flexing as he takes a step toward Kael. "Stay out of this, Kael. This isn’t your fight."

Kael smirks, his wings folding neatly behind him. "Oh, but it is. You see, Raymond, I have a vested interest in keeping this world from descending into chaos. And right now, you’re the biggest threat to that."

Shane steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Listen, mate, we’re all on the same side here. Raymond’s just having a bit of a rough patch. No need to be a dick about it."

Kael’s gaze flicks to Shane, his expression one of mild amusement. "And who are you? The comic relief? Honestly, Raymond, I expected better from you. Surrounding yourself with bumbling fools and playing right into the hands of the Devil isn’t exactly the mark of a great soldier of Christ."

Shane bristles, his fear momentarily overshadowed by indignation. "Oi! I’ll have you know I’ve saved Raymond’s life more times than I can count!"

Kael ignores him, his attention returning to Raymond. "This is your own doing, you know. You’ve been playing with fire for too long, and now you’ve been burned. The vampire curse doesn’t just happen, Raymond. You invited it in."

Raymond’s growl deepens, his claws digging into the cobblestones. "I didn’t ask for this, Kael. I’ve been fighting demons my whole life. This is just another battle."

Kael’s smirk fades, replaced by a look of cold determination. "No, Raymond. This is the consequence of your arrogance. You thought you could handle everything on your own, and now you’re paying the price."

Before Raymond can respond, Kael moves with blinding speed, his hand closing around Raymond’s throat. The demon hunter struggles, his claws slashing at Kael’s arm, but the archangel’s grip is unyielding. With his free hand, Kael produces a small vial filled with a glowing liquid.

"Drink this," Kael commands, his voice brooking no argument. "It’s the antidote. It will purge the demon from your system—for now."

Raymond hesitates, his instincts screaming at him to resist. But deep down, he knows Kael is right. He can’t let the demon win. With a snarl of defiance, he grabs the vial and downs its contents in one swift motion.

The effect is immediate. The dark energy coursing through his veins recedes, his claws retracting, his fangs disappearing. His vision clears, and the demon’s voice falls silent. Raymond collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, his body trembling with exhaustion.

Kael steps back, his wings folding behind him. "There. You’re welcome."

Shane rushes to Raymond’s side, helping him to his feet. "You all right, mate? That was a close one."

Raymond nods, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. Thanks, Shane."

Kael’s expression softens, though his tone remains sharp. "Don’t thank me yet, Raymond. This antidote is only a temporary solution. If you want to rid yourself of this curse for good, you’ll need to find its source. And that means finding Vespertilio.”

Raymond’s eyes narrow. "Vespertilio? What does he have to do with this?"

Kael’s smirk returns. "Everything. He’s the one who created the curse, and he’s the only one who can break it. I’m heading out to find him now. You’re welcome to join me—if you think you can keep up."

Raymond straightens, his determination returning. "I’ll find him on my own. I don’t need your help."

Kael shrugs, his wings spreading wide. "Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

With that, Kael takes to the sky, his form disappearing into the sky. The villagers murmur in awe, some crossing themselves as they watch him go.

Shane turns to Raymond, his expression a mix of fear and determination. "So, what’s the plan, boss?"

Raymond’s gaze hardens as he looks toward the forest, where Vespertilio is said to be hiding. "I’m going after him. You head back to the hotel and wait for me there."

Shane’s eyes widen. "What? No way! I’m not letting you go alone. This is Vespertilio we’re talking about. He’s not exactly a walk in the park."

Raymond places a hand on Shane’s shoulder, his tone firm but gentle. "I need you to stay safe, Shane. If something happens to me, someone needs to carry on the fight. And that someone is you."

Shane hesitates, his fear warring with his loyalty. Finally, he nods, his voice barely above a whisper. "All right, mate. But you’d better come back in one piece, yeah?"

Raymond manages a small smile. "I’ll do my best."

As Shane reluctantly makes his way back to the hotel, Raymond turns his gaze to the forest, his resolve hardening. The fight for his soul is far from over, and he knows that the battle ahead will be the most difficult of his life. But he is ready. He has to be.

With a deep breath, Raymond steps toward the foot of the forest, where his beaten up rental sedan waits, the engine idle. His silver dagger gleaming in the pale sun. The hunt for Vespertilio has begun.

The winding roads of northern Spain stretch endlessly before Raymond Cruz as he drives through the misty countryside. His mind is heavy with thoughts of Karina, his wife, and their young daughter Isabella, who have been missing for months. The authorities have given up, but Raymond knows better. He knows the darkness that lurks in the world, and he knows they haven’t simply vanished. The car’s Bluetooth system buzzes, and the voice of Al, his sarcastic vampire-killing contract dispatcher, fills the cabin.

"Raymond, you there? Or are you too busy brooding to answer?" Al’s voice crackles with static, tinged with his usual dry humor.

"I’m here, Al," Raymond replies, his tone clipped. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in. Heard you’ve been chasing shadows again. Any luck finding Karina?"

Raymond’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. "No. Not yet. But I’m close. I can feel it."

Al sighs, the sound distorted through the speakers. "Look, Raymond, I get it. Family’s important. But you’ve got a job to do. The eclipse is coming, and you know what that means."

Raymond’s jaw tightens. "Yeah, I know. The demons get stronger. The veil between worlds thins. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before."

"This isn’t just any demon, Raymond. This is Vespertilio. The master demon. He’s been quiet for centuries, but the eclipse is his time. He’s going to come out swinging, and you’re the only one who can stop him."

Raymond’s eyes narrow. "I’ll stop him. But not for you. Not for the contract. For Karina. For my kid."

Al’s voice softens, just a little. "Raymond, I know you’re hurting. But you can’t let this consume you. You’ve got to stay focused. The eclipse is just the beginning. If Vespertilio gets what he wants, there won’t be a world left to save."

Raymond’s grip on the wheel tightens further. "I’ll handle it, Al. I always do."

"Just be careful, Raymond. Vespertilio isn’t like the others. He’s smarter, stronger, and he’s got a personal vendetta against you. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time."

Raymond’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of something in the distance. "I’ll be careful, Al. But I’ve got to go."

"Raymond, wait—"

Raymond cuts the call, his attention fully on the figure standing on the side of the road. His heart skips a beat. It is Lisa, the enigmatic woman who has been appearing at his house, her presence a constant, unsettling reminder of a past he can’t quite grasp. She wears a flowing white dress, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, and she walks toward the courtyard of an old, crumbling church. Raymond slams on the brakes, the tires screeching against the asphalt. He steps out of the car, his hand instinctively reaching for the silver dagger he always carries. His mind races a mile a minute. What is going on? What is she doing here? She was a part of this all along.

"Lisa!" he calls out, his voice echoing in the stillness. She doesn’t turn. Instead, she disappears around the corner of the church. Raymond hesitates for a moment, then follows, his boots crunching on the gravel path. 

As he rounds the building, he expects to see her waiting for him. Instead, he finds Roger, the old book vendor he met in a quaint English town just a month ago. Roger leans against the church wall, his hands in his pockets, a friendly smile on his face.

"Raymond," Roger says, his voice warm and inviting. "Fancy meeting you here. Small world, isn’t it?"

Raymond’s eyes narrow. "What are you doing here, Roger? And where’s Lisa?"

Roger chuckles, a sound that is both comforting and unnerving. "Lisa? Oh, she’s around. Always around, isn’t she? But don’t worry about her. She’s not important right now. What’s important is that you’re here. We have so much to talk about."

Raymond’s grip on his dagger tightens. "Cut the crap, Roger. What’s going on?"

Roger’s smile falters for a moment, but he quickly recovers. "Always so suspicious, Raymond. Can’t a man enjoy a friendly chat? Come on, let’s go inside. The church is quite something. You’ll love it."

Raymond shakes his head. "I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on."

Roger’s smile fades completely, replaced by a look of cold irritation. "You always were a stubborn one, Raymond. Fine. If you won’t come willingly, I’ll just have to insist."

Before Raymond can react, Roger’s friendly demeanor vanishes. His eyes glow with an unnatural light, and his voice takes on a hissing, venomous tone. "You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Always one step ahead. But you’re not. You’re just a pawn in a much larger game. And Lisa? She was never here. She’s just a figment of your imagination, a distraction to keep you off balance."

Raymond’s heart races as he realizes the truth. There is no Lisa. She has been a trick, a manipulation. He takes a step back, his dagger at the ready. "What do you want from me, Roger?"

“In the church,” Roger snaps. “Now.” He disappears behind the tall oak doors, leaving Raymond standing there drenched in a cold sweat, bewildered. 

————

Chapter 174

6:21pm. The heavy oak doors of the church creak open as Raymond steps inside, his silver dagger gleaming in the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows. The air is thick with the scent of incense and decay, a haunting combination that sets his nerves on edge. His boots echo against the stone floor as he moves deeper into the sanctuary, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of Roger—or whatever Roger has become.

At the altar, a figure stands with his back to Raymond, his silhouette framed by the flickering light of candles. The man is impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his posture radiating confidence and menace. Raymond’s breath catches in his throat as he recognizes him: Darrius Ferrante, the man who hired him to kill Vespertilio. But this is no ordinary meeting. Lying on the altar, bathed in an eerie glow, are Raymond’s wife, Karina, and their daughter, Isabella. They are fast asleep, their faces serene, as if caught in a dreamless trance.

"Welcome, Raymond," Darrius says, his voice smooth and commanding. He turns to face him, his piercing eyes locking onto Raymond’s. "I’ve been expecting you."

Raymond’s grip on his dagger tightens, his knuckles white. "What the hell is this, Darrius? What have you done to them?"

Darrius smiles, a cold, calculated expression that sends a chill down Raymond’s spine. "Oh, they’re perfectly safe. For now. But their fate is in your hands, Raymond. As it always has been."

Raymond’s mind races, memories flooding back—the last phone call with Karina, her voice breaking as she sobbed, the guilt of his infidelity with Lisa (or the illusion of Lisa) weighing heavily on his conscience. He had abandoned them, chasing demons instead of being there for his family. And now, here they were, caught in the crossfire of a war they never asked to be part of.

"You’ve been a busy man, Raymond," Darrius continues, his tone dripping with mock admiration. "Hunting demons, saving the world, playing the hero. But at what cost? Look at what you’ve sacrificed. Look at what you’ve lost."

Raymond’s jaw tightens, his voice low and dangerous. "You don’t get to talk about my family, Darrius. You don’t get to pretend you care. What do you want?"

Darrius steps closer, his movements deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "What do I want? I want you to see the truth, Raymond. You’ve been fighting a losing battle. The return of Satan is inevitable. The eclipse is coming, and with it, the demons will rise. The veil between worlds will thin, and darkness will consume everything. And you, Raymond, have been chosen to play a very special role in all of this."

Raymond’s eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

Darrius’s smile widens, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "Your body, Raymond. It has been chosen to be the vessel for Satan’s return. The demon within you—the curse you’ve been fighting—it’s not just any demon. It’s him. Satan has been growing inside you, waiting for the right moment to emerge. And when the eclipse arrives, there will be nothing you can do to stop it."

Raymond’s heart pounds in his chest, but he refuses to show fear. "You’re lying. I’m not some pawn in your twisted game. I’ll destroy Vespertilio before the eclipse. I’ll stop this."

Darrius laughs, a deep, resonant sound that echoes through the church. "Oh, Raymond. You still don’t understand, do you? Vespertilio is just a piece of the puzzle. A pawn, like you. But you… you are the key. And now, I’m going to give you a choice."

He gestures to Karina and Isabella, their bodies still and lifeless on the altar. "You can use your dagger to end their lives. Offer their blood to Satan, and you will delay his return. Their sacrifice will appease him, for a time. Or…" Darrius’s eyes gleam with malice. "You can refuse, and watch as the demon within you consumes everything you love. The choice is yours."

Raymond’s mind reels, the weight of the decision crushing him. He looks at his wife and daughter, their faces so peaceful, so innocent. He can’t do it. He won’t. But Darrius’s words echo in his mind: *The demon within you… Satan has been growing inside you…*

"No," Raymond says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I won’t play your game. I won’t kill them. And I won’t let you win."

Darrius tilts his head, his expression one of mock pity. "Such bravery. Such foolishness. You really think you can defy fate, Raymond? You think you can stop what’s already in motion?"

Raymond takes a step forward, his dagger raised. "I don’t believe in fate. And I don’t believe in you. You’re not Darrius Ferrante. You’re Vespertilio."

Darrius’s smile falters for a moment, but then he laughs again, a sound that grows deeper, more guttural, until it is no longer human. His body begins to shift and contort, his suit tearing as his form expands, his skin darkening to a deep, glossy black. Wings burst from his back, massive and leathery, and his face elongates into a grotesque bat-like visage. Vespertilio stands before Raymond, his eyes glowing with malevolent intelligence.

"Very good, Raymond," Vespertilio hisses, his voice a blend of Darrius’s smooth tones and something far more sinister. "You’ve figured it out. But it changes nothing. The game is already in motion. And you, my dear hunter, are the prize."

Raymond doesn’t hesitate. He lunges at Vespertilio, his dagger aimed at the demon’s heart. But Vespertilio is faster, his wings sweeping out to knock Raymond off balance. The two clash in a flurry of claws and steel, the church echoing with the sounds of their struggle.

As they fight, Vespertilio’s voice taunts him, quoting a verse from the Bible: "How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low!”

Raymond grits his teeth, his determination unwavering. "I’m not falling for your tricks, Vespertilio. I’m not Satan. This ends here."

But deep down, he knows the truth: this is only the beginning. The eclipse is coming, and with it, the final battle for his soul. And whether he wins or loses, the world will never be the same.

The church trembles as Raymond and Vespertilio clash, their movements a blur of steel and shadow. The stained-glass windows shatter, raining shards of colored light onto the stone floor. Raymond’s silver dagger flashes in the dim light, each strike aimed at Vespertilio’s heart, but the demon is swift, his massive wings deflecting the blows with ease. 

Vespertilio’s laughter echoes through the sanctuary, a deep, guttural sound that sends chills down Raymond’s spine. “You’re fighting a losing battle, hunter,” the demon taunts, his voice dripping with malice. “The eclipse is near, and with it, your end.”

Raymond doesn’t respond. He can’t afford to. Every ounce of his focus is on the fight, on staying alive long enough to land a killing blow. He ducks under a swipe of Vespertilio’s claws, rolling to his feet and slashing at the demon’s side. The dagger bites deep, drawing a spray of black ichor, but Vespertilio barely flinches.

“Is that all you’ve got?” the demon sneers, backhanding Raymond with enough force to send him crashing into a pew. The wood splinters beneath him, and pain radiates through his body, but he forces himself to his feet, his grip on the dagger never wavering.

Vespertilio spreads his wings, the leathery membranes casting a shadow over the altar. “You’re outmatched, Raymond. You always have been. But I’ll give you credit—you’re persistent.”

Raymond wipes blood from his lip, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not done yet.”

With a roar, he charges, feinting left before diving right, his dagger aimed at Vespertilio’s throat. The demon blocks the strike, but Raymond uses the momentum to drive his shoulder into Vespertilio’s chest, sending them both crashing through the church doors and into the courtyard outside.

The humid afternoon air hits Raymond like a shock, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. He rolls to his feet, his dagger at the ready, as Vespertilio rises from the rubble of the doors, his wings unfurling to their full, terrifying span.

The courtyard is bathed in white light, the ancient oak tree at its center casting long, twisted shadows. Vespertilio’s eyes glow like embers as he advances, his claws flexing. “You can’t win, Raymond. The eclipse is coming, and when it does, I’ll tear this world apart.”

Raymond circles him, his breathing heavy but steady. “Not if I stop you first.”

Vespertilio lunges, his claws slashing through the air, but Raymond sidesteps, driving his dagger into the demon’s wing. Vespertilio roars in pain, wrenching the blade free and hurling it aside. Raymond dives for it, but Vespertilio is faster, his tail whipping out to knock Raymond off his feet.

The demon looms over him, his breath hot and foul. “You’re running out of time, hunter. And so is your world.”

Raymond’s hand closes around a jagged piece of stone from the shattered church door. With a grunt, he hurls it at Vespertilio’s face, catching the demon off guard. The distraction gives him just enough time to scramble to his feet and retrieve his dagger.

Vespertilio snarls, his patience wearing thin. “Enough of this!”

He spreads his wings and takes to the sky, his massive form blotting out the sun. Raymond watches as the demon circles above, his mind racing. He can’t let Vespertilio escape. Not now. Not when the eclipse is so close.

The demon lets out a final, mocking laugh before turning and flying toward the forest, his wings carrying him swiftly into the distance. Raymond curses under his breath, sprinting to his rental car. He yanks the door open and slides into the driver’s seat, his hands trembling as he starts the engine.

He pulls out his phone and dials Shane. The line rings once, twice, before Shane’s voice crackles through. “Raymond? What’s going on? You sound like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“No time to explain,” Raymond says, his voice tight with urgency. “I’m heading to the forest. Vespertilio’s there, and the eclipse is coming. Meet me at the spot we marked on the map. And Shane—hurry.”

Shane’s tone shifts immediately, all traces of humor gone. “On my way, mate. Just… don’t do anything stupid before I get there, yeah?”

Raymond manages a grim smile. “No promises.”

He ends the call and slams the car into gear, the tires screeching as he speeds down the winding road toward the forest. The sun hangs heavy in the sky, its light tinged with an ominous red hue. The eclipse is near, and with it, the final battle.

As he drives, Raymond’s mind races. He thinks of Karina and Isabella, still trapped in the church, their fates uncertain. He thinks of Shane, loyal to a fault, rushing to his aid. And he thinks of Vespertilio, the demon who has haunted him for so long, the embodiment of everything he’s fought against.

This is it. The endgame. And Raymond knows one thing for certain: he can’t afford to lose.

The forest looms ahead, dark and foreboding, as Raymond pulls to a stop at the edge of the trees. He grabs his dagger and steps out of the car, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of Vespertilio. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the flutter of wings, the sound of the demon waiting for him.

Raymond takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what’s to come. The eclipse is coming. The final battle is here. And he’s ready.

For Karina. For Isabella. For the world.

He steps into the forest, the darkness swallowing him whole.

————

Chapter 175

7:21pm. Nine minutes to the full eclipse. The forest is a labyrinth of shadows, the trees towering like ancient sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-red sky. Raymond’s boots crunch against the forest floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. His phone’s GPS leads him deeper into the woods, the signal flickering as if the forest itself resists his intrusion. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, and the faint hum of insects buzzes in his ears. His silver dagger glints in the dim light, his grip tight, his senses on high alert.

He reaches the marked spot—a clearing bathed in an eerie, otherworldly glow. The trees part to reveal a scene that chills him to his core. A dozen naked female vampires stand in a semicircle, their pale skin glistening, their eyes glowing with a predatory hunger. Their bodies are bare, their forms both alluring and terrifying, their fangs glinting like shards of glass. At the center of the circle stands Karina, her body as bare as the others, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes, once filled with warmth and love, now burn with a cold, alien light. She smiles at him, but it’s not the smile he remembers. It’s a smile that promises indulgence, surrender, and death.

Behind them, Darrius leans against a tree, his arms crossed, his expression one of smug satisfaction. He’s no longer in his human guise; his true form is revealed—a tall, imposing figure with skin like polished obsidian, his eyes glowing like embers. His wings, massive and leathery, are folded behind him, and his voice drips with malice as he speaks.

“Welcome, Raymond,” Darrius says, his tone mocking. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show. But then again, you’ve always been one for dramatic entrances.”

Raymond’s eyes dart between Karina and Darrius, his heart pounding in his chest. “What have you done to her?”

Darrius chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends a shiver down Raymond’s spine. “I’ve done nothing, Raymond. This is all her choice. She’s embraced her true nature, just as you will soon embrace yours.”

Karina steps forward, her movements fluid and hypnotic. Her voice is soft, almost tender, but there’s a coldness beneath it that makes Raymond’s stomach churn. “Raymond, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you away, for making you feel like you weren’t enough. But this… this is better. No more pain, no more guilt. Just freedom.”

Raymond shakes his head, his voice trembling with desperation. “Karina, don’t listen to him. This isn’t you. He’s manipulating you, just like he’s manipulated everyone else. There’s still time. I’m going to get the antidote and I’m going to save you.”

Darrius steps forward, his wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the clearing. “Oh, Raymond, always the hero. Always trying to save everyone. But you can’t save her. Not anymore. She’s one of us now.”

The clearing is silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the low hum of the eclipse overhead. The naked female vampires stand motionless, their glowing eyes fixed on Raymond, their fangs glinting like shards of ice. Karina remains at the center, her pale skin shimmering in the eerie light, her expression a mix of sorrow and cold detachment. Darrius steps forward, his obsidian wings folding behind him, his smile sharp and predatory.

“Raymond,” Darrius begins, his voice smooth and mocking, “there’s still time for you. You can still make the sacrifice. Offer her blood to Satan, and you’ll delay his return. Her life for the world’s salvation. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Raymond’s grip on his dagger tightens, his knuckles white. “I’m not playing your game, Darrius. I won’t kill her.”

Darrius tilts his head, his glowing eyes narrowing with amusement. “Oh, but you’ve already played, Raymond. You’ve been playing since the moment you took up that dagger. The only difference now is that the stakes are higher. And you’re losing.”

Karina steps forward, her movements slow and deliberate. Her voice is soft, trembling with regret. “Raymond… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I pushed you away. I made you feel like you weren’t enough. I blamed you for everything, but it was me. I complicated your life. I… I let him in.”

Raymond’s heart aches as he looks at her, the woman he once loved, now a shadow of her former self. “Karina, don’t do this. Don’t let him manipulate you. This isn’t you. You’re stronger than this.”

Karina’s eyes fill with tears, but they don’t fall. Her voice cracks as she speaks. “I thought I was strong, Raymond. I thought I could handle everything on my own. But when you left… when you abandoned us for your work, I felt so alone. And then he came. Darrius. He was kind, handsome, understanding. He made me feel wanted. I… I fell for him. I let him in. And now… now I’ve become this.”

Darrius chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that fills the clearing. “Oh, Raymond, isn’t it poetic? You were so busy playing the hero, saving the world, that you forgot to save your own family. And now, here we are. Karina, the woman you swore to protect, standing before you as one of us. And you… you’re still clinging to your hollow ideals, your so-called faith. Tell me, Raymond, why do humans sacrifice everything for commitments that mean nothing? Why do you cling to a God who has abandoned you?”

Raymond’s jaw tightens, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “My faith is no longer in God, Darrius. It’s in my family. In Karina. In Isabella. They’re the only things I have left. And I won’t let you take them from me.”

Darrius’s smile widens, his fangs glinting in the dim light. “Oh, but I already have. And yet, you still refuse to see the truth. You were unfaithful to Karina, just as she was unfaithful to you. You sought comfort in Lisa, just as she sought comfort in me. So tell me, Raymond, why do you cling to this idea of love? Why do you sacrifice everything for something so fleeting, so fragile?”

Raymond’s eyes burn with defiance. “Because love is the only thing worth fighting for. It’s the only thing that makes us human. And I won’t let you take that from me.”

Darrius laughs, a deep, resonant sound that echoes through the clearing. “Such foolishness. Such blind devotion. You’re a fool, Raymond. A fool who’s about to lose everything.”

Karina steps closer, her hand reaching out to touch Raymond’s face. Her touch is cold, sending a shiver down his spine. “Raymond, please… don’t fight this. This is better. This is freedom. No more pain, no more guilt. Just… surrender.”

Raymond pulls away, his voice firm. “No, Karina. This isn’t freedom. This is slavery. You’re letting him control you. Don’t give in. Fight it.”

Darrius’s smile fades, replaced by a look of cold irritation. “Enough of this. You’ve had your chance, Raymond. Now, it’s time to end this.”

With a snap of his fingers, the female vampires move as one, their movements swift and predatory. They surround Raymond, their fangs bared, their eyes glowing with hunger. Karina watches from the sidelines, her expression unreadable. Darrius stands beside her, his arms crossed, his smile triumphant.

“It’s over, Raymond,” Darrius says, his voice filled with malice. “You’ve lost.”

Raymond’s grip on his dagger tightens, his resolve hardening. “I’ll never stop fighting. Not for her. Not for my family.”

Darrius’s eyes gleam with malice. “Then you leave me no choice.”

The vampires close in, their fangs sinking into Raymond’s flesh. He screams, the pain unbearable, his vision fading to black. The last thing he sees is Karina’s face, her eyes filled with a cold, alien light.

The clearing is a blur of fangs, claws, and pale, glistening flesh as the female vampires close in on Raymond. His silver dagger flashes in the dim light, slashing at their outstretched hands and snapping jaws, but there are too many of them. They move like a swarm, their glowing eyes filled with hunger, their cold laughter echoing in his ears. Raymond’s body aches, his strength waning as the vampires overwhelm him. One of them lunges, her fangs sinking into his shoulder, and he cries out, the pain searing through him like fire.

Just as another vampire grabs his arm, her claws digging into his flesh, a sharp thwip cuts through the air. A crossbow bolt embeds itself in the vampire’s chest, and she stumbles back with a shriek, her hands clawing at the shaft. Raymond’s head snaps toward the sound, his heart leaping as Shane bursts into the clearing, his lanky frame silhouetted against the eerie glow of the eclipse. His glasses are askew, his face pale with fear, but his hands are steady as he reloads the crossbow with practiced speed.

“Oi! Hands off him, you bloodsucking harpies!” Shane shouts, his voice high-pitched but filled with determination. He fires another bolt, this one striking a vampire in the thigh and sending her sprawling to the ground. The others hiss, their attention shifting from Raymond to the new threat.

Raymond seizes the moment, driving his dagger into the chest of the vampire who bit him. She collapses with a gurgling scream, her body dissolving into ash. He staggers to his feet, his breath ragged, his body trembling with exhaustion. He looks up and down at his assistant in amazement that the Brit finally showed the bravery that alluded him for so long. “Shane! What the hell are you doing here?”

Shane fires another bolt, this one narrowly missing Darrius, who stands at the edge of the clearing with a look of mild amusement. “Saving your arse, apparently!” Shane retorts, his voice cracking under the strain. “You’re welcome, by the way!”

The vampires regroup, their glowing eyes fixed on Shane. One of them lunges at him, her claws outstretched, but Shane ducks just in time, firing a bolt point-blank into her stomach. She collapses with a screech, her body writhing as it turns to ash. Shane scrambles backward, his hands fumbling to reload the crossbow. “Raymond, mate, a little help would be nice!”

Raymond doesn’t need to be told twice. He charges forward, his dagger slicing through the air with deadly precision. He cuts down one vampire, then another, his movements fueled by desperation and rage. Together, he and Shane fight back-to-back, their weapons flashing in the dim light as they hold off the swarm.

Darrius watches from the sidelines, his arms crossed, his expression one of mild irritation. “How touching,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The bumbling sidekick comes to the rescue. How very… predictable.”

Shane glares at Darrius, his hands trembling as he reloads the crossbow. “Yeah, well, predictable or not, it’s working, isn’t it? So why don’t you sod off and let us finish this?”

Darrius’s smile fades, replaced by a look of cold anger. “You’re out of your depth, boy. This isn’t some fairy tale where the hero wins. This is the end.”

Raymond steps forward, his dagger raised, his voice steady despite the pain coursing through his body. “It’s not over yet, Darrius. Not while we’re still standing.”

The vampires circle them, their movements slower now, more cautious. Shane fires another bolt, this one striking a vampire in the shoulder and forcing her back. Raymond slashes at another, his dagger cutting deep and sending her crumbling to ash. For a moment, it seems like they might actually win.

But then Karina steps forward, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. Her voice is soft, almost tender, but there’s a coldness beneath it that makes Raymond’s stomach churn. “Raymond… it’s over. You can’t win. Just… let go.”

Raymond’s heart aches as he looks at her, the woman he once loved, now a shadow of her former self. “Karina, please… don’t do this. Don’t let him control you.”

Shane glances between Raymond and Karina, his expression one of confusion and fear. “Raymond, mate, what’s going on? What’s she talking about?”

Before Raymond can answer, Darrius steps forward, his wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the clearing. “Enough of this. It’s time to end this charade.”

With a snap of his fingers, the vampires attack again, their movements swift and predatory. Raymond and Shane fight back, their weapons flashing in the dim light, but they’re outnumbered, outmatched. The vampires close in, their fangs bared, their eyes glowing with hunger.

And then, the eclipse reaches its peak, the world plunged into darkness. The final battle has begun.

The sky above the forest darkens. The moon blots out the sun, casting the world in an eerie, twilight glow. The air is thick with the scent of blood and decay, and the forest is silent, as if holding its breath.

In the clearing, Raymond’s body lies still, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The vampires step back, their hunger sated, their eyes glowing with satisfaction. Karina stands over him, her expression unreadable. Darrius steps forward, his smile triumphant.

“It’s done,” he says, his voice filled with malice. “The vessel is ready.”

Raymond’s body begins to change, his skin darkening, his muscles contorting. His eyes snap open, glowing with an unnatural light. He rises to his feet, his movements fluid and predatory. His voice, when he speaks, is a deep, guttural growl.

“I am reborn.”

Darrius kneels before him, his head bowed. “Welcome, my lord.”

Raymond—no, Satan—looks down at his hands, flexing his claws. His gaze shifts to Karina, his smile cold and predatory. “You’ve done well, my dear. But now, it’s time to finish what we started.”

Karina nods, her expression one of cold determination. “As you wish, my lord.”

The clearing is bathed in an unnatural darkness as the eclipse reaches its zenith, the moon blotting out the sun and casting the world in an eerie, blood-red glow. The air is thick with the scent of decay and sulfur, and the oppressive weight of Satan’s presence presses down on everything like a suffocating blanket. The former demon hunter now turned Lord of Darkness stands at the center of it all, his towering form radiating power and malice. His skin is dark as polished obsidian, his eyes glowing like twin embers.

Shane stumbles backward, his crossbow slipping from his trembling hands and clattering to the ground. His glasses are askew, his face pale and slick with sweat, and his breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. The sheer force of Satan’s presence is overwhelming, like a tidal wave crashing over him, dragging him under. His mind reels, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm, and then—it happens.

Memories. Dark, painful memories he’s spent years burying surge to the surface, flooding his mind with images he can’t escape. His father’s drunken rage, the sound of his mother’s sobs, the cold, empty nights spent hiding in his closet, praying for the shouting to stop. The taunts of bullies at school, the feeling of being invisible, unwanted, unloved. The weight of it all crashes down on him, crushing him beneath its unbearable weight.

“No… no, no, no…” Shane mutters, his voice trembling as he clutches his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. “Stop… please, make it stop…”

Satan steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice a low, soothing rumble that seems to vibrate through Shane’s very soul. “Oh, Shane… poor, broken Shane. You’ve carried this pain for so long, haven’t you? All those years, all those memories… they’ve haunted you, haven’t they?”

Shane looks up, his eyes wide with terror and despair. “H-how do you know…?”

Satan smiles, a cold, predatory expression that sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. “I know everything, Shane. I know your pain. I know your fear. And I know… you don’t have to suffer anymore.”

Shane shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. “I… I can’t… I can’t take it anymore…”

Satan reaches out, his clawed hand gently brushing against Shane’s cheek. The touch is cold, but there’s a strange comfort in it, a promise of release. “You don’t have to, Shane. You can let it all go. The pain, the fear, the memories… they don’t have to control you anymore. You can be free.”

Shane’s breath hitches, his body trembling as he looks into Satan’s glowing eyes. “Free…?”

Satan nods, his voice a soft, hypnotic whisper. “Yes, Shane. Free. All you have to do is let go. Take the dagger. End the pain. It’s so easy… so simple…”

Shane’s gaze shifts to Raymond’s silver dagger, lying on the ground a few feet away. The blade glints in the dim light, its edge sharp and deadly. His hand trembles as he reaches for it, his fingers closing around the hilt. The metal is cold against his skin, but it feels… right. Like the answer he’s been searching for all along.

“That’s it,” Satan murmurs, his voice filled with dark encouragement. “Take it. End the suffering. You deserve peace, Shane. You’ve earned it.”

Shane’s grip tightens on the dagger, his tears falling freely now. “I… I just want it to stop…”

“Then make it stop,” Satan says, his voice a gentle command. “You have the power, Shane. Take control. End the pain.”

Shane raises the dagger, the blade glinting as it catches the eerie red light of the eclipse. His hands tremble, but his resolve is steady. He looks up at Satan one last time, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you…”

Satan smiles, his eyes glowing with malevolent satisfaction. “You’re welcome, Shane.”

With a final, shuddering breath, Shane plunges the dagger into his chest. The pain is sharp and immediate, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of the memories, the years of suffering. As the blade pierces his heart, a strange sense of peace washes over him, and the darkness closes in.

Shane’s body collapses to the ground, the dagger still clutched in his hand. His eyes close, his breathing stops, and the clearing falls silent once more.

Satan looks down at Shane’s lifeless body, his smile widening. “Foolish boy. But no matter. The world is mine now.”

He turns to Darrius, his voice a command. “Gather the others. The time has come to claim what is ours.”

Darrius nods, his wings spreading wide. “As you command, my lord.”

The vampires follow as Satan strides out of the clearing, his presence radiating power and malice. The eclipse reaches its peak, the world plunged into darkness. And in that darkness, Satan’s laughter echoes, a sound that chills the very soul of the earth.

The end has come. And with it, the reign of darkness.

Slowly, the moon drifts from the sun, and the forest is now clear. Satan looks back at Darrius, lifting his hand to the warm cascade falling on his skin. “Let there be light,” he says.

——————————

BOOK 3— 2:22

Chapter 1

Emily was 17 years old when she ran away from home. The streets had become her refuge, a chaotic labyrinth where she could disappear into the shadows. The drugs helped, too—they numbed the ache of abandonment and the gnawing guilt that followed her like a ghost. She drifted through the neon-lit nightlife, a hollow shell of the girl she once was, her blonde hair tangled and her leather coat hanging loosely over her frail frame. The city was a predator, and Emily was its prey.

Emily had always been a dreamer. As a child, she would lie in the tall grass behind her house, staring up at the clouds, imagining they were ships sailing to faraway lands. She believed in the goodness of people, in the magic of the world, in the promise that life would always find a way to make things right. But that was before the cracks began to show—before her parents’ voices grew sharp and their silences grew heavy, before the walls of her home felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.

The night she ran away, she was clutching a small backpack stuffed with a few clothes, a tattered journal, and the silver pendant her grandmother had given her—the one engraved with “222.” She didn’t know what the numbers meant, but they felt like a lifeline, a reminder that she was still someone, still connected to something. The streets were cold and unfamiliar, the city lights blinding and harsh. She told herself she was brave, that this was an adventure, that she was finally free. But deep down, she was just a scared girl, clutching at the fraying edges of her innocence.

The first few nights were the hardest. She slept in doorways and under bridges, her stomach growling with hunger, her body shivering with cold. She met other runaways, kids with hollow eyes and hardened faces, who taught her how to survive. They showed her how to steal, how to beg, how to disappear into the shadows. They also introduced her to the drugs—the pills, the powders, the needles that promised to make the pain go away. At first, she resisted, clinging to the memory of the girl she used to be. But the world was too cruel, too loud, too much. One night, she gave in, and the drugs wrapped her in a warm, numbing embrace. It was the first time she felt safe in months.

But with each high, a piece of her slipped away. The girl who once believed in magic now saw only darkness. The girl who once dreamed of faraway lands now wandered aimlessly through the city’s underbelly, her dreams replaced by nightmares. She stopped writing in her journal. She stopped looking at the clouds. She stopped believing that life would ever make things right.

The worst part was the people she met—the ones who saw her vulnerability and exploited it. They offered her shelter, but it came at a price. They offered her companionship, but it was laced with manipulation. They offered her love, but it was a twisted, hollow imitation. Emily didn’t know how to say no. She didn’t know how to protect herself. She didn’t know how to be anything but the girl who had run away, the girl who was lost.

October 16, 2023. 2:22am The cold bites deeper than usual. Emily stumbles through the narrow alley, her legs trembling beneath her. The alley is dimly lit, the flickering glow of a distant streetlamp casting long, jagged shadows. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, and she clutches the coat tighter around her shoulders. At the far end of the alley, a black sedan idles silently, its windows tinted and impenetrable. Inside, a dark man sits with his hands gripping the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. The radio plays softly, a British narrator’s voice reciting a verse from the Bible:

*“In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.”*  

—Ephesians 2:22.

The narrator begins to explain the verse, his tone calm and measured, but then it is interrupted by the gentle humming of a call coming through his vehicle phone. The dark man is quick to answer. “Yes…” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

Emily walks past the sedan, her movements unsteady, her gaze distant. The dark man’s eyes follow her, a flicker of fear crossing his face. Then there is eye contact between them. He reaches for the volume knob and turns it down, silencing the radio. The voice on the other end of the car’s speaker is sharp and commanding:

“The girl is blonde, and she’s wearing a leather coat. You can’t miss her.”

The dark man exhales slowly, his grip tightening on the wheel. Emily continues walking, oblivious to the danger lurking just feet away. She reaches the end of the alley, where the back door of a small restaurant stands ajar. A dumpster overflows with trash, and a long crate serves as a makeshift bench. Sitting on it is another girl, her blonde hair streaked with neon colors, her leather coat adorned with spikes and studs. She looks up as Emily approaches, a sly smile spreading across her pale face.

“Hey, Em,” the punkish girl says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

Emily hesitates, her body wracked with chills. The other girl—her name is Lila—pulls out a crumpled piece of aluminum foil and unfolds it carefully, revealing a small mound of white powder. She holds it out to Emily, her eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

“Come on,” Lila coaxes, her voice soft but insistent. “You know it’ll make you feel better.”

Emily’s hands shake as she leans in, inhaling the powder. The rush is immediate, a wave of euphoria that momentarily drowns out the pain. She slumps against the crate, her vision blurring as the drugs take hold. Lila watches her with a satisfied smirk, running a hand through Emily’s hair.

“That’s my girl,” Lila purrs. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

She stands and disappears into the restaurant, leaving Emily alone in the alley. The world spins around her, and her gaze falls on a shard of broken glass glinting on the ground. For a moment, she entertains the thought of ending it all—of slicing through the numbness and letting the pain spill out. But before she can act, a shadow falls over her.

The dark man stands before her, his expression unreadable. In one hand, he holds a dagger; in the other, a small vial filled with a shimmering liquid. He keeps his distance, his eyes scanning her with a mix of pity and resolve.

“We can do this the easy way,” he says, raising the vial, “or we can do this the hard way.” He points the dagger at her, his voice steady but firm.

Emily’s heart races, but her body refuses to obey. She is frozen, her mind clouded by the drugs. Before the dark man can say more, Lila emerges from the restaurant, her eyes narrowing as she spots him.

“Well, well,” Lila sneers, stepping between Emily and the dark man. “What do we have here?”

The dark man’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. “You didn’t specify which blonde in a leather coat I was supposed to take care of,” he adds, shaking a fist at his car.

Lila’s features begin to shift, her skin turning deathly pale, her eyes glossing over with an otherworldly sheen. Her lips curl back to reveal long, sharp fangs, and her posture becomes predatory, her movements fluid and unnatural. She is no longer human—she is a vampire, her demonic presence radiating through the alley.

The dark man doesn’t flinch. He lunges at her, the dagger flashing in the dim light. The fight is brutal and chaotic, the vampire’s strength pitted against the man’s skill and determination. They clash in a blur of motion, the sound of their struggle echoing through the alley.

Lila moves with inhuman speed, her pale form a blur as she lunges at him, fangs bared and eyes glowing with a feral light. The dark man is ready, his dagger flashing in the dim light as he sidesteps her attack and slashes at her arm. The blade connects, drawing a hiss of pain from Lila, but the wound heals almost instantly, her skin knitting itself back together with unnatural speed.

She retaliates with a vicious swipe of her claws, catching the man across the chest and tearing through his coat. He grunts in pain but doesn’t falter, driving his knee into her stomach and sending her stumbling back. The fight is brutal and unrelenting, each strike met with a counterstrike, each movement calculated and deadly. The dark man fights with precision and purpose, his every move deliberate, while Lila relies on her raw, beastly strength, her attacks wild and unpredictable.

At one point, she manages to pin him against the wall, her fangs inches from his throat. But the man twists free, slamming the hilt of his dagger into her temple and following up with a kick that sends her sprawling. He doesn’t give her a chance to recover, pouncing on her and pinning her to the ground. With one hand, he forces her head back; with the other, he presses the vial to her lips, pouring the shimmering liquid into her mouth.

For a moment, there is silence. The man watches, hope flickering in his eyes, but it fades as Lila’s features remain unchanged. She is still a vampire, her fangs glistening, her eyes filled with hatred.

“This is the part I hate,” the man says, his voice heavy with regret. He reaches for the gun tucked into his belt, his hand trembling slightly as he aims it at her head. “I hate it. I hate it.”

The gunshot echoes through the alley, and Lila’s body goes still. The man stands, his shoulders slumped, and turns to Emily, his expression a mix of exhaustion and sorrow. The fight is over, but the cost is etched into his face—a reminder of the darkness he battles, and the innocence he can never fully save.

Emily is trembling, tears streaming down her face, her words barely audible. “Jesus loves you,” he tells her. “Get off the street! Learn to find faith in God.”

“Save me,” she chokes out.

The dark man kneels beside her, his expression softening.

“Take me home,” she continues, her vision blind with tears.

“That’s not exactly in my job description,” he says. “But I’ll see what I can do to help you. And get you home.”

His gaze falls on the silver pendant around her neck, the numbers “222” engraved on its surface. Emily looks up at him, her voice barely a whisper.

“My name is Emily.”

The dark man opens his mouth to respond, but then exhales with exhaustion and simply extends his hand for a simple handshake.

————

Chapter 111

7:06pm. Emily stands in the kitchen, ladling warm tomato soup into a bowl. The rich, comforting aroma fills the air as she carefully places the bowl on a tray alongside a slice of buttered toast. She carries it into the living room, where a small boy with tousled brown hair sits cross-legged on the plush carpet, his wide eyes fixed on the cartoon playing on the large TV screen. The room is cozy, bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace, but Emily’s heart feels heavy with the weight of responsibility.

“Here you go, Tim,” she says softly, setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of him. “Eat up, okay? You need to stay warm.”

Tim looks up at her with a shy smile, his cheeks still flushed from the cold outside. “Thank you, Emily,” he murmurs, his voice small but sincere. He reaches out and wraps his arms around her in a tight hug. “I love you.”

Emily’s breath catches for a moment, her chest tightening with emotion. She hugs him back, her voice trembling as she whispers, “I love you too, Tim. And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

She watches as he settles back onto the carpet, eagerly dipping his spoon into the soup. The sight of him—so small, so vulnerable—fills her with a mix of tenderness and determination. She’s made a promise to protect him, to give him the safety and care he deserves, even if it’s just for one night.

The doorbell rings, sharp and sudden, shattering the quiet of the house. Emily jumps, her heart racing as she glances toward the foyer. Who could be here at this hour? She hesitates, glancing back at Tim, who is now engrossed in his cartoon, oblivious to the interruption.

“I’ll be right back, Tim,” she says, forcing a calm tone. “Stay here, okay?”

Tim nods absently, his attention already back on the TV. Emily hurries to the foyer, her footsteps echoing on the polished hardwood floor. She reaches the door and peers through the peephole, her breath catching in her throat.

Standing on the other side is Raymond Cruz.

Emily’s hands tremble as she unlocks the door and pulls it open. Raymond looks… different. His dark eyes are bloodshot, his face pale and drawn, as though he hasn’t slept in days. His usual composure is gone, replaced by a frantic energy that makes him seem almost unrecognizable. He’s pacing in her foyer, his movements jerky and erratic, his gaze darting around as if expecting danger to leap out at any moment.

“Raymond?” Emily says, her voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sends a chill down her spine. “Emily,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I need your help.”

She steps back, gesturing for him to come inside. “Okay, okay. Let’s talk in the kitchen. You look like you need… something. Coffee? Food?”

Raymond nods, though his mind seems elsewhere. He follows her to the kitchen, his movements stiff and mechanical. Emily notices the absence of his black cross necklace, the one he always wore like a shield against the darkness. She doesn’t mention it, not yet, but the sight unnerves her.

She pours him a cup of coffee, her hands shaking slightly as she hands it to him. He takes it without a word and downs it in one gulp, his hands trembling so badly that a few drops spill onto the counter.

“Raymond,” Emily says gently, “what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

He sets the empty cup down and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I don’t have time to explain everything,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “But I need you to buy me a plane ticket. To London. Tonight.”

Emily blinks, stunned. “London? In England. Why? What’s in London?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, then immediately softens, his expression pleading. “Look, I know your parents have money. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. The fate of the world might depend on this, Emily. I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

She shakes her head, her heart pounding. “The money isn’t the issue, Raymond. I’m worried about you. You look like you’re about to collapse. What’s going on? Why can’t you tell me?”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I can’t. Not now. Just… trust me, Emily. Please.”

She studies his face, searching for the man who saved her all those years ago. The man who fought monsters and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But this Raymond is different—broken, desperate, and somehow… lost.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll help you. But you have to promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t lose you, Raymond. You saved my life. I owe you everything.”

He doesn’t respond, his gaze distant. Emily steps closer and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. He stands stiffly, his body rigid, as though he’s forgotten how to accept comfort.

“Let’s pray,” she says softly, pulling back to look at him. “Together. It’ll help.”

Raymond’s expression darkens. “No,” he says sharply. “I don’t pray anymore.”

Emily’s eyes widen in shock. “What? Raymond, what are you talking about? You’ve always been a man of faith. What happened?”

He shakes his head, his voice bitter. “Faith didn’t save me, Emily. It didn’t save anyone. I don’t believe in God anymore. Not after what I’ve seen.”

Her heart breaks at his words, tears welling in her eyes. “Raymond, please. Don’t say that. Don’t lose your faith. It’s the only thing that keeps us going. Let’s pray together. Just once. For me.”

He stares at her for a long moment, then sighs heavily. “Fine. If it’ll make you stop asking.”

She takes his hand, her grip firm despite his reluctance. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll save you, Raymond. The way you saved me. Because of you, I found my purpose. I serve God now. I help people. Like the child in the living room. You wouldn’t believe it, but—”

Raymond’s hand jerks out of hers, his face turning ashen. “What did you just say?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

Emily blinks, confused. “I… I said I’m helping a child. He’s in the living room. His name is Tim. He’s staying with me tonight, and I’ll take him home tomorrow. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Raymond’s expression is one of pure horror. He pulls out his dagger and gun in one swift motion, his eyes blazing. “Emily, what the hell is wrong with you? You brought a child into your house? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

She steps back, her heart pounding. “Raymond, stop! You’re scaring me! He’s just a boy! He needed help!”

“You don’t understand!” he shouts, his voice cracking with desperation. “You don’t know!”

Before she can respond, he strides past her, his weapons drawn, and heads straight for the living room. Emily follows, her mind racing with fear and confusion. “Raymond, wait! Please, you’re overreacting!”

He doesn’t listen, his focus entirely on the living room. Tim is still sitting on the carpet, his back to them, his small frame silhouetted by the flickering light of the TV. Raymond raises his gun, his voice cold and commanding.

“Turn around,” he orders. “Now.”

Tim doesn’t move.

“I said turn around!” Raymond barks, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Slowly, the boy begins to turn.

————

Chapter 222

2: 22pm. The sun hangs high in the sky, its warm rays bathing the rooftop in golden light. Raymond Cruz stands at the center of the rooftop, his sword gleaming as he clashes blades with Kael, the archangel. Kael’s massive white wings shimmer in the sunlight, his movements graceful and precise, a stark contrast to Raymond’s more grounded, human technique. Their sparring is fierce but playful, the sound of steel ringing out as they parry and strike, their laughter mingling with the clang of blades.

“Ephesians 2:22,” Kael says, his voice calm and melodic as he deflects Raymond’s swing. “*In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.* Do you ever think about what that means, Raymond?”

Raymond steps back, catching his breath, and smirks. “Oh, I don’t know, Kael. Maybe it means I’m God’s favorite Airbnb?” He feints left, then swings right, his blade clashing against Kael’s with a spark. “Five stars, clean sheets, plenty of holy water in the mini-fridge.”

Kael chuckles, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement as he parries Raymond’s strike. “You’re impossible, you know that? Always deflecting with jokes.”

Raymond grins, spinning his sword in his hand. “What can I say? Humor’s my spiritual gift.”

Kael shakes his head, his wings flaring as he counters Raymond’s next move. “You can’t joke your way out of this one, Raymond. Your body, your spirit—they’re not just tools for battle. They’re a dwelling place. A sanctuary. You know that.”

Raymond dodges a swift swing, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. God lives in me. I’m well aware. Doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for you to preach at me about it.”

Kael raises an eyebrow, his movements slowing. “So you admit it?”

Raymond rolls his eyes, sheathing his sword with a dramatic flourish. “Of course I admit it. I’m not an idiot, Kael. I’ve seen too much, fought too much, to pretend there’s no God. And yeah, I get it—He’s in me. Always has been. Even when I didn’t want Him to be.”

Kael steps closer, his wings folding behind him. “Then why the act? Why the jokes? Why the constant deflection?”

Raymond shrugs, his grin returning. “Because it’s fun. And because you make it too easy, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou. Besides, if I agreed with you right away, you’d have nothing to do up here but flap those pretty wings of yours.”

Kael laughs, a deep, resonant sound that seems to echo across the rooftop. “You’re incorrigible, Raymond. But I’ll take the win. Even if it comes with a side of sarcasm.”

Raymond claps him on the shoulder, his tone turning more sincere. “Don’t worry, Kael. I know what I am. And I know *Who’s* in me. I just like keeping you on your toes.”

Kael smiles, his gaze softening. “Fair enough. But don’t forget, Raymond—this isn’t just about knowing. It’s about living it. Letting it shape you.”

Raymond nods, his smirk fading into something quieter, more reflective. “I’m working on it. One sword fight at a time.”

“Enough for today,” Kael says, his wings stretching wide. “Go downstairs. Your family is waiting. Take a break from your work, even if just for a little while.”

Raymond hesitates, then nods, sheathing his sword. “Yeah, yeah. You’re probably right.”

Kael gives him a knowing look before launching into the sky, his wings carrying him effortlessly into the clouds. Raymond watches him go, then heads for the stairwell, his mind already shifting to the world below—and the life he’s still learning to live as a dwelling place for something far greater than himself. 

---

Downstairs, the small community theater is alive with the hum of conversation. The room is filled with people—some sitting in folding chairs, others standing in small groups—all gathered for a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Emily stands at the front of the room, her voice steady and clear as she shares her story.

“Recovery isn’t about being perfect,” she says, her hands clasped in front of her. “It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s about finding the strength to keep going, even when you feel like you’ve hit rock bottom. And it’s about realizing that the potential for recovery is inside all of us. We just have to believe it’s possible.”

The room erupts into applause as Emily finishes her speech, her cheeks flushing with humility. She steps down from the podium, greeted by a wave of supportive smiles and handshakes. Raymond leans against the back wall, watching her with a quiet pride. Beside him, his wife Karina stands with their infant daughter, Isabella, strapped to her chest in a baby carrier. Karina nudges Raymond gently.

“She’s amazing,” Karina whispers. “You should tell her that.”

Raymond nods, his eyes still on Emily. “I will.”

As the meeting disbands, Karina turns to Raymond, her dark eyes playful. “So, do you work tonight? Or can we finally have that movie night you’ve been promising?”

Raymond sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I could take a break. For now.”

Karina grins and leans in to kiss him, her lips warm against his. “Good. Because Isabella and I miss you.”

Before Raymond can respond, Emily approaches, her face lighting up when she sees him. “Raymond! I didn’t know you were here.”

“I caught the tail end of your speech,” he says, his voice warm. “You did great, Emily. I’m proud of you.”

Emily beams, her hand instinctively reaching for the silver pendant around her neck—the one engraved with “222.” “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”

Raymond’s eyes flick to the pendant, and he smiles faintly. “I’m glad you’re wearing that again. It suits you.”

Emily’s smile falters slightly as she glances at his chest, where his black cross necklace used to hang. “What about you? Will you ever wear your cross again?”

Raymond’s expression hardens, his tone dry. “I thought you learned by now, Emily. It’s not a stupid piece of steel that’s going to keep Jesus in my heart.”

Emily flinches at his bluntness but doesn’t push further. Instead, she turns to Karina, extending her hand. “You must be Karina. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Raymond saved my life, you know. He’s the reason I’m on this road to recovery.”

Karina shakes her hand, her smile polite but guarded. “I know. He’s always helping people. He used to struggle with addiction too, so he gets it.”

Emily nods, her gaze flicking back to Raymond. “I was happy to pay for his plane ticket to England. It was the least I could do.”

Karina’s smile falters, her eyes narrowing as she looks at Raymond. “Plane ticket? To England?”

Emily doesn’t seem to notice the tension, already being pulled away by the crowd. “It was great meeting you!” she calls over her shoulder as she disappears into the throng of people.

The moment she’s out of earshot, Karina turns to Raymond, her expression darkening. “Care to explain why women are buying you plane tickets to England?”

Raymond’s eyes widen, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Karina, it’s not what you think. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—”

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” Karina interrupts, her voice rising. “But I’d love to hear it. Because right now, it sounds like you’ve been living a double life.”

“I’m not!” Raymond insists, his voice strained. “It was work-related. I swear.”

Karina glares at him, her arms crossed over Isabella, who stirs slightly in her carrier. “Work-related? What kind of work requires a plane ticket to England that you didn’t tell me about?”

Raymond runs a hand over his face, his frustration mounting. “Karina, please. You know I’d never lie to you. Just trust me, okay?”

“Trust you?” Karina snaps, her voice sharp. “You’re making it really hard to do that right now.”

The argument continues as they walk down the street, their voices rising and falling in heated bursts. Raymond pleads his case, but Karina’s suspicion lingers, casting a shadow over the sunny day. Isabella begins to fuss, her tiny cries adding to the tension as Raymond and Karina disappear around the corner, their voices fading into the bustling city noise.

——————————

BOOK 4— BLOOD MOON

Chapter 34

March 14. 3am. The clock strikes three. The devil’s hour. The moon hangs low, swollen and blood-red, casting its sickly glow over the empty streets. Raymond Cruz walks, his boots crunching on the frost-kissed pavement. The air is sharp, biting, but he doesn’t feel it. He feels only the weight of the holy dagger in his hand, the cold cross pressing against his chest. The streets are silent, scarred, pockmarked like the face of a soldier who’s seen too much. The snow has melted, but the frost remains, clinging to the edges of the world like a ghost.

He sees it then—the vampire wolf. It stands at the corner, its fur black as the void, eyes glowing like embers in the dark. Its fangs glint, sharp and wet, and its breath comes in ragged, hungry bursts. Raymond doesn’t hesitate. He never hesitates. He lunges, the dagger slicing through the air, but the beast is fast, too fast. It dodges, and his blade strikes the red brick wall of an old 19th century pub, now a 21st century convenience store with flickering neon lights. The impact jars his arm, sends a shock through his bones. He grits his teeth, curses under his breath.

The vampire wolf snarls, lunges. They collide in a tangle of claws and fists, rolling into the street corner. Raymond’s coat tears, the fabric ripping like paper. The beast’s claws rake across his chest, hot and searing, but he doesn’t cry out. He can’t. He drives the dagger upward, aiming for the heart, but the wolf twists, its jaws snapping inches from his throat. He smells its breath—rotten meat and copper, the stench of death.

They struggle, their movements frantic, desperate. Raymond’s muscles burn, his breath comes in ragged gasps. The wolf’s eyes bore into his, filled with a hunger that’s more than physical. It wants his soul. It wants everything. But Raymond Cruz has nothing left to give. He’s tired, so tired, but he can’t stop. He won’t stop.

With a roar, he shoves the beast back, slams it against the brick wall. The dagger finds its mark this time, plunging into the wolf’s chest. The creature howls, a sound that echoes through the empty streets, through the very fabric of the night. Its body convulses, then stills. The glow fades from its eyes, leaving only darkness.

Raymond pulls the dagger free, wipes the blade on his torn coat. He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, his body trembling with exhaustion. The moon watches, silent and red, as he turns away.

Raymond turns, his back to the corpse, the dagger heavy in his hand. The night is quiet now, too quiet, like the world itself is holding its breath. He takes a step, then another, his boots scraping against the cracked pavement. His chest burns where the claws tore through him, but he ignores it. He’s used to pain. Used to the scars.

But then he hears it—a low, guttural growl, wet and ragged, like a death rattle that won’t end. His body tenses before his mind can catch up. He knows that sound. He’s heard it before, in the dark corners of his nightmares, in the alleys where the shadows move on their own. He spins, the dagger flashing in the blood-red moonlight, but he’s too slow.

The vampire wolf is on him, its jaws wide, its teeth like shards of broken glass. Its eyes are wild, feral, filled with a hatred that’s centuries old. Raymond sees it all in an instant—the way its fur bristles, the way its muscles coil, the way its claws dig into the ground as it lunges. He remembers the first time he saw it, years ago, in a village swallowed by fog. It had killed everyone—men, women, children—and left their bodies hanging from the trees like macabre ornaments. He had tracked it then, fought it, thought he’d killed it. But it had escaped, slipping into the night like smoke.

Now it’s back, and it’s faster, angrier, hungrier. Its claws rake across his shoulder, tearing through flesh and fabric. The pain is sharp, immediate, but Raymond doesn’t falter. He can’t. He drives the dagger upward, aiming for the beast’s throat, but it twists, its jaws snapping shut inches from his face. He feels its breath, hot and rancid, and for a moment, he’s back in that village, surrounded by death, by the stench of blood and decay.

The wolf’s claws dig into his chest, pinning him to the ground. Its weight is crushing, its eyes burning with a malice that’s almost human. Raymond struggles, his muscles straining against the beast’s strength, but it’s no use. The wolf leans in, its fangs glinting in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, Raymond feels fear. Real fear.

But then he remembers the dagger, still clutched in his hand. With a roar, he drives it upward, into the wolf’s side. The beast howls, its body convulsing, but it doesn’t let go. Its jaws snap shut, inches from his throat, and Raymond can feel the heat of its breath, the sharpness of its teeth. He twists the dagger, pushes it deeper, and the wolf’s howl turns into a gurgle, its body shuddering as the life drains from it.

Raymond stumbles backward, his boots slipping on the frost-slick pavement. The vampire wolf snarls, its eyes burning like twin hellfires, its claws scraping against the ground as it lunges. He can feel its hunger, its rage, its ancient, unrelenting hatred. His chest heaves, his body battered and bleeding, but his grip on the dagger remains firm. He knows he can’t outrun it. Not this time. Not again.

His eyes dart to the side, catching the rusted metal door of a garbage compactor, half-open, its interior dark and reeking of decay. He moves without thinking, his body driven by instinct, by desperation. He feints left, the dagger flashing in the blood-red moonlight, and the wolf snaps at the blade, its jaws closing on empty air. Raymond pivots, driving his shoulder into the beast’s side, forcing it toward the compactor. The wolf snarls, claws raking at his arms, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

With a grunt, he shoves the beast through the doorway, its body slamming against the metal walls. The wolf twists, its jaws snapping, but Raymond slams the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty street. He braces his weight against the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as the wolf throws itself against the metal, the impact rattling his bones.

“For God is not a God of confusion,” Raymond rasps, his voice low and steady, “but of peace.” The words are a lifeline, a prayer, a weapon. He recites them like a mantra, each syllable a shield against the chaos, against the fear clawing at the edges of his mind. The wolf howls, its voice muffled but no less terrifying, and Raymond presses harder against the door, his muscles screaming in protest.

“He will keep in perfect peace,” he continues, his voice rising, “those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in Him.” The door shakes, the metal groaning under the force of the wolf’s fury, but Raymond doesn’t let go. He can’t. He won’t. The dagger is still in his hand, the cross cold against his chest, and he clings to them both, to the faith that has carried him through countless nights like this one.

The wolf’s snarls grow louder, more desperate, and Raymond feels the door begin to give. He tightens his grip, his voice rising to a shout. “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, for they trust in You!” The words are a command, a plea, a declaration of war. The door shudders, the wolf’s claws scraping against the metal, but Raymond holds firm.

And then, silence. The wolf’s snarls fade, replaced by the sound of grinding metal, of machinery coming to life. The compactor activates, its gears turning, its walls closing in. Raymond steps back, his chest heaving, his body trembling with exhaustion. He watches as the door rattles, as the wolf’s howls turn to screams, to silence. The compactor jams, accompanied by the sounds of gears whirring and metal clanking, refusing to crush the demonic wolf.

Raymond stands there for a moment, his breath fogging in the cold air, the dagger still clutched in his hand. 

The door rattles violently, the metal groaning under the force of the vampire wolf’s fury. Raymond leans his full weight against it, his boots sliding on the frost-covered pavement. Each impact sends a shock through his body, his arms trembling as he presses harder, his muscles screaming in protest. The wolf’s snarls are deafening, its claws scraping against the metal, leaving deep gouges. Raymond can feel its rage, its hunger, its ancient, unrelenting hatred. He grits his teeth, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and fumbles for the Bluetooth earbud in his ear.

“Al,” he barks, his voice hoarse, “I’ve got it trapped. For now.”

The earbud crackles, and Al’s voice comes through—raspy, thick with the grit of a thousand cigarettes and a lifetime of Jersey diner coffee. “Good, good. Now kill it, Cruz. Don’t screw around. You know how these things go.”

The wolf slams into the door again, and Raymond staggers, his shoulder screaming in pain. “I’m trying, Al. But something’s… off. My head’s all messed up. I feel… I don’t know. Like I’m turning into one of them.”

Al coughs, a wet, hacking sound, and Raymond can practically hear him spitting into a trash can. “What? No. No way. You got the antidote last week. You’re clean. Stop screwing around and finish the job.”

Raymond’s grip on the door slips for a moment, and the wolf’s claws tear through the gap, narrowly missing his face. He shoves back, his voice rising. “What if it’s resistant, Al? What if the vampire in me is fighting the antidote?”

“Resistant? Jesus, Cruz, you’ve been watching too many damn movies. There’s no such thing. You’re fine. Now kill that thing and get your three grand. I got other hunters to manage, you know.”

The wolf howls, the sound echoing through the empty streets, and Raymond feels a cold sweat break out on his forehead. His vision blurs for a moment, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Al, I’m telling you, something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

“Cruz,” Al snaps, his voice sharp, “you’re not turning into a vampire. You’re just tired. You’re always tired. Now kill the damn thing and call me when it’s done. And don’t forget to take pictures for the client.”

The line goes dead, and Raymond curses under his breath. The wolf slams into the door again, and this time, Raymond feels it give, just a little. He tightens his grip on the dagger, his knuckles white, and takes a deep breath. 

“If I just hold out til sunrise… til the end of the blood moon… the sun will fry him.”

Raymond sits slumped against the rusted metal door of the garbage compactor, his body heavy with exhaustion. The frost-covered pavement bites through his slacks, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. The vampire wolf’s snarls have faded to low, guttural growls, but he knows it’s still there, waiting, biding its time. The moon hangs low, its blood-red glow dimming as the night stretches on. Raymond checks his watch. Four hours until sunrise. Four hours until the beast might finally burn.

He keeps the dagger in his hand, the cold cross pressing against his chest, and recites passages from the Bible under his breath. The words are a lifeline, a way to keep the confusion at bay, to keep the creeping fear from taking hold. He feels it still—the strange, gnawing sensation in his gut, the way his vision blurs at the edges, the way his thoughts twist and turn like smoke. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and focuses on the horizon, where the first faint hints of dawn are beginning to bleed into the sky.

The hours crawl by, each minute stretching into an eternity. The streets remain empty, silent, but Raymond knows that won’t last. Soon, the city will wake up, and the world will start moving again. 

7:02am. He checks his watch. Five minutes to sunrise. He stands, his body stiff and aching, and presses his ear to the door. Silence. He waits, counting the seconds, until the first rays of sunlight break over the rooftops, casting long shadows across the pavement.

He opens the door slowly, the hinges creaking in protest. The compactor is dark, the air thick with the stench of decay. The vampire wolf lies in a heap, its fur matted with blood and filth, its body still. Raymond steps inside, the dagger raised, ready to strike. But then the wolf’s eyes snap open, glowing like embers in the dark, and it lunges.

Raymond barely has time to react. The wolf slams into him, its claws raking across his chest, and they tumble out of the compactor, into the alley. Raymond struggles, his muscles screaming in protest, but the wolf is relentless, its jaws snapping inches from his face. They roll into the street, the pavement scraping against Raymond’s back, and he hears the sound of footsteps, of voices.

Two pedestrians are making their way down the sidewalk, their faces pale with shock as they see the tangle of man and beast in the middle of the street. The woman screams, the man shouts, and Raymond feels a surge of panic. He can’t let them see. He can’t let them know.

With a roar, he shoves the wolf off him, the dagger flashing in the sunlight. The wolf snarls, its eyes burning with hatred, and lunges again. Raymond sidesteps, driving the dagger into its side, but the beast twists, its claws tearing through his coat. They struggle, their movements frantic, desperate, as the pedestrians scatter, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear and confusion.

Raymond grits his teeth, his body trembling with exhaustion, and drives the dagger upward, into the wolf’s chest. The beast howls, its body convulsing, but Raymond doesn’t stop. He twists the blade, pushes it deeper, until the wolf’s howl turns into a gurgle, its body shuddering as the life drains from it.

Finally, it collapses, its weight pressing down on him. Raymond lies there for a moment, breathing hard, his body trembling with exhaustion. The sun watches, silent and bright, as he pushes the beast off him and staggers to his feet. The streets are alive now, filled with the early morning sounds of the city.

Raymond wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers coming away smeared with blood. It’s his own—warm, metallic, leaking from a split lip where the vampire wolf’s claws caught him. He stares at it for a moment, the crimson stain glistening in the pale morning light. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting it, and something inside him shifts.

The taste is sharp, electric, and it sends a jolt through his body. His vision blurs, the edges of the world twisting and warping, and he feels a strange, gnawing hunger rise in his gut. It’s not the hunger for food, for rest, for anything human. It’s deeper, darker, more primal. His chest tightens, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and he clutches at the cross around his neck, but it feels cold, lifeless, like a piece of dead metal.

“No,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, desperate. “No, no, no.”

But the hunger grows, spreading through him like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. His thoughts twist and turn, his mind a storm of confusion and rage. He feels it then—the presence, the thing that’s been lurking in the shadows of his soul, waiting for this moment. It’s a demon, ancient and malevolent, and it’s awake now, its voice a low, guttural growl in the back of his mind.

*Feed,* it whispers, the word echoing through his skull. *Feed.*

Raymond stumbles, his body trembling with the effort to resist, but it’s no use. The hunger is too strong, the demon’s grip too tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the street, and sees them—innocent bystanders, their faces pale with shock, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear and confusion. A woman clutches her child’s hand, a man fumbles for his phone, and Raymond feels the hunger surge, overwhelming him.

He takes a step toward them, his movements jerky, unnatural. His vision narrows, the world reduced to the pulse of their veins, the warmth of their blood. The demon’s voice grows louder, more insistent, and Raymond feels his humanity slipping away, replaced by something darker, something monstrous.

The woman sees him coming, her eyes wide with terror, and she pulls her child closer, backing away. Raymond’s lips curl into a snarl, his fangs glinting in the sunlight, and he lunges.

————

Chapter 35

The sound of boots slamming against pavement cuts through the chaos. Raymond’s head snaps up, his vision still blurred, his fangs bared. Two figures emerge from the shadows, their movements swift and deliberate. Vampire hunters. He recognizes them instantly—their black coats, their holy weapons glinting in the dim light. One is tall and wiry, a silver-tipped stake in his hand. The other is shorter, stockier, wielding a crossbow loaded with wooden bolts. Their faces are grim, their eyes locked on him.

“Cruz!” the taller one shouts, his voice sharp, accusing. “What the hell happened to you?”

Raymond doesn’t answer. He can’t. The hunger is still there, gnawing at him, the demon’s voice a constant growl in his mind. He snarls, his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike. The hunters exchange a glance, then move in unison, their weapons raised.

The first bolt flies, and Raymond ducks, his movements unnaturally fast. The wooden shaft grazes his shoulder, and he hisses, the pain sharp and searing. The taller hunter lunges, the stake aimed at his heart, but Raymond sidesteps, his claws raking across the man’s arm. The hunter grunts, stumbling back, but the shorter one is already there, firing another bolt.

This one hits its mark, piercing Raymond’s side. He roars, the sound inhuman, and tears the bolt free, the wound already healing. The hunters press their advantage, their movements coordinated, relentless. Raymond fights back, his claws slashing, his fangs snapping, but they’re good. Too good. He can feel the demon’s grip weakening, his body faltering under the onslaught.

He needs the antidote. It’s in his car, just a few feet away. A black sedan with tinted windows, parked at the curb. He can see it, but the hunters are in his way, their weapons flashing in the dim light. With a roar, he charges, his body slamming into the taller hunter, sending him sprawling. The shorter one fires again, but Raymond dodges, his movements frantic, desperate.

He reaches the car, his hands trembling as he fumbles with the door.

“You’re infected, Cruz,” the shorter one says, his voice calmer but no less urgent. “You know the rules. We can’t let you walk away like this.”

Raymond’s voice comes out as a guttural growl, barely recognizable. “I’m… still me. I can fight it.”

“Bullshit,” the taller hunter snaps, his grip tightening on the stake. “You’re already gone. Look at you! You’re one of them now. And you know what we do to them.”

The shorter hunter adjusts his aim, his finger hovering over the trigger. “We don’t want to do this, Cruz. But we don’t have a choice. You’d do the same if it were us.”

Raymond’s eyes dart between them, his vision blurred, his thoughts a storm of confusion and rage. The hunger is still there, gnawing at him, but he clings to the last shreds of his humanity. “I just… need the antidote,” he rasps. “It’s in my car. Let me get it.”

The taller hunter shakes his head. “You’re not going anywhere. Not like this.”

The shorter hunter fires first, the wooden bolt slicing through the air. Raymond ducks, his movements unnaturally fast, but the bolt grazes his shoulder, the pain sharp and searing. He hisses, his claws slashing out, but the taller hunter is already there, the stake aimed at his heart.

Raymond sidesteps, the stake grazing his side, and counters with a brutal swipe of his claws. The taller hunter grunts, stumbling back, his arm bleeding from the deep gashes. “Damn it, Cruz!” he shouts. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be!”

The shorter hunter reloads quickly, his movements smooth and practiced. “We’re trying to help you, Cruz,” he says, his voice steady. “But you’re not giving us a choice.”

Raymond snarls, his fangs glinting in the dim light. “I don’t need your help. I just need the antidote.”

The taller hunter lunges again, the stake aimed at Raymond’s chest. Raymond grabs his wrist, twisting it until the stake clatters to the ground. The hunter curses, throwing a punch that connects with Raymond’s jaw, but Raymond barely feels it. He shoves the hunter back, his claws raking across the man’s chest, and turns just in time to dodge another bolt from the crossbow.

The shorter hunter fires again, the bolt embedding itself in the car door behind Raymond. “Stand down, Cruz!” he shouts. “This doesn’t have to end like this!”

Raymond’s vision narrows, the world reduced to the pulse of their veins, the warmth of their blood. The demon’s voice grows louder, more insistent, and he feels his humanity slipping away. “I… can’t,” he growls, his voice barely human. “I can’t stop it.”

The taller hunter picks up the stake, his face pale but determined. “Then we’ll stop it for you.”

Raymond charges, his movements frantic, desperate. He slams into the taller hunter, sending him sprawling, but the shorter one is already there, firing another bolt. This one hits its mark, piercing Raymond’s side. He roars, the sound inhuman, and tears the bolt free, the wound already healing.

The hunters are on him in an instant, their weapons raised, but Raymond kicks out, his boot connecting with the shorter one’s chest, sending him stumbling back. He yanks the door open, his fingers closing around the vial in the glove compartment. The antidote. His last hope.

The taller hunter lunges, the stake aimed at his heart, but Raymond twists, the weapon grazing his side. He uncorks the vial with his teeth, the liquid inside glowing faintly in the dim light. The hunter’s eyes widen, and he reaches for it, but Raymond is faster. He drinks it in one gulp, the liquid burning as it slides down his throat.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the pain hits, sharp and searing, like fire coursing through his veins. He collapses against the car, his body convulsing, the demon’s voice a deafening roar in his mind. The hunters watch, their weapons raised, their faces pale with shock.

And then, silence. The pain fades, the hunger recedes, and Raymond feels the demon’s grip loosen, its voice fading to a whisper, then to nothing. He takes a deep breath, his body trembling with exhaustion, and looks up at the hunters.

“It’s me,” he rasps, his voice hoarse but human. “It’s me.”

The taller hunter lowers his stake, his face a mix of relief and disbelief. “Jesus, Cruz. You scared the hell out of us.”

The shorter hunter holsters his crossbow, shaking his head. “You’re lucky we didn’t put you down for good.”

Raymond slumps against the car, the vial still clutched in his hand, the world spinning around him. The streets are empty again, scarred and silent, waiting for the next fight, the next hour, the next breath.

The taller hunter, still clutching his silver-tipped stake, steps closer to Raymond, his face a mix of anger and disbelief. “You’re telling me you let your injection lapse? Are you out of your damn mind, Cruz? You know what happens when you skip it. You think all you need is God inside you? God won’t save you. Not if you don’t take your antidote.”

Raymond leans heavily against the car, his body still trembling from the aftermath of the transformation. He wipes the blood from his lip, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s not about the antidote. I took it. I’m not an idiot. But it’s not working like it used to. The demons… they’re getting stronger. It’s something about the blood moon. You’ve seen it—vampires breaking out in the day, wolves howling at noon. This isn’t normal. Something’s changing.”

The shorter hunter, his crossbow now slung over his shoulder, steps forward, his brow furrowed. “You’re saying the rules don’t apply anymore? That’s a hell of a theory, Cruz. But it doesn’t explain why you’re out here, half-turned, risking your life and everyone else’s.”

Raymond’s eyes narrow, his voice rising with frustration. “I’m not making this up. You think I don’t know the risks? You think I don’t feel it every damn day? The blood moon’s messing with everything. The vampires, the wolves, the demons—they’re not following the old patterns. They’re adapting. Evolving. And if we don’t figure out why, we’re all dead.”

The taller hunter scoffs, shaking his head. “You sound like one of those conspiracy nuts. ‘The blood moon’s changing everything!’ Give me a break. You skipped your shot, Cruz. Admit it. You got sloppy.”

Raymond slams his fist against the car door, the sound echoing down the empty street. “I didn’t skip it! I took it on time, just like always. But it’s not enough anymore. The demons… they’re fighting back. They’re resistant. I felt it in there—” He taps his temple, his voice dropping to a growl. “—like they’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for the blood moon to tip the scales.”

The shorter hunter exchanges a glance with his partner, his expression uneasy. “If what you’re saying is true… if the demons are getting stronger… we’re in deeper trouble than we thought.”

The taller hunter hesitates, his grip on the stake loosening slightly. “Even if you’re right, Cruz, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a liability right now. You’re dangerous. You almost killed those people back there. What if we hadn’t shown up? What then?”

Raymond looks away, his jaw tightening. “I know. I screwed up. But I’m telling you, this isn’t just about me. It’s bigger than that. The blood moon’s changing the game. And if we don’t figure out how to fight back, none of us are going to make it.”

The shorter hunter sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, Cruz. Say we believe you. What do we do about it? How do we fight something that’s stronger than the rules we’ve been living by?”

Raymond straightens, his eyes blazing with determination. “We adapt. We find new rules. And we do it fast. Because if we don’t, the next blood moon won’t just be a warning. It’ll be the end.”

The taller hunter shakes his head, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “You better be right about this, Cruz. Because if you’re not, you’re not just risking your life. You’re risking all of ours.”

Raymond nods, his expression grim. “I know. And if I’m wrong, you can put a stake through my heart yourself.”

The hunters exchange another glance, their silence heavy with unspoken tension. “Maybe if the price is right.”

“Are you here to hunt me or something?”

The heavier hunter threw his hands in the air. “We were sent by dispatch! The sun was rising and you still didn’t send a picture of the dead wolf!”

“Yeah, so we were here to pick up your contract,” the taller one added.

“Well, I killed the vampire wolf, so y’all can go home.”

Raymond slides into the driver’s seat of his black sedan, the engine growling to life as he grips the wheel with trembling hands. The sun hangs high in the sky, its light harsh and unrelenting, but it does little to dispel the storm raging in his mind. The confrontation with the hunters replays in his head like a broken record—their accusations, their disbelief, their warnings. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog, but the dizziness lingers, a heavy weight pressing against his skull. The blood moon may be gone, but its shadow still clings to him, dark and unshakable.

The city blurs past as he drives, the streets alive with the usual chaos of midday. Pedestrians cross without looking, cars honk impatiently, and the world moves on, oblivious to the battle he’s just fought. Raymond barely registers it. His hands tighten on the wheel, his knuckles white, as he navigates the familiar route home. His apartment building looms ahead, its brick facade weathered and unremarkable. He parks haphazardly, not bothering to straighten the car, and stumbles out, his legs unsteady beneath him. The sunlight feels wrong on his skin, too bright, too sharp, like it’s cutting through him.

He fumbles with his keys at the front door, his hands shaking so badly he drops them twice. The lock finally clicks, and he pushes the door open, stepping into the dim hallway. The elevator ride feels like an eternity, the hum of machinery grating against his frayed nerves. When the doors open on his floor, he walks down the hall, his boots echoing against the linoleum. The sunlight streams through the windows at the end of the hallway, but it feels distant, unreal.

He reaches his apartment, sliding the key into the lock and pushing the door open. The darkness inside is absolute. No light spills from the windows, no glow from the kitchen or living room. He frowns, his hand instinctively reaching for the light switch. He flips it, but nothing happens. The room remains shrouded in shadow.

“What the hell?” he mutters, his voice hoarse. He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and fumbles for his phone, using its dim screen to illuminate the space. The furniture is where he left it—the couch, the table, the TV. But something feels off. The air is heavy, oppressive, like the apartment itself is holding its breath.

He moves to the window, pulling back the curtain to let in the daylight. The sun’s rays spill across the floor, casting sharp, angular shadows. He stares out at the city, his reflection faint in the glass. His face is pale, his eyes hollow, his lips still smeared with dried blood. He wipes at them with the back of his hand, his mind racing.

“Why are the lights off?” he whispers to himself, his voice barely audible. He checks the breaker box in the hallway, but everything is in place. The power should be on. He returns to the living room, his unease growing. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of his own breathing.

He sits on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands. The dizziness returns, stronger now, and he feels the weight of the night pressing down on him, even in the daylight. The sunlight streaming through the window feels wrong, too bright, too harsh, like it’s exposing something he’d rather keep hidden. He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself, but the darkness behind his eyelids feels alive, shifting, writhing.

When he opens his eyes again, he freezes. The shadows in the corner of the room seem to move, twisting and coiling like smoke. He stares, his heart pounding, as the darkness takes shape. A figure emerges, tall and gaunt, its eyes glowing like embers even in the daylight.

Raymond’s breath catches in his throat. The figure steps forward, its movements slow and deliberate, and he feels the cold grip of fear tightening around his chest. The sunlight flickers, and the room seems to tilt, the walls closing in.

The figure speaks, its voice a low, guttural growl. “You thought you could escape, Raymond. But the blood moon’s shadow is long, and it reaches even into the day.”

Raymond’s vision blurs, the room spinning around him. He tries to stand, to fight, but his body betrays him, collapsing back onto the couch. The last thing he sees before the darkness takes him is the figure’s glowing eyes, burning like twin hellfires in the light of day.

————

Chapter 36

Time??? Raymond’s eyes flutter open, his head pounding like a drum. The room is dim, the curtains drawn, but a sliver of daylight cuts through, illuminating the figure standing over him. His heart skips a beat when he sees her—Karina, his wife, her dark hair disheveled, her face pale with fear. Her hands grip his gun, the black steel engraved with a cross, the barrel trembling as it points directly at him. The holy silver bullets inside gleam faintly in the dim light, a cruel reminder of the weapon’s purpose.

“Karina,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. He tries to sit up, but the dizziness hits him like a wave, forcing him back down. “What are you doing? Put the gun down.”

Her eyes are wide, filled with a terror he’s never seen before. She takes a step back, her grip tightening on the gun. “Don’t move, Raymond. Don’t you dare move.”

He freezes, his hands slowly rising in surrender. “Karina, it’s me. It’s Raymond. Please, put the gun down. You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring *you*?” Her voice cracks, a mix of anger and fear. “You’re the one who came home last night, covered in blood, talking to yourself like a madman. You didn’t even look at me, Raymond. You didn’t even look at us.” Her free hand moves to her stomach, cradling the small bump where their child grows. “You scared me. You still scare me.”

Raymond’s chest tightens, guilt and fear twisting together in a knot. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve been… I’ve been fighting something. Something bad. But I’m still me, Karina. I’m still your husband.”

Her eyes narrow, the gun steadying slightly. “Are you? Because the man who came home last night wasn’t you. He was… something else. Something cold. Something dangerous.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Tell me the truth, Raymond. Are you a vampire? Are you possessed by a demon?”

The question hits him like a punch to the gut. He wants to lie, to tell her everything’s fine, but he can’t. Not to her. Not when she’s looking at him like that, her eyes searching his for any sign of the man she married.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I’ve been fighting it. I took the antidote. I thought it was enough. But something’s wrong, Karina. The blood moon… it’s changing things. The demons, the vampires—they’re getting stronger. And I… I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fight it.”

Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t lower the gun. “You should have told me,” she says, her voice trembling. “You should have let me help you. Instead, you shut me out. You shut *us* out.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, his voice desperate. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to be afraid.”

“Well, I am afraid,” she snaps, her voice rising. “I’m afraid of you, Raymond. I’m afraid of what you’ve become. And I’m afraid for our baby. What if you… what if you hurt us?”

The words cut deeper than any blade. He feels the weight of them, the truth in them, and it nearly breaks him. “I would never hurt you,” he says, his voice raw with emotion. “Never. You have to believe me.”

She hesitates, the gun wavering slightly. For a moment, he thinks she might lower it. But then her eyes harden, and she takes another step back. “Prove it,” she says. “Prove you’re still you.”

He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know if he can. But he has to try. Slowly, carefully, he sits up, his hands still raised. “Karina,” he says, his voice soft, pleading. “Look at me. Really look at me. I’m still here. I’m still your husband. And I’m still the man who loves you more than anything in this world.”

Her breath hitches, a tear slipping down her cheek. The gun trembles in her hands, but she doesn’t lower it. Not yet. “I want to believe you,” she whispers. “But I’m so scared, Raymond. I’m so scared of losing you.”

“You won’t,” he says, his voice firm now. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll fight this. For you. For our baby. For us.”

The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut. Karina stares at him, her eyes searching his for any sign of the truth. Finally, slowly, she lowers the gun, her hands trembling as she sets it on the table beside her. She collapses into a chair, her shoulders shaking as she buries her face in her hands.

Raymond moves to her side, his own hands trembling as he reaches for her. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling her into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

She clings to him, her tears soaking into his shirt. “Don’t leave me,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”

He holds her tighter, his heart breaking at the fear in her voice. “I promise,” he says, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “I promise.”

Raymond steps outside, the faint chill of early spring brushing against his skin. The air carries the faintest hint of blooming life, a promise of renewal, but it does nothing to ease the turmoil inside him. His soul feels like a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting a different version of himself—hunter, husband, father, monster. He walks to his car, the black sedan parked under the pale sunlight, its tinted windows hiding the chaos that had unfolded inside just hours ago.

He slides into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking beneath him. The keys dangle from his fingers as he stares at the dashboard, his mind racing. The faint hum of the city surrounds him, but it feels distant, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. But the unease lingers, a gnawing ache in his chest that he can’t shake.

Then it hits him—a flash of realization so sharp it feels like a knife to the gut. His breath catches, his body going rigid. The injection. He never took it. Al’s voice echoes in his head, gruff and impatient: “You got your shot last week. You’re clean.” But Raymond knows now, with a sickening certainty, that he didn’t. He had convinced himself he had, had let Al’s confidence in him override the truth. He had been so focused on the hunt, on the blood moon, on the demons growing stronger, that he had forgotten the one thing that kept him human.

“No,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “No, no, no.”

His hands shake as he fumbles with the glove compartment, pulling it open. The empty vial of antidote rolls out, clinking against the floor mat. He stares at it, his mind reeling. The vial he drank in desperation—it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t have been. Not without the injection. Not without the foundation.

He slams the glove compartment shut, the sound echoing in the quiet car. His chest heaves, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The weight of his mistake presses down on him, crushing him beneath its enormity. He had been so sure, so confident, and yet he had failed. Failed himself. Failed Karina. Failed their unborn child.

He starts the car’s engine, the low rumble filling the silence. The dashboard lights flicker to life, casting a faint glow over his hands as they grip the wheel. He closes his eyes, trying to steady his racing thoughts, and begins to recite, his voice low and steady.

“For God is not a God of confusion, but of peace,” he murmurs, the words a lifeline. “He will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in Him.”

The verses flow from him, each word a shield against the chaos threatening to consume him. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”

The car idles, the engine’s hum a steady counterpoint to his trembling voice. He opens his eyes, staring out at the street ahead. The sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the pavement with patches of light and shadow. The world moves on, oblivious to the storm raging inside him.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he continues, his voice growing stronger, “I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

He shifts the car into gear, his hands steady now. The verses anchor him, pulling him back from the edge of despair. He knows the road ahead will be hard, that the fight is far from over. But for now, he clings to the words, to the promise they hold.

As he pulls away from the curb, the faint scent of spring fills the car, a fragile reminder of hope. But Raymond’s soul remains heavy, scarred by the battles he’s fought and the mistakes he’s made. The blood moon’s shadow may have passed, but its mark lingers, a darkness he can’t outrun.

He drives on, the verses still on his lips, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. The world outside may be waking to a new season, but Raymond knows his fight is far from over. And as the car disappears into the distance, the faint hum of its engine fades, leaving only the echo of his whispered prayers.

Raymond pulls up to the drive-thru, the faint hum of the car’s engine blending with the static buzz of his thoughts. The scent of coffee wafts through the open window, a small comfort in the chaos of his mind. He glances at the menu, his eyes unfocused, and barely registers the cheerful voice crackling through the speaker.

“Good afternoon. What can I get started for you today?”

He opens his mouth to order, but before he can speak, his phone rings. The screen lights up with Al’s name. Raymond hesitates, then answers, his voice low. “Al. What’s up?”

Al’s voice is as gruff as ever, but there’s an edge to it that makes Raymond’s stomach twist. “Cruz. We need to talk about your payment.”

Raymond’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Yeah, I was just about to ask you about that. When am I getting the three grand for the vampire wolf?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Raymond’s unease grows. “About that,” Al says finally. “You’re not getting three grand. You’re getting two-fifty.”

The words hit Raymond like a punch to the gut. His vision narrows, the drive-thru menu blurring as his anger surges. “Two-fifty?” he snaps, his voice rising. “What the hell are you talking about, Al? I killed that thing. I did the job.”

The employee’s voice crackles through the speaker again, hesitant now. “Uh, sir? Your order?”

Raymond ignores them, his focus entirely on Al. “You said three grand, Al. That was the deal.”

Al’s voice hardens. “The deal was to kill the vampire wolf mbefore the blood moon hit at 3 a.m. You didn’t. You let it pass through the blood moon, Cruz. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Raymond’s blood runs cold, but his anger still simmers beneath the surface. “What are you talking about?”

Al’s tone is grim, each word heavy with implication. “That wolf wasn’t just any vampire. It was a gatekeeper. By letting it survive past the blood moon, you opened a direct link between Earth and the gates of hell. You think I’m paying you three grand for that? You’re lucky you’re getting anything at all.”

The words slam into Raymond like a freight train. His mind races, the implications sinking in. The blood moon, the wolf’s unnatural strength, the way it had seemed to defy every rule—it all makes sense now. And he had been too blind, too desperate, to see it.

The employee’s voice comes through the speaker again, nervous now. “Sir? Are you… okay?”

Raymond takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His hands are trembling, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Al,” he says, his voice low and strained, “you’re telling me I just… opened a door to hell?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Al says, his voice cold. “And now we’ve got a whole new mess to clean up. So yeah, Cruz, you’re getting two-fifty. Consider it a courtesy.”

Raymond’s anger flares again, but he forces it down, his voice tight. “You should’ve told me what I was up against. You should’ve warned me.”

“You should’ve done your job,” Al snaps back. “Now quit whining and figure out how to fix this. I’ll wire the two-fifty. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

The line goes dead, and Raymond sits there, the phone still pressed to his ear, his mind reeling. The employee’s voice comes through the speaker again, tentative. “Sir? Do you… still want to order?”

Raymond lowers the phone, his hands shaking. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Black coffee. Large.”

“Okay,” the employee says, relief evident in their voice. “That’ll be at the window.”

Raymond pulls forward, his mind racing. The weight of his mistake presses down on him, heavier than ever. He had thought the blood moon was just a bad omen, a sign of stronger demons. But this… this was something else entirely. He had opened a door to hell, and now he had to find a way to close it.

As he reaches the window, he hands over a few crumpled bills, his movements automatic. The employee hands him the coffee, their eyes wide with concern. “You okay, man? You look… rough.”

Raymond forces a grim smile. “I’ve been better.”

He takes the coffee and drives off, the cup warming his hands but doing nothing to ease the cold dread in his chest. The faint scent of spring lingers in the air, a cruel contrast to the darkness he knows is coming. The blood moon’s shadow may have passed, but its consequences are just beginning. And Raymond knows, with a sinking certainty, that the fight ahead will be the hardest one yet.

Raymond’s phone buzzes on the dashboard, the screen lighting up with Karina’s name. He hesitates, his hand hovering over the device, before finally answering. Her voice comes through the car speakers, soft and trembling, and it stops him cold.

“Raymond,” she says, her voice breaking. “I… I need to talk to you.”

He pulls the car over to the side of the road, the engine idling as he leans back in his seat. “Karina,” he says, his voice rough. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a pause, and he can hear her breathing, shaky and uneven. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For pointing the gun at you. For not trusting you. I was scared, Raymond. I’m still scared. But I… I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to push you away.”

His chest tightens, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “Karina,” he says, his voice softening. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who scared you. I’m the one who’s been… distant. I should’ve been honest with you from the start.”

She lets out a small, choked laugh. “You’re always trying to protect me. Even when it means keeping things from me. But I’m your wife, Raymond. I want to be there for you. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s scary.”

He closes his eyes, his hand gripping the steering wheel. “I know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I don’t want you to see me like that. I don’t want you to see the darkness I carry.”

“Raymond,” she says, her voice firm now. “I love you. All of you. The good and the bad. The light and the dark. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he swipes at them roughly. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re too good for me, Karina.”

“Stop it,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re my husband. The father of my child. And I’m not going anywhere. But you have to let me in, Raymond. You have to trust me.”

He takes a deep breath, the weight of her words settling over him. “I do trust you,” he says. “I just… I don’t want to drag you into this mess. It’s dangerous, Karina. More dangerous than you know.”

“I know,” she says softly. “But we’re in this together. For better or worse, remember?”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound mingling with the tears he can no longer hold back. “Yeah,” he says. “For better or worse.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of each other’s breathing filling the space between them. Finally, Karina speaks again, her voice soft. “Come home, Raymond. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

He nods, even though she can’t see him. “I will,” he says. “I promise.”

They say their goodbyes, the call ending with a soft click. Raymond sits there for a moment, the car idling, his hands resting on the wheel. The weight of the conversation lingers, but for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels a flicker of hope. Karina’s words echo in his mind, a lifeline in the darkness.

But as he pulls back onto the road, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror, and the flicker of hope dims. The black sedan is there, its headlights cutting through the twilight, and Raymond’s stomach drops. The chase is about to begin, and he knows, with a sinking certainty, that the darkness isn’t done with him yet.

Raymond’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. The black sedan has been tailing him for the last five blocks, its headlights cutting through the dim twilight like twin beams of judgment. He can’t make out the driver—the tinted windows hide everything but a shadowy silhouette. His instincts scream at him to lose it, but the streets are too crowded, the traffic too dense. He takes a sharp turn, the tires screeching, but the sedan follows, relentless.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his voice low and tense. He reaches for the glove compartment, pulling out his gun—the black, cross-engraved weapon loaded with holy silver bullets. He checks the magazine, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. Whoever’s following him, they’re not going to like what happens next.

He takes another turn, this time onto a quieter street, the buildings looming tall and dark on either side. The sedan stays on his tail, its engine growling like a predator closing in. Raymond’s jaw tightens. He’s not going to let this end in some back alley. If they want a fight, they’ll get one.

He rolls down the window, the cold air rushing in, and leans out, aiming the gun at the sedan’s front tires. He fires twice, the shots ringing out like thunder, but the sedan swerves, the bullets ricocheting off the pavement. The driver’s good—too good. Raymond curses, ducking back inside as the sedan speeds up, its bumper nearly kissing his rear fender.

The chase intensifies, the two cars weaving through the narrow streets, their engines roaring. Raymond takes another sharp turn, his tires skidding, but the sedan matches his move, its headlights glaring in his mirror. He can feel the pressure building, the walls of the city closing in around him. He needs to end this. Now.

He slams on the brakes, the car fishtailing, and spins the wheel, turning sharply into an alley. The sedan follows, its tires screeching as it takes the corner too fast. Raymond floors it, the alley narrowing as he speeds toward the other end. He can see the street ahead, the light at the end of the tunnel, but the sedan is gaining, its engine screaming.

He fires again, this time aiming for the driver’s side window, but the sedan swerves, the bullet grazing the roof. Raymond’s heart pounds, his hands slick with sweat. He’s running out of time.

The alley spits them out onto a busy street, the traffic thick and unforgiving. Raymond weaves through the cars, his horn blaring, but the sedan stays on him, its driver relentless. He takes a hard left, the tires losing traction for a split second, and that’s all it takes.

The sedan rams him from behind, the impact sending his car spinning out of control. Raymond fights the wheel, but it’s no use. The world tilts, the street blurring as his car slams into a lamppost, the sound of crunching metal filling the air. The airbag deploys, slamming into him with the force of a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes black.

When he comes to, his head is pounding, his vision blurred. The car is a wreck, steam rising from the crumpled hood. He fumbles for the gun, his fingers clumsy, but it’s gone, lost in the chaos. He looks up, his heart sinking as the sedan pulls up beside him, its engine idling.

The door opens, and a figure steps out, silhouetted against the streetlights. Raymond can’t make out their face, but he can feel their eyes on him, cold and unyielding. He reaches for the door handle, his body screaming in protest, but before he can move, the figure raises a hand, and everything goes dark again.

——————————

BOOK 5— TRICKSTER DEMON

Chapter 18

May 9, 2024— 8:37pm. It is moments before dark in the stretching plains of rural England when the young Theologian named Shane parks his tiny beaten-up bug across the only road from an old cottage.  

There is electricity in the air but no storm clouds.  

Shane’s boots sink into the damp earth as he trudges across the field, the long grass whispering against his trousers like unseen fingers tugging him back. The old Gypsy’s cottage looms ahead, its crooked chimney belching smoke that curls into the bruised twilight sky. Behind it, a lone oak stands sentinel, its gnarled branches clawing at the clouds. Beneath it, a withered figure hunches on a rusted bench, murmuring to the wind.  

The Gypsy’s mother.  

Shane swallows hard. Her milky eyes are fixed on nothing, her lips moving in a ceaseless, breathless chant. He catches only fragments—“bind it, blind it, break it"—before the cottage door creaks open.  

“Oi, city boy. You just gonna stand there gawping, or you coming in?”  

The voice is rough, thick with an accent that curls around the edges like old parchment. The man in the doorway is tall, his face a map of scars and sun-leathered skin. His name is Bartholomew Grue, though everyone who knows better calls him Ghostkiller Grue.  

Shane forces a smile. “Right. Sorry. Just… admiring the scenery.”  

Grue snorts. “Aye, real picturesque, innit? Now get in ‘fore the other things out here take an interest.”  

Inside, the cottage smells of herbs, gunpowder, and something faintly rancid. The walls are lined with jars of murky liquids, yellowed bones, and rusted blades. A black cat with one eye watches Shane from the hearth, its tail flicking like a metronome counting down to something dreadful.  

Grue drops into a creaking chair and nods at Shane. “So. You’re the bloke what’s been sniffing around after Vespertilio, eh?”  

Shane’s throat tightens. “You’ve heard of it?”  

“Course I bloody have,” Grue scoffs. “Demon lords don’t exactly pop up for tea and biscuits every Sunday.” He leans forward, his knuckles cracking. “But you’re barking up the wrong crypt, mate. That thing ain’t here.”  

Shane frowns. “But my research—”  

“—is bollocks,” Grue finishes. “Vespertilio’s locked in a crystal prism, last I heard. Some tosser smuggled it across the pond. Probably sittin’ in some rich git’s private collection now, gathering dust in North America.”  

A cold weight settles in Shane’s gut. “Then… what’s in the cellar?”  

The room goes very still. Even the cat stops blinking.  

Grue’s smile is a knife-slash. “Somethin’ else.”  

A sound drifts up through the floorboards then—high, giggling, childish. Shane’s blood turns to ice. “Are those… kids?”  

Grue’s expression darkens. “No. That’s just what it wants you to hear.”  

Outside, the old woman’s chanting grows louder, more frantic.  

Shane’s hands tremble. “You’re keeping a demon down there?”  

“Not keepin’,” Grue corrects. “Holding. Like a bloody grenade with the pin half-out.” He rubs his face. “This one’s… contagious. You look at it wrong, it gets in you. Spreads like a sickness. Only reason it ain’t painted the countryside red is ‘cause we’ve been keeping it distracted.”  

Shane’s gaze flicks to the floor. The laughter rises again, now edged with something wet and gurgling.  

“Right,” Shane whispers. “So, Vespertilio’s in North America. Any chance someone over there could track it?”  

Grue’s grin returns, slow and knowing. “You know someone, don’tcha?”  

Shane hesitates. “There’s a hunter. Raymond Cruz.”  

The name hangs in the air like a struck bell.  

Grue’s eyebrows climb. “Cruz? Blimey. You don’t aim small, do ya?” He whistles low. “That man’s got a reputation even demons whisper about.”  

Shane leans in. “You think he could find the prism?”  

Grue’s grin fades. “If anyone could, it’s him. But mate…” His voice drops. “You ever met Cruz?”  

Shane shakes his head.  

Grue chuckles darkly. “Then pray you never have to.”  

A sudden thud shakes the floor. Then another. And another.  

Grue’s face drains of color. “Oh, bollocks.”  

The laughter from below twists into a screech. The walls tremble. The cat bolts.  

“It heard us,” Grue hisses. “Talking about it—fed it.” He lunges for a shotgun above the mantle. “Run.”  

Shane doesn’t need telling twice. He scrambles for the door just as the cellar hatch splinters open behind him. A stench like rotting meat and burnt hair floods the room.  

Grue cocks the shotgun. “GO!”  

Shane makes it three steps before the first hand erupts from the cellar—long, spindly fingers, blackened at the tips like they’ve been dipped in tar. They curl around the floorboards, nails digging deep, hauling up the rest of the thing behind it.  

Grue doesn’t hesitate. He fires.  

The blast tears through the demon’s shoulder, spraying black ichor across the walls. It shrieks—a sound like a hundred children screaming through broken teeth—but it doesn’t stop. It pulls itself free, its body unfolding like a nightmare origami.  

It is tall. Too tall. Its limbs stretch and crack as it rises, its spine a jagged ridge beneath skin that pulses with something alive beneath. Its face is a shifting mockery of human features—one moment a grinning child, the next a gaping maw of needle-thin teeth.  

“Oh, you ugly bastard,” Grue spats, racking another shell.  

The demon lunges.  

Grue fires again, this time taking off half its jaw. The thing reels, black blood spattering the floor in thick, writhing droplets. But then—impossibly—the wound knits itself back together, flesh bubbling like tar over a flame.  

“Shane!” Grue roars. “If you’re still here, I’ll fucking kill you myself!”  

Shane bolts for the door, but the demon is faster. A whip-like arm lashes out, snagging his ankle. He hits the floor hard, his vision swimming as the thing yanks him backward.  

Grue is there in an instant. He brings the shotgun down like a club, smashing the demon’s wrist. Bones snap—but so does the stock of the gun. The demon howls, its grip loosening just enough for Shane to kick free.  

“Out! Now!” Grue bellows, tossing Shane a rusted knife from his belt.  

Shane doesn’t think. He runs. Behind him, Grue grapples with the thing, his massive hands locked around its throat. For a second, it almost looks like he’s winning.  

Then the demon laughs.  

Its mouth splits open, wider than any human’s should, and it bites down on Grue’s forearm. Bones crunch. Blood sprays. Grue roars, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he headbutts the thing, his forehead splitting its nose in a burst of black ooze.  

The demon staggers. Grue seizes the moment, driving his knee into its gut. It doubles over—just enough for him to grab a rusted iron poker from the hearth and ram it through the thing’s chest.  

The demon shrieks, thrashing, but Grue holds fast, twisting the metal deeper. “That’s right, you filth,” he snarls. “Hurts, don’t it?”  

For a heartbeat, Shane thinks it’s over.  

Then the demon smiles. And giggles. It sounds like the creepiest child Shane has ever heard. They never told him of these things when he mastered Theology in university. They hinted at them when he was introduced to the Demon-hunting world. But none of it could ever prepare him for the actual horror. These are the sights and sounds you can only experience on the field.  

The demon’s claws shoot up, clamping around Grue’s head. There is a wet pop—like a cork being pulled from a bottle—and then Grue’s eye slides free from its socket, dangling by a thread of sinew.  

Shane retches.  

Grue doesn’t scream. He growls. With his one remaining eye blazing, he spits in the demon’s face and slams his forehead into it again.  

The demon reels—but so does Grue. His legs buckle. Blood pours from his ruined eye, his broken nose, his shredded arm.  

The demon recovers first.  

It grabs Grue by the throat and lifts him off the ground. Then, with a wet rip, it tears out his voice box.  

Grue’s mouth opens in a silent scream.  

The demon eats it.  

Shane’s legs move before his brain can catch up. He is out the door, sprinting across the field, the old woman’s chanting now a wail of despair. Behind him, the cottage shudders. Wood splinters. Glass explodes.  

And then—silence.  

Shane doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. He runs until his lungs burn, until the cottage is a speck in the distance.  

Only then does he dare to glance over his shoulder.  

The oak tree stands alone now. The bench is empty.  

And from the ruins of the cottage, something watches him.  

Licking its lips.  

Waiting.  

————

Chapter 41

9:30pm. The steering wheel vibrates under Raymond’s grip as he sits parked outside the dimly lit diner, the engine still running. The low hum of the car’s motor is the only steady thing in the night, a mechanical heartbeat beneath the chaos unfolding in his skull. His phone is connected to the car, the voice on the other end a rasping, unstable thing—like a man clinging to the edge of sanity by his fingernails.  

“You don’t understand, Cruz," Shane hisses, his breath hitching between words. “Grue wasn’t just infected. He was rewritten. The demon didn’t possess him—it unmade him. Like erasing a sentence and writing something new in its place."

Raymond’s knuckles whiten. The leather of the steering wheel creaks under his tightening grip. "You’re saying it wasn’t possession. It was replacement.”

“Yes! No! I don’t—" Shane’s voice cracks. “It’s in my head now too. I can feel it. Like ink in water. Spreading."

A cold weight settles in Raymond’s gut. He’s heard this tone before—the fraying voice of men who’ve stared too long into the abyss. But Shane isn’t some rookie. He’s a theologian, a demon hunter with credentials. If he’s breaking, something is wrong. 

"Shane, listen to me. Where are you? I can—"  

“You can’t help me!" Shane’s laugh is a wet, broken sound. "You think your little injections will fix this? It’s not a virus, Cruz. It’s an idea. And ideas don’t die."

The line crackles. Raymond’s vision blurs for a second, a sudden pressure building behind his eyes. He blinks, and for a fraction of a second, the diner’s neon sign flickers—not in reality, but in his perception of it, like a skipped film frame.  

“You feel that?" Shane whispers. “That’s it. Learning you."

Raymond’s breath hitches. His fingers tremble against the phone. "What the hell did you just do to me?"  

“Nothing. It’s just... louder now. Between us." A pause. "Tell me, Cruz—when was the last time you really looked at your wife?"

The question hits like a sucker punch. Karina’s face flashes in his mind—her tear-streaked cheeks, the way she’d flinched when he’d raised his voice that morning. "I don’t know who you are anymore." 

He swallows hard. "This conversation’s over."  

"Is it? Or is she?" Shane’s voice drops to a whisper. "Check your phone, mate."  

The call ends.  

Raymond stares at the screen, his pulse thudding in his ears. He swipes to his contacts, taps Karina’s name. The call doesn’t even ring. Just a flat, automated message:  

"The number you have dialed is not in service.”  

His stomach drops.  

That isn’t possible. Karina would never block him. Not even in a million years. Not completely. Not like this. Even at their worst, she always left a line open.  

He tries again. Same result. The number isn’t in service.

The diner’s neon buzzes, the red glow bleeding across the dashboard. Raymond’s reflection in the rearview mirror looks wrong—his eyes too shadowed, his mouth too sharp. He leans closer, and for a heartbeat, his reflection smiles without him.  

He jerks back.  

"Jesus," he breathes.  

The radio, silent until now, crackles to life. A preacher’s voice booms through the static: "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world—" 

Raymond slams the power button. Silence falls.  

Outside, a streetlight flickers.  

He’s still staring at it when his phone buzzes—a text from an unknown number:  

‘She’s better off without you.’ Raymond mouths the words.

“Better off—what? Who is this crazy British guy?”  

He wonders if Shane is a figment of his imagination, a hallucination. But, no—everything checks out. Shane’s credentials are solid, even verified through Al.   

Raymond exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. The pressure behind his eyes hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s worse—a dull, insistent throb, like something pressing against the inside of his skull.  

He glances at the diner. The flickering neon sign reads "EAT", but for a second, letters add themselves in his vision—"DEATH".  

He blinks. It’s normal again.  

What the hell is happening to me?

His phone buzzes again. Another text:  

‘You should go inside.’

Raymond’s fingers tighten around the device. He doesn’t recognize the number, but the messages are coming through as if they’re part of an existing conversation.  

He types back:  

‘Who is this?’

The reply is immediate:  

‘You already know.’

A chill runs down his spine.  

The diner’s door creaks open. A waitress steps out, lighting a cigarette. She doesn’t look at him, but he feels her presence like a weight.  

Raymond’s phone buzzes again.  

‘She can see you.’

His breath catches. The waitress exhales smoke, then turns her head—slowly—toward his car.  

Her eyes are black.  

Not dark. Not shadowed. Black. Like ink spilled into the sockets.  

Raymond’s heart hammers. He throws the car into drive and peels away from the curb.  The streetlights flicker as he speeds down the empty road. His phone keeps buzzing, but he doesn’t look.  His reflection in the rearview mirror grins again.  He slams his fist against the glass. "Stop it!"  

The radio crackles back on.  

“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light."

Raymond punches the dashboard. The radio cuts out.  

His phone rings.  

He hesitates, then answers.  

"What do you want?”

Silence. Then—  

“You."

The voice isn’t Shane’s.  

It’s his own.  

Raymond’s blood turns to ice.  

The call drops.  

Ahead, the road stretches into darkness.  

And the ink keeps spreading.

10:11pm. The phone is slick in Raymond’s palm, his fingers trembling as he redials Shane’s number. It rings once—twice—before the line clicks open.  

"You’re still there." Shane’s voice is a frayed wire, sparking with static.  

"Who the hell are you?" Raymond snaps. "Credentials. Now."  

A wet, rattling laugh. "You think paperwork matters here? Fine. Vatican Archives, Casefile 7-66. The Budapest Incident. Ask Al—he’ll tell you. He was happy to tell you about my other credentials, wasn’t he? Ask him again about that.”

Raymond’s jaw clenches. He knows the Budapest Incident. A possessed cardinal, an entire chapel drenched in blood. Classified. Only three people outside the Church had access to those files—and Shane wasn’t one of them.  

"That’s bullshit. Those records were sealed."  

"So was Grue’s fate. Until it wasn’t." Shane’s breathing hitches, like a man drowning in open air. "You want proof? Check your email." 

Raymond’s phone pings—an attachment from an encrypted server. A photograph loads in grainy black-and-white: a man strapped to a chair, his mouth sewn shut with thick, black thread. The eyes are wrong. Too wide. Too knowing. 

Grue.  

But Grue had died in Prague, clean—a bullet through the skull. This photo was dated more recently than that.

Raymond’s stomach lurches. "This is doctored."  

"Is it?" Shane’s voice splinters. "Look closer."

The image flickers. For a heartbeat, the stitches on Grue’s lips move, squirming like worms.  

Raymond’s vision blurs. The pressure behind his eyes swells, a hot needle driving into his brain. He gasps—  

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

A flashlight beam cuts through the windshield. Raymond jerks back, nearly dropping the phone. A cop leans down, his face half-lit by the streetlights.  

"Sir? You alright in there?"  

Raymond glares, rolling the window down an inch. "I’m fine."  

The cop’s eyebrow lifts. "You’ve been sitting here ten minutes. Engine running, talking to yourself."  

"I’m on a call."  

"Uh-huh." The cop’s flashlight sweeps over the empty passenger seat. "This is a no-stopping zone. You’re blocking the hydrant."  

Raymond’s face burns. He hadn’t even noticed the faded red curb.  

The cop taps the roof of the car. "Move along, sir."  

He slams the gearshift into drive, tires screeching as he pulls away. In the rearview, the cop watches him go—then lifts his radio.  

Raymond’s phone buzzes. A new text:  

They’re learning you too.

The last thing he sees, before the streetlights cut out, is the cop’s reflection in the mirror—  

—smiling with too many teeth. 

————

Chapter 42

The Bible app's audio feature drones through the car speakers as Raymond drives, the voice of some long-dead preacher reciting Psalms like a eulogy. The digital cadence lacks all human warmth, each syllable perfectly measured like a doctor announcing a terminal diagnosis.  

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..." 

Raymond's fingers dig into the steering wheel's leather grip. He’s played this game before—letting Scripture wash over him like baptismal waters, waiting for some verse to click like a divine combination lock releasing its treasures. But tonight, every word lands like a stone in his gut.  

“He leadeth me beside the still waters..."  

Still waters. Like the dead silence when he’s called Karina twelve times in a row. Like the empty space where her voice should be. The app's robotic voice continues its relentless march through sacred text, oblivious to the way each verse carves deeper into his chest.  

“He restoreth my soul..." 

His soul feels anything but restored. It feels like shattered stained glass—all sharp edges and broken promises. The digital voice reaches Psalm 51:  

“Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me..."  

A bitter laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah. That tracks." His thumb jabs the skip button.  

The next verse freezes the blood in his veins:  

“The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies."

His foot slips on the accelerator. The car lurches forward violently before he regains control. Karina's voice echoes in his skull like a ghost haunting its own corpse: “You lie to yourself more than you lie to me.”

He stabs the app closed with trembling fingers. The sudden silence presses against his eardrums. Outside, the city blurs past—streetlights smearing into golden streaks, his own ragged breathing the only sound in the metallic tomb of his car. He needs to see her face. Needs to press his palm against her cheek and feel the warmth of living flesh to prove they’re both still real.  

But first, he takes a detour.  

10:30pm. Lisa's evening walk through the park usually calms her. Tonight, every rustling leaf sounds like whispered threats. She adjusts the cross hanging from her neck, the cool metal against her collarbone the only familiar sensation in this suddenly alien world.  

The footsteps behind her aren’t trying to be quiet.  

"Lisa."

She spins so fast her ponytail whips across her face. Mark stands beneath a flickering streetlamp, his posture all wrong—shoulders hunched like a vulture's wings, head cocked at an unnatural angle. The man who’d once brought her roses now grins with too many teeth.  

"Second chance?" he asks, the words slithering out between cracked lips.  

Her fingers close around her keys, the jagged metal edges biting into her palm. "No."  

Mark's grin doesn’t waver. "Why not?" 

"Because whatever's looking at me through your eyes right now isn't you," she whispers.  

“Be with me, Lisa. Come back to me.”

“No, Mark…”

His face twitches—a grotesque ripple beneath the skin like something trying to rearrange his features. Then his voice shatters the night:  

“WHY NOT?!" 

He lunges with jerky, marionette movements. Lisa backpedals, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Mark's fingers graze her sleeve when blinding headlights cut through the darkness.  

A black sedan screeches to a halt inches from the curb. The door flies open before the car fully stops.  

Raymond Cruz emerges like Judgment given flesh—dagger already glinting in his fist, his black crucifix swinging violently against his chest with the sudden movement.  

Mark's head snaps toward him with an audible crack of vertebrae. "Ah," he croons, voice suddenly smooth as poisoned honey. "The husband." 

Raymond doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. The dagger flashes upward in a silver arc. Mark's scream isn’t human—it’s the sound of air escaping a corpse's lungs after too long underground. But, in a flash, Mark is gone. Kicking up dust, already a flicker on the distant entrance of the park, never to be seen again.  

Raymond turns to her, his dark eyes hollow as empty confessionals. “Lisa.” 

Tears well in her eyes. “Raymond.”

“You okay?"

Lisa's lips move soundlessly before she manages: "What was that?" 

Raymond stares at the horizon. "A dangerous man. You know him?” 

Lisa's knees buckle. Raymond catches her elbow, his grip unexpectedly gentle for a man who’s just faced what appears to be a devil. The warmth of his hand seeps through her jacket sleeve.  

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get you home." 

The streetlights buzz overhead as Raymond falls into step beside Lisa, their shoulders nearly touching. She clutches her keys between her fingers like makeshift claws, her breath still uneven.  

"You always carry a dagger?" Lisa asks, eyeing the glint of silver still in his hand.  

Raymond smirks, sliding it back into his coat. "Only on Tuesdays." 

Lisa’s arm brushes his as they walk. "Thanks for showing up when you did.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s entirely out of my control. It seems like a higher power wants to make sure we’re always running into each other.”

She laughs, the sound loosening something in his chest. The tension from the attack still hums between them, but now it mixes with something warmer—something alive.  

“God’s divine timing, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Mark’s been... different lately. Not just tonight. Weird things keep happening around me. Things I can’t explain." 

Raymond’s gaze sharpens. "What kind of things?"

She hesitates. "Voices where there shouldn’t be any. My reflection blinking when I don’t. And Mark..." She shudders. "He wasn’t like that when we dated. It’s like something’s peeling him apart from the inside."

Raymond’s jaw tightens.  

“You think I’m crazy.”

“Why do I think you’re crazy—cause your reflection’s winking back at you? Don’t worry, that shit happens to everybody.” 

He knows that feeling too well—the slow unraveling of reality. He wants to tell her, but the words stick in his throat.  

Lisa nudges him with her elbow. "Weirdest of all: I just keep seeing you everywhere. I mean we’ve been in the same town all our lives and never crossed each other since high school. Now, I got this brooding hero appearing everywhere I go, helping me. Even saving my life.”

A laugh escapes him. "Brooding hero, huh?"

"Don’t let it go to your head." She grins, but her fingers toy with the cross at her neck—a mirror of his own. “You believe in demons, Raymond?"  

The question hangs between them. He studies her—the way her lips part slightly, the pulse fluttering in her throat. "Yeah," he admits. "But I also believe in things worth saving." 

Her breath hitches. The space between them crackles.  

Lisa steps closer, her voice dropping. "I’m tired of waiting for good things to find me. Maybe it’s time I just... take them."

Raymond’s blood burns. He should pull away. Should remember Karina’s blocked calls, the wedding band he isn’t wearing tonight. But Lisa’s eyes hold him—dark, knowing, fearless.  

"Careful," he murmurs. "I might be one of the weird things happening to you, remember?”

She smirks. "I’ll risk it." 

They stand there, inches apart, the city holding its breath around them.  

Then Lisa turns and starts walking again, throwing a glance over her shoulder. "You coming, hero? Or do I have to defend myself the rest of the way?" 

Raymond follows, his pulse racing. The night suddenly feels full of possibilities—dangerous, electric ones.  

And for the first time in months, he doesn’t look back.  

————

Chapter 43

10:57pm. Lisa lives in a small one-bedroom above a 24-hour convenience store with the eeriest dimmed pink lights Raymond has ever seen. They hum like cicadas on the street corner of a dilapidated, yet busy for 11pm, neighborhood.  

Her apartment smells like jasmine tea and old books—the scent of quiet evenings spent alone. Raymond sits stiffly on her couch, his large hands clasped between his knees like he’s physically restraining them. His gaze keeps drifting to the wooden crucifix above her television.  

"You feel it too, don’t you?" Lisa asks as she hands him a steaming mug. "The...emptiness in everything now."  

Raymond takes the cup but doesn’t drink. The ceramic is almost painfully hot against his palms. "I used to think faith was armor," he says quietly. "Now it just feels like another wound that won’t heal."  

Lisa sits beside him, close enough that her knee brushes his. The contact sends an unexpected spark up her spine. "Mark wasn’t always like that," she says. "When we first met, he’d pray with me every morning."*  

Raymond’s throat works as he swallows hard. "Karina thinks prayer is just superstition. Says I cling to this—" he touches his cross "—like a child with a security blanket."

Lisa’s fingers rise unconsciously to her own necklace. "And what do you think?" 

He finally meets her eyes, and the raw pain in his gaze steals her breath. "I think Christ is the only glue holding this broken world together." 

Something passes between them in that moment—a recognition deeper than words, a shared loneliness that transcends mere understanding. Lisa’s breath hitches. Without conscious thought, her hand finds his.  

Raymond’s fingers are calloused from years gripping weapons, but they tremble against hers like a man touching something precious after too long in the dark.  

Later, in her bed, their bodies come together with a desperation that surprises them both. Lisa arches against Raymond as his mouth traces the cross pendant between her breasts, her fingers tangled in his hair. For the first time in months, the hollow place inside Raymond almost feels full.  

Almost.  

The moment the door closes behind them, Raymond has her pinned against the wall, his body hard against hers, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that borders on violence. Lisa gasps into the kiss, her fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. There is no hesitation, no gentle exploration—only possession.  

His hands are rough as they push under her shirt, fingers splaying over her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She arches into his touch, a moan tearing from her throat. He growls in response, biting at her lower lip before dragging his mouth down her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse point.  

For a heartbeat, he forgets she isn’t a demon.  

The way she yields to him—completely, without reservation—makes his blood burn. He could break her if he wanted to. The thought sends a dark thrill through him. But then her nails dig into his shoulders, her breath hot against his ear as she whispers, “Do it."  

And he loses control.  

Clothes are torn away, fabric giving way to skin. He lifts her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carries her to the bed. She is already wet for him, her body trembling with anticipation. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask. He just takes, driving into her with a force that makes her cry out.  

Lisa gasps, her head falling back, her fingers clutching at the sheets before twisting into his hair again. “Raymond—" His name is a plea, a prayer, a surrender.  

He fucks her like a man exorcising his own demons—hard, relentless, his hips snapping against hers with brutal precision. She meets him thrust for thrust, her body welcoming the punishment, the pleasure, the claiming.  

Her climax hits her like a divine punishment, her back bowing off the bed as she shatters beneath him. Raymond follows her over the edge, his release ripped from him with a groan that sounds more like a snarl.  

When it’s over, he collapses beside her, his breath ragged, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks. Lisa turns her head to look at him, her lips swollen, her eyes dark with satisfaction.  

No guilt. No regret.  

Just ruin.  

And for the first time in years, Raymond feels like himself again.  

1:53am. Raymond stands on the sidewalk outside Lisa’s building, the night air cool against his flushed skin. He shouldn’t have stayed. Shouldn’t have let this happen. But when he glances up at her third-floor window, his blood turns to ice.  

A pulsating pink light throbs behind her balcony doors.  

That wasn’t there when they arrived.  

He turns back to the building’s entrance—and freezes. Where there was a door moments ago, now only unbroken brick meets his gaze. He blinks hard. Rubs his eyes. The brick remains. The convenience store is still there, but the entrance to her staircase is gone.  

Heart pounding, he circles the building at a run. No entrance. No fire escape. Just smooth, featureless walls where doors and windows should be. The pink light continues its rhythmic pulse, like something breathing.  

Raymond sprints to his car, yanking the door open while keeping his eyes locked on that unnatural glow. He won’t blink. Won’t look away. The car’s speakers crackle to life unbidden:  

“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light." 

Raymond’s heart pounds in his chest. He resolves to stare at “Lisa’s balcony” until he sees her pass by the patio doors. The monotone British voice drawls on the radio, reciting verses. Minutes turn into a full hour.  

3am. The Devil’s hour. No sign of Lisa. What is he waiting for? Where else would he go, anyway? He has no home to go to. His phone vibrates in his pocket. A text notification lights up the screen—Karina’s name. His heart leaps before he reads the message:  

“I love you. Come home.” 

Karina has finally unblocked his number. He has found it to be the most bizarre thing that she blocked him in the first place.  

Then he sees the timestamp.  

Sent 6 hours ago. During the endless stretch when her number was blocked.  

The rearview mirror reflects his face back at him—except his reflection grins with too many teeth, its eyes dissolving into black voids.  

“Too late," it whispers with Raymond’s mouth.  

He screams and slams the gas pedal. The tires screech as the car fishtails away from the curb. In the distance, the pink light continues its steady pulse.  

Still watching.  

Still waiting.  

————

Chapter 56

11:47 PM. The black limousine glides to the curb without a sound. Shane watches through the rain-streaked window of an all-night café as the driver steps out, umbrella in hand. The man’s face is hidden beneath the brim of his cap, but his posture is rigid, military. He doesn’t look at Shane. He doesn’t need to.  

Shane’s phone buzzes—an unknown number. A single word: "Enter."

He doesn’t hesitate.  

The limousine’s interior smells of leather and something sharper, like crushed mint and gun oil. Three figures sit in the shadowed recesses of the backseat.  

“Sit,” says the woman directly across from him.  

Shane obeys. The door locks itself behind him.  

The woman—Sister Rosemary—leans forward just enough for the passing streetlights to carve her face into sharp relief. Middle-aged, iron-gray hair pulled into a merciless bun, eyes like flint. A rosary hangs from her belt, the beads worn smooth from use. Beside her, a priest in his fifties watches Shane with the detached curiosity of a surgeon assessing a cadaver.  

The third figure remains in darkness.  

“You’re late,” Sister Rosemary says.  

Shane checks his watch. “By thirty seconds.”  

“That’s thirty seconds we don’t have.” She snaps her fingers. The priest hands her a file. She flips it open. “Shane Aldridge. Failed theology student. Amateur demon tracker. Currently wanted by Interpol for breaking into a Vatican archive.”  

Shane smirks. “Allegedly.”  

The priest exhales through his nose. Sister Rosemary doesn’t blink. “This isn’t a joke.”  

“Never said it was.”  

The third figure stirs. A gloved hand emerges from the shadows, holding a silver case. It clicks open, revealing a single photograph: a crystal prism, no larger than a peach, glowing faintly in what looks like a museum display.  

“You know what this is,” says a voice—smooth, accented, utterly cold.  

Shane’s smirk dies. “Vespertilio’s prison.”  

“Correct.” The hand withdraws. “It was last seen in a private collection in Boston. Now, it’s gone. Along with the man who guarded it.”  

Sister Rosemary’s jaw tightens. “The Blood Moon changed things. The rules are… different now.”  

Shane leans back. “Different how?”  

The priest speaks for the first time. “Vampires walk in daylight. Possessions have tripled. Exorcisms fail more often than they succeed.” His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges. “Hell’s hierarchy is shifting. And Vespertilio’s release would guarantee war.”  

A beat of silence. The limousine turns down an unlit alley.  

“We need it found,” says the shadowed man. “Before the wrong people realize what they have.”  

Shane glances between them. “And you’re telling me this because…?”  

Sister Rosemary’s smile is razor-thin. “Because you’re the only one reckless enough to suggest Raymond Cruz.”  

Shane goes very still.  

The priest sighs. “We’ve heard the stories. The man’s a fanatic. Unpredictable.”  

“He’s the best,” Shane counters.  

“Based on what?” Sister Rosemary demands. “You’ve never met him.”  

“I don’t need to. The demons talk. They fear him.” Shane leans in. “You want a hunter who can’t be manipulated? Cruz doesn’t just resist demons—he breaks them. I’ve seen the aftermath. Rooms where the walls weep blood because something screamed its way out of existence rather than face him.”  

The priest crosses himself.  

The shadowed man exhales—a slow, considering sound. “His faith is truly that strong?”  

Shane doesn’t blink. “It’s not faith. It’s fury.”  

Sister Rosemary studies him. “And if we send him after Vespertilio?”  

“Then Vespertilio should start running.”  

A pause. The limousine stops.  

The shadowed man extends a card between two fingers. Gold lettering glints in the dim light: D. Ferrante.  

“Find Cruz,” he says. “Before the demons do.”  

The door unlocks.  

Shane takes the card. Steps out.  

The limousine vanishes into the night, leaving him alone with three words ringing in his skull:  

War is coming.

—————————-

BOOK 6—VAMPIRE DEN

Chapter 81 

1:21 AM. The sedan's engine idles outside the Lucky 7 Lounge, its black paint swallowing the neon glow from the bar's flickering sign. Raymond Cruz drums his fingers on the steering wheel, the phone resting on the dock. Al's voice crackles through the car speakers, tinny and sharp.  

"Two demons. Three vamps. Twelve hundred bucks. Take it or leave it."  

Raymond's forehead wrinkles. "That's half the usual rate."  

"It's what the Guild's offering." A pause. Static, or maybe Al lighting a cigarette. "Times are tight."  

"Bullshit." Raymond leans back, the leather seat creaking. "This is about that job in Uptown. The one where I didn't follow orders."  

Al exhales, long and slow. "You torched a nest instead of bagging the heads. Guild lost proof, lost pay. You lost their trust."  

"I lost their 'trust'?" Raymond barks a laugh. "They wanted those vamps dead, not saved. Even the ones who could've been cured. Like they're just—what was it that rep called them? 'Hell's leftovers'?"  

"Christ, Cruz, you gonna cry about wording now?" Al's voice turns razor-edged. "You wanna play savior? Fine. Use your own damn antidote. But don't bitch when the Guild won't pay for corpses you didn't deliver."  

Raymond's fingers twitch toward the black and silver cross at his neck. His glove compartment holds three vials of antidote—one of them enough for maybe three vampires, if he rations. His shotgun sits propped in the passenger seat, its ammo pouch nearly empty. Six shells left. Six.  

"You still there?" Al snaps.  

"Yeah." Raymond's gaze flicks to the bar's entrance. The door swings open, spilling out a drunk who wobbles into the alley. "Just counting my options."  

"Only one option, kid. Do the job. Get paid. Or don't, and see how long you last without Guild backing." The line goes dead.  

Raymond tosses the phone onto the seat. The dashboard clock reads 1:26 AM.

He pops the glove compartment. Three vials glint in the dim light. He grabs one, holds it up. The liquid inside swirls, faintly luminescent. "Worth more than gold." And he's about to waste it on vampires the Guild has already written off. They tried to write him off. The memory won't stop stinging.

His shotgun shells look worse—only six holy silver pellets remain. Enough for one demon, maybe, if he doesn't miss.  

Raymond sighs, tucks the vial into his coat, and checks the Colt at his hip. Full clip. At least he has that. 

He steps out of the car. The night air smells like exhaust and wet pavement. Somewhere distant, a siren wails.  

"Two demons. Three vampires. Twelve hundred bucks."  

And a Guild that wanted him dead now hires him for dangerously low pay.

He pushes open the bar door.

The neon buzzes above him, casting his shadow long across the cracked pavement. His Timberlands scuff against concrete still damp from evening rain. Twelve hundred dollars won't cover next month's rent, let alone replenish his spent supplies. But walking away means no pay at all—and a big red X on his record with the only organization that still gives him contracts.

Inside his jacket pocket, his fingers brush against the smooth glass of the antidote vial. Three chances to undo what the demons have done. Three opportunities to prove the Guild wrong about "leftovers." The weight of the Colt against his hip feels heavier than usual tonight.

A trash can clatters in the alley. Raymond's hand flies to his weapon before he recognizes the sound as a stray cat knocking over a bottle. His nerves hum like live wires. This job stinks worse than the alley behind the bar—too many targets for too little pay, in a location that reeks of setup.

The cross around his neck grows warm against his skin. Not burning, not yet, but warning. Something unholy waits behind those doors. Something that knows his name.

He takes a deep breath, reviewing his holy weapon one last time. One full clip. Seven silver-tipped promises of violence. One vial of questionable mercy. One pissed-off hunter with nothing left to lose.

The door creaks when he pushes it open, revealing a dim interior where digital slot machines whir and click. Their garish lights paint the room in pulsing colors, illuminating just enough to see the danger lurking in the shadows.

Raymond Cruz steps across the threshold, his boots sticking slightly to the beer-stained floor. Somewhere in this neon-lit tomb, two demons and three lost souls wait for him. The Guild expects him to fail. The night expects him to die.

He adjusts the cross on his necklace and moves forward. Let them all be disappointed.

1:39 AM. The slot machines hum, their digital reels spinning endless cherries and sevens in the dark. Raymond Cruz wipes sweat from his brow, neon lights painting his tan skin in saturated pinks and blues. 

The bar smells like stale beer and something fouler underneath—old blood, maybe, or the pungent whiff of dark magic. Raymond’s Timberlands stick slightly to the floor with each step. He can’t tell if it’s spilled liquor or something more sinister. Doesn’t matter. He’s not here to inspect the cleaning staff’s work.  

The dead-eyed bartender doesn’t look up as Raymond passes. Could be a ghoul, could just be another working stiff who’s seen too many nights like this. The man’s hands move mechanically, polishing the same spot on a glass for the last three minutes. Raymond wonders idly if the guy’s even alive, or if he’s just another fixture in this godforsaken place.  

The Guild’s notice had been clear enough. Two confirmed demons, three suspected vampire fledglings. Location: The Lucky 7 Lounge. Reward: $1,200 split. Split. Like he’s supposed to believe anyone else would take this suicide mission.  

Raymond’s boot nudges something on the floor—a discarded lottery ticket. He almost laughs. “Yeah, real lucky place.” His fingers twitch toward the black and silver cross at his neck. The motion’s half prayer, half nervous habit. He’s not sure when he stopped meaning the prayers and just went through the motions. Maybe around the same time the Guild started sending him on jobs like this.  

The door at the end of the bar stands slightly ajar. Raymond pushes through, the Colt already loose in its holster.  

The room here smells like burnt copper and wet ashes. Then he sees them—two figures that look like someone dug up a pair of 16th-century Puritans and left them to rot in a tanning bed. The first demon’s lips crack like dry parchment when it smiles.  

"Do not be overcome by evil," it croaks, fingers twitching like spider legs.  

The demon’s breath stinks of sulfur and spoiled meat. It perches on a slot machine like some grotesque parody of a carnival barker, its skin stretched tight over bones that don’t sit right in their joints.  

"The Lord is my shepherd," it rasps, voice like gravel in a tin can. The words would sound reverent if not for the way its too-many teeth gleam in the neon light. "I shall not want... for your bones." It laughs.  

The taller demon—its skin taut over its frame like old sailcloth—grins with yellowed teeth. "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood," it whispers, nails clicking against the slot machine, "but against powers of this dark world. You wear crosses like jewelry, hunter. Do you even know whose war you fight?"  

Raymond’s thumb tightens on the Colt’s grip. "James 4:7. Resist the devil, and he’ll—"  

"Flee like a coward?" The second demon slithers from the shadows, its voice oil-slick. "Yet Peter warns—your enemy prowls. And here we are." It licks cracked lips. "Greater is He that is in you? Then why do you stink of doubt?"  

A drop of sweat slides down Raymond’s temple. The air thickens, scripture twisting like smoke.  

"I give you authority to trample serpents," hisses the first, "Yet you limp through this war like a beggar."  

"The God of peace will crush Satan," croaks the second, "But look at you—blade shaking. Where’s your peace now?"  

Raymond’s breath hitches. “Zephaniah. Zephaniah something—*  

The taller demon lunges, rotting fingers outstretched. "Even Michael dared not rebuke the devil," it sneers, "What makes you think you—"  

The Colt roars. Holy silver tears through the demon’s ribs. It shrieks, but Raymond’s voice cuts louder: "AWAY FROM ME, SATAN! Matthew 4:10!"  

The second demon recoils as its partner dissolves into an ashy corpse on the ground. Raymond levels the dagger, but his mind blanks. “No weapon…”

"No weapon formed against you," the creature mocks, "Isaiah 54:17. But you’ve forgotten the rest, haven’t you?"  

Raymond’s blade falters—then flashes. The cross-hilt sears the demon’s chest. "THE LORD REBUKE YOU! Zechariah 3:2!"  

Silence.  

He stands panting, gunpowder and burnt flesh in his nostrils. The verses they weaponized still echo, but one truth remains:  

They knew scripture better than he did.  

And that scares him most of all.  

Raymond makes it to the back of the room. The vampires aren’t attacking. Just slumped at the bar, sickly and hollow-eyed. “Hell’s leftovers.” Fresh turns. Probably some poor bastards the demons drained and abandoned. The Guild would pay good money for their heads. Wouldn’t even ask questions.  

His hand finds the antidote vial in his coat. The cool glass feels heavier than it should. “Waste of good antidote,” the practical part of his brain snarls. “You need the cash. The rent’s due. The Charger needs new tires.”

But his fingers work anyway, tipping the blessed liquid down their throats. The first one gags, convulses, black veins surfacing before fading. The second makes a sound like a drowning man gasping for air. The third doesn’t react until the end, eyes fluttering open—human again, but haunted.  

When it’s done, only scarred, unconscious humans remain. No way to tell if they’re young or old, men or women. Just people. Ruined.  

Raymond pulls out his phone, snaps a picture of the demon corpses. The screen glitches—image inverts, then freezes. “Of course.” He tries saving it. Fails. Tries sending it to Al—his so-called handler. Fails again. “Goddamn tech.” Teeth gritted, he uploads it to his personal cloud storage with the Guild. Somehow, that works. He forwards it to Al.

A second later, his phone buzzes.  

Al: 👍  

Raymond almost laughs. “Real fucking encouraging.”

He holsters the Colt, wipes the dagger clean on his slacks. The blade leaves dark streaks on the black fabric. No one will notice. They never do.  

As he turns to leave, something curls into his ear—not a voice, not exactly. More like the memory of one. Old. Hungry.  

I need you.

He freezes. The words press into his mind like a thumbprint in soft wax. Raymond Cruz doesn’t believe in signs. But he believes in empty clips and emptier wallets. Believes in jobs that aren’t worth the price. And now, apparently, he believes in voices that aren’t there.  

The bar’s neon bleeds into the night as he steps outside. Somewhere, a clock strikes 2 AM. Somewhere deeper, something stirs.  

And Raymond needs more shotgun rounds.  

The alley walls press close, their cracked bricks sweating in the humid dark. Raymond's sedan crawls forward, tires crunching over broken glass, the engine's growl drowned beneath the insect roar. Above him, the sky burns red—not sunset, not dawn, but the sick glow of city light bleeding through heat haze. The air sticks in his throat.  

He's talking again. Has been for blocks.  

"You see that?" His knuckles whiten on the wheel. "Three months ago, I'd have checked the rearview twice. Now I just... drive." The empty passenger seat offers no reply, but he hears it anyway—that voice like oil on water, the one that's been riding shotgun since the Blood Moon.  

A traffic light flickers ahead. Red. He stops, though there's no crosswalk, no cars. The dashboard clock reads 2:07 AM. The numbers swim.  

"Used to count my shells after every job," he mutters. "Now I wake up with blood under my nails and no memory of the fight." His reflection in the windshield looks hollowed-out, the black cross at his throat gleaming like a fresh wound.  

The light changes. He doesn't move.  

"They're getting stronger. Or I'm getting sloppy." A moth batters against the windshield, wings leaving ghost-dust on the glass. "Which scares you more?"  

The alley exhales hot breath against the sedan. Somewhere, a bottle shatters. The voice, when it comes, isn't his.  

"You should've died in that church," it whispers.  

Raymond's foot slams the gas. The sedan lurches forward, tires screaming. Behind him, the red light watches, unblinking, until the night swallows it whole.  

————

Chapter 82

The sedan’s tires squeal as Raymond parallel parks between a delivery truck and a hydrant. The boulevard pulses with Friday night energy—honking cabs, laughing couples, the sizzle of street meat on greasy grills. He kills the engine but leaves the AC running, watching condensation fog the windshield as humid night air battles the cold vents.  

His phone feels slick in his palm. Three rings. Four. The call goes to voicemail again.  

“Karina. It's me." He watches a bachelorette party stumble past, their high heels catching in pavement cracks, the women pointing in awe at the red sky. “I know you're screening. I would too." A drunk tourist leans against his hood to take a selfie; Raymond considers flashing his high beams but just exhales instead. “Got a job. Probably nothing. But if you hear about a mess tomorrow... call me back."

The lie tastes bitter. This isn't "probably nothing"—it's the third nest this month with the same sigils carved into the walls, the same sulfur stink clinging to the corpses. He thumbs the silver cross on his keychain—a gift from Karina back when she still answered on the first ring—before tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. It lands beside yesterday's gas station sandwich, half-eaten and sweating in its wrapper.  

Outside, the heat wraps around the car like a damp suit. His black sport coat sticks to his shoulders. Somewhere down the block, a street preacher shouts about end times, his voice hoarse over the bass thump of club music. Raymond checks his holster out of habit, fingers brushing the Colt's cross-engraved grip.  

A notification lights up his discarded phone. For half a second he thinks it's her—but it's just Al from the Guild. “$11,000 bonus if you bag an alpha by sunrise.” Followed immediately by: “Don't fuck this one up.”

The neon from the 24-hour donut shop paints his hands pink as he reloads. Six silver rounds in the cylinder. Two backup clips. Half the firepower he'd usually bring, but the rent's due soon and holy bullets don't come cheap.  

Across the street, the alley mouth yawns dark between a dispensary and a boarded-up theater. The security camera above it hangs by its wires, lens shattered.

His phone rings. Karina's photo flashes on screen—that old picture from the pier, back when her smile reached her eyes. He hesitates with his thumb over the answer button.  

The alley exhales a gust of rotting meat and jasmine.  

He answers the call.  

“Hello?”

Raymond’s eyes scan the busy street as his fingers work—rolling paper, crumbled bud, a slow twist of the ends. The second joint sits half-finished on the dashboard beside a Zippo with a faded crucifix insignia.  

“You still in hiding?” Karina’s voice crackles through the speakers, tinny with bad reception.  

He licks the paper’s edge. “Brother’s house.” The lie comes easy. The truth—that he’s parked three blocks from a nest that’s already eaten two hunters this week—would mean explaining why he took the job. And that would mean talking about the eviction notice folded in his glove compartment.  

A pause. The sound of her lighting a cigarette—he can picture the exact way she holds the match, cupped against the wind. “I’m smoking again, on the balcony. Isabella’s sleeping. You gonna yell at me?”  

“Nah.” He sparks the joint, inhales deep. The smoke curls around the rearview mirror’s dangling rosary. “Employers happy with me. Giving me a lot of work and saying times are getting better. I’m feeling better, anyway.” Another lie. The Guild wanted his throat torn out Tuesday night.  

“That’s good, I guess.”

The silence stretches. Somewhere beyond the sidewalk’s sodium lights, a police helicopter thunders toward downtown.  

“You sound tired,” she says finally.  

The joint glows cherry-red as he takes another pull. “Got a new neighbor. Plays that screaming music the kids listen to at 3AM.” True, but not why he hasn’t slept. The nightmares started again last month—the same one every time: a church basement, black veins crawling up his arms, Karina screaming his name from somewhere above ground.  

She exhales sharply. He can almost smell her menthols through the phone. “You remember that taco truck by the old precinct? The one with the—”  

“—green salsa that gave you food poisoning,” he finishes. “Yeah.” He starts rolling the second joint, fingers moving on muscle memory. They used to go there after late shifts, her stealing his horchata while he pretended not to notice.  

Another silence. A diner’s neon sign buzzes like an angry wasp.  

“I should—” she starts.  

“Karina, listen,” he says too quickly. Ash falls on his slacks. “Cause I didn’t call you for nothing.”  

Raymond stares at the half-rolled joint in his hands—too tight, will canoe if he lights it. He could fix it with a toothpick, but suddenly the effort seems impossible.  

“Yes?”

Outside, the helicopter circles back. The sedan’s clock flips to 2:47AM. His phone hums with another text notification from Al, but he ignores it.

He crushes the unfinished joint in the ashtray and reaches for his holster.  

“Karina, I need to come over and get some of my things. Very important.”

“You’re going to come here?”

Pause. Raymond’s throat burns, he stifles a cough. “M-hmm.”

Karina shuffles. The speaker’s crackle. “Do you think that is a good idea?”

“I have no choice. I would really love to give you your space, but I need some things that I left at home.”

“I thought you took everything,” Karina hisses. “What do you need in the middle of the night—your basketball jersey?”

 

Raymond leans back in his seat, wiping his forehead.

"It’s in the closet," he says. "Left side. Black shoebox on the top shelf."  

Karina sighs on the other end. "I looked. There’s nothing there."  

"It’s there," he insists, rubbing his temple. "Behind your winter coats."  

"You mean the coats I packed away six months ago?" Her voice sharpens. "Raymond, I—"  

He pinches the bridge of his nose. The shoebox wasn’t just “there”—it was wedged behind the heavy wool coat she’d bought during that weekend trip up north, the one she never wore but couldn’t bring herself to donate. He knows because he’d put it there himself, three days before she changed the locks.  

"It’s there," he repeats, forcing calm into his voice.  

A pause. Then, quieter: "Why now?"  

The question hangs between them. He could hear the hum of her apartment in the background—the fridge cycling on, the distant murmur of a TV. A life moving on without him.  

His phone beeps. A melody plays, loud, almost giving him a heart attack. 

It’s Al calling.

"Hold on," he says.

She doesn’t answer. “You hear me? I got the other line. It’s my employer.”

Silence. Then, a reluctant, "I’m here."  

“Be right back.” He switches over.  

Al’s voice barks through the line before Raymond could speak. "The hell’s your problem? I’ve been texting you for an hour."  

Raymond clenches his fist. "I’m handling something." 

"Handle this,” Al snaps. “You’ve got two hours to—"  

Karina’s voice, distant but still on the line, cuts through: "Raymond?"  

Al pauses. "Who’s that?"  

“I’m still on the line,” she squeaks. Raymond’s sweat turns cold. 

“Karina, Al, hold on. The line’s are crossed.”

He fumbles for his phone, Al says nothing. His stomach churns.

“I got it, Al. You can speak.”

Nothing. 

“Al?”

The dispatcher’s voice is low, each word deliberate. They crackle through the car speaker, sharp with static and something that might be excitement.  

"Eleven grand, Cruz. Not split. Each."  

Raymond's cigarette pauses halfway to his lips. The sedan’s cab fills with the acrid scent of burning tobacco as ash drifts onto the gearshift. Outside, rain streaks the windshield in jagged neon lines, painting the dashboard in watery reds and blues from the all-night laundromat across the street.  

"A master demon?" Raymond exhales smoke through his nose. "Just sitting in a vampire den?"  

"Holed up," Al corrects. "Third floor of an old hospital near the water. And it's not any den—intel says it's the whole damn building. Hundreds, maybe."  

The numbers don't add up. Raymond taps the steering wheel with his free hand, the leather creaking under his grip. "Since when do hundreds of vamps bunk with “a” demon?"  

"Since this one started turning them into something worse." A pause. Al's lighter clicks on his end of the line. "Guild's calling it a conversion hub. Demon's amping up their aggression, making them hunt in daylight. You've seen the news. You’ve expressed your concern. This could the demon what responsible for all these recent issues.”

Raymond has seen the news. Last week's hospital massacre. The school bus attack at high noon. Stories that make even veteran hunters check their clips twice.  

He flicks ash out the cracked window. "How many teams?"  

"Six, including you. Plenty of antidote on-site—play hero all you want." Al's smirk is audible. "Just get to the address by 3:30. Job's gotta be done by sunrise."  

Rain drums harder on the roof.

"Eleven thousand," he repeats. "Per hunter."  

"Christ, yes. You deaf now too?"  

The math still itches at him. Guild contracts top out at five grand for a master demon. Even with vamp collateral, this is—  

"Sunrise deadline's firm," Al cuts in. "Intel says the demon's prepping a mass conversion ritual. You miss the window, we're looking at a thousand daylight-ready vamps loose in the city by tomorrow afternoon."  

A truck rumbles past, sending a wave of oily water over the Charger's hood. Raymond watches it sheet across the glass.  

"Who else is on the team?"  

"Rivas. The Kovac twins. That new kid from Seattle—Thompson, maybe? And Mendoza."  

Raymond's cigarette freezes halfway to his lips. "Mendoza's dead."  

Silence. Then Al's voice, suddenly careful: "Not according to payroll."  

The rain sounds louder now. Raymond stares at the glowing tip of his cigarette, the way the ember pulses like a heartbeat.  

"The address is now in your GPS," Al says finally. "3:30. Bring the good silver."  

The line goes dead.  

Raymond sits very still, listening to the rain.  

The sedan’s engine growls to life as Raymond throws it into drive. Tires screech against wet pavement as he peels away from the sidewalk, the neon lights of the laundromat streaking across his windshield in smears of red and blue.  

Then he hears it—a hitching breath, barely audible over the rumble of the engine.  

Static crackles through the car speakers. A stilted sob.  

"Karina?" Raymond’s grip tightens on the wheel. "You still there?"  

Silence. He can’t believe it. What did she hear? Then—  

"I found the shoebox." Her voice is thin, like she’s holding something back.  

Rain hammers the roof. The wipers struggle to keep up, leaving streaks across the glass. Raymond flicks them faster, his pulse ticking up.  

"Were you on the line the whole time?" he asks.  

Another pause. Too long.  

"Yes."  

The word lands like a punch.  

Raymond’s jaw clenches. He’d thought the call had dropped when he switched to Al. But if she heard everything—the job, the money, Mendoza’s name—  

The dashboard clock glows 2:49 AM.  

He should say something. Explain. But what’s there to explain? That he’s about to walk into a suicide mission for a paycheck? That he left shotgun shells, blessed by the Vatican, in her closet like some kind of twisted goodbye?  

The sedan speeds through a yellow light. A streetlamp flickers overhead.  

"Raymond." Karina’s voice is steadier now, but there’s something underneath—something raw. "What is in this box?"  

He exhales sharply. "In case I ever need it."  

"Need it for what?"  

For when the things he hunts come knocking. For when the Guild decides she knows too much. For the day he doesn’t come back.  

He doesn’t say any of that.  

"Just keep it by the door,” he mutters instead. “I’m on my way.”

A semi-truck blares its horn as he swerves around it, the sedan’s tires skidding on slick asphalt. The phone slips from where it’s wedged between his passenger seat and center compartment, clattering onto the floor.

"Raymond?" Karina’s voice is distant now, breaking through the speakers. "You’re really doing this job?"  

He grabs the phone, his thumb smearing rain and sweat across the screen. "I don’t have a choice."  

"You always have a choice."  

The words hang between them, heavy. The radio cuts out suddenly, leaving only the sound of the engine and the rain.  

Then—  

A new voice speaks to him, deep and distorted. Not Karina. Not Al.  

I need you.

The line goes dead.  

Raymond’s blood runs cold.  

The dashboard clock flashes 2:51 AM.  

He floors it.  

————

Chapter 83

3:04 AM. The sedan’s tires whisper against wet pavement as Raymond pulls into the empty parking garage beneath his condo building. The rain stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving the air thick and steaming. He kills the engine, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of the cooling metal ticking—like a bomb counting down.  

The sky through the garage entrance still glows red. Not sunset. Not dawn. Something else.  

Hell fire. The color of blood smeared across glass.

The lobby is deserted. No doorman. No late-night dog walkers. Just the hum of the elevator and the too-bright fluorescents reflecting off the marble floors. Raymond’s boots leave damp prints as he crosses to the elevator. The silence presses in, heavy as the heat.  

He presses the button. The doors slide open with a chime that echoes in the empty space.  

Inside, the elevator smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Raymond marks the floor with the tip of his knife—three quick scratches near the control panel. A habit. A warning. The doors close, and the elevator lurches upward.  

The numbers above the door tick upward. 4. 5. 6.  

His reflection in the mirrored walls looks hollow. Dark circles under his eyes. The black and silver cross at his throat gleaming dully. The Colt heavy at his hip.  

The elevator dings.  

The hallway is too quiet. No TVs murmuring behind doors. No footsteps. Just the hum of the AC and the faint, distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city.  

He stops at his door. Hesitates. Then knocks.  

A pause. Then—  

The lock clicks.  

The door opens.  

Karina stands there, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her arms crossed over her chest. The shoebox sits on the table behind her, lid off. The holy shells reflect in the cold light.  

Her eyes are red-rimmed.  

"You’re late," she says.  

The words hang between them. Raymond can smell coffee from the kitchen. Can see the shadows under her eyes. The way her fingers dig into her arms.  

Behind her, through the window, the sky still burns red.  

The AC carries a whiff of baby powder across the room. Raymond stands in the doorway, his boots still damp from the rain, his fingers twitching at his sides. Karina’s eyes flick to the gun peeking out from under his coat, then back to him.  

"You’re always late," she says again, quieter this time.  

Raymond swallows. "Is she—"  

A cry cuts through the apartment. High-pitched, insistent. Isabella.  

Karina’s shoulders tense. "Wait here. I’m serious. Don’t move."  

She turns before he can respond, disappearing down the hall. Raymond steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The living room is cluttered—burp cloths draped over the couch, a half-empty bottle of formula on the coffee table, a mobile of stars and moons dangling above a bassinet.  

His chest aches.  

Karina returns, Isabella cradled against her shoulder. The baby’s face is red from crying, her tiny fists clenched. She quiets as Karina bounces her gently, her big eyes blinking up at the unfamiliar man in the doorway.  

Raymond reaches out, his calloused fingers brushing Karina’s cheek. She doesn’t pull away, but her breath stops dead.  

"You look tired," he murmurs.  

Karina’s laugh is brittle. "She doesn’t sleep. Not unless I’m holding her."  

Isabella gurgles, her tiny fingers curling around Karina’s shirt. Raymond stares at them—his wife, his daughter—and the weight of every missed moment crashes over him.  

The shells on the table glint in the lamplight.  

Karina follows his gaze. "You left it for us," she says, voice flat.  

Raymond’s throat tightens. "In case—"  

"I know why you left it. Same reason you left the shotgun that goes with it, I assume.”

Raymond coughs. “The shotgun’s in my car.”

Isabella fusses, her face scrunching up. Karina adjusts her grip, rocking side to side. The motion is automatic, practiced.  

Raymond steps closer. "Let me hold her."  

Karina hesitates. Then, slowly, she transfers Isabella into his arms.  

The baby is lighter than he remembers. She stares up at him, her dark eyes wide and unblinking. Raymond brushes a thumb over her cheek, marveling at the softness.  

Isabella’s face crumples. She wails.  

Karina takes her back instantly, shushing her. "She doesn’t know you," she says, not unkindly.  

The words lodge in Raymond’s ribs like a blade.  

Outside, the red sky darkens to burgundy.  

The city is too quiet now.

Karina sways with Isabella, her back to the window. "How long this time?"  

Raymond watches his daughter’s tiny fingers clutch at Karina’s collar. "I don’t know."  

The shoe box waits on the table.  

Isabella cries.  

3:15 AM. The baby monitor crackles softly on the coffee table between them, Isabella’s quiet breaths filling the silence. Karina tucks her legs beneath her on the couch, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. The steam curls up, catching the lamplight.  

“I had the hospital dream again,” she says.  

Raymond looks up from cleaning his pistol at the kitchen table. The scent of gun oil mixes with the lavender air freshener plugged into the wall.  

“Same one?” he asks, though he knows the answer.  

Karina nods. Her dark circles have dark circles now. “But this time, when the nurse handed her to me, she—” A pause. Isabella whimpers through the monitor, and Karina’s shoulders tense until the baby settles. “She had your eyes. Not just the color. The way you look at things. Like you’re already planning the exit strategy.”  

The slide of Raymond’s pistol clicks as he reassembles it. He doesn’t tell her he dreams of that hospital too—the antiseptic smell, the way Karina’s fingers trembled when she signed the birth certificate alone.  

“It’s worse since she was born,” Karina continues. “More vivid. Last week I woke up and swore there was a man standing in the nursery. Just watching her.”  

Raymond’s hands go still.  

Karina sips her cafe au lait. “The doctor says it’s normal. Sleep deprivation mixed with new mom anxiety.” She gives a humorless laugh. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.”  

The ice in Raymond’s water glass cracks. He realizes he’s been holding it too tight.  

“Do you still dream?” Karina asks.  

Outside, a fire truck wails three blocks away. The red glow through the curtains has deepened to the color of old blood.  

“No,” Raymond says.  

It’s not entirely a lie. The Guild’s rep called it “operational insomnia”. But the truth is worse—he hasn’t dreamed since the night in the church basement, since the thing that wasn’t a demon whispered its name into his skin. Now every waking moment feels like walking through someone else’s nightmare.  

Karina studies him over her mug. “Not at all?”  

Raymond racks the slide on his pistol. The sound makes Isabella stir again. “Not the kind you mean.”  

The baby monitor emits a soft staticky pop. For half a second, Raymond hears something beneath the white noise—a voice murmuring in a language that prickles the back of his neck.  

Karina doesn’t seem to notice. “Sometimes,” she says softly, “I dream you come home for good. Not just between jobs. Not just to leave another gun.”  

The streetlight outside flickers. Through the curtains, the shadows in the nursery stretch long across the ceiling.  

Raymond wants to tell her about the eleven-thousand-dollar job. About the master demon and the missing hunters and the way his reflection sometimes blinks a second too late. Instead, he says: “I’ll check the locks.”  

As he stands, the baby monitor crackles again. Isabella begins to scream.  

The front door is cold under Raymond’s palm. The weight of his holster pulls at his shoulder, the Colt heavy with silver rounds. Behind him, the apartment hums with the quiet sounds of Karina moving through the dark—the creak of floorboards, the rustle of her sweater as she folds her arms.  

"You save the whole world while it sleeps," she says.  

Raymond doesn’t turn. The peephole reflects the red glow of the sky outside, a single bloodshot eye staring back at him.  

Karina’s voice is raw. "And the world is evil."  

A floorboard creaks as she steps closer. The scent of her shampoo—something floral, something clean—cuts through the gun oil and sweat.  

"Don’t be overcome by this evil world," she whispers.  

Isabella’s breath hitches through the baby monitor. A wet, shuddering sound. Raymond’s fingers twitch on the doorknob.  

Karina’s hand touches his back, just between his shoulder blades. Light as a prayer. "Her life depends on it."  

The streetlight outside blacks out. For a moment, the hall is bathed in red.  

Raymond turns.  

Karina’s face is pale in the dim light, her eyes too bright. She doesn’t reach for him again. Doesn’t beg. Just stands there, holding his gaze like she’s memorizing it.  

The baby monitor crackles.  

Raymond leans in. Presses his lips to her forehead. He doesn’t promise to come back. Doesn’t say goodbye.  

When he pulls away, Karina’s fingers brush his—just once—before he steps into the hall.  

The door clicks shut behind him.  

The red sky watches as he walks away.  

  

In the garage, the sedan’s engine snarls to life. Raymond grips the wheel, knuckles pale as bone. The rearview mirror shows nothing but empty street—no Karina in the doorway, no silhouette in the window. Just the red smear of sky reflecting off wet pavement.  

Obedience.  

The Guild had carved that word into him years ago. Obey the contract. Obey the hierarchy. Obey the unspoken rules: no questions about where the bounties come from, no complaints about the shrinking payouts, no hesitation when they point you at a target.  

Raymond shifts into drive.  

The radio crackles with static. For a moment, he swears he hears Al’s voice buried in the noise—“I need you”—but it’s just interference. He punches it off.  

Obedience is the chain around every hunter’s throat. They dress it up in honor, in duty. They whisper “Lord’s protection” and “greater good” like those words mean something when you’re kneeling in a nest of dead vampires with your antidote vials empty and your account overdrawn.  

The streetlights blur as he accelerates.  

He thinks of Karina’s hand on his back. “Don’t be overcome by this evil world.”

The Guild is evil. Not the comic-book kind with pentagrams and sacrificial altars—the bureaucratic kind. The kind that itemizes suffering on spreadsheets, that trades in lives like commodities. The kind that sends resurrected hunters to collect debts.  

Raymond’s phone buzzes in the cupholder. The screen lights up with Guild coordinates. 3:29 AM. One minute to deadline.  He’s late. He remembers how, earlier, Karina told him he’s always late.

His foot presses harder on the gas.  

Obedience would mean driving straight to the hospital. Obedience would mean joining Rivas and the Kovac twins and whatever’s wearing Mendoza’s face. Obedience would mean walking into that vampire den like a good little soldier.  

The Charger’s tires scream as he takes the turn too fast.  

Raymond Cruz stopped being obedient the moment he held his daughter and felt her tiny heartbeat against his chest.  

The Guild wants a monster hunt? Fine.  

But he’ll choose which monsters to kill.  

The highway stretches like a black vein beneath the Charger’s tires. Raymond drives through a storm of ashes—gray flakes swirling in the headlights, sticking to the windshield like burned skin. The voice murmurs through the radio static, a serpent’s tongue flicking against his ear.  

I need you.  

He cranks the window down. Hot wind floods the cab, carrying the stench of smoldering buildings. The sky isn’t just red now—it pulses, a vast wound throbbing above the city.  

I need you.  

His phone glows on the passenger seat. 3:47 AM. Guild contracts have a tolerance window—five minutes grace for traffic, for flat tires, for hunters stopping to piss behind dumpsters. But seventeen minutes? They’ll already be inside. They’ll have sealed the perimeter.  

The speedometer needle trembles.

Ashes catch in Raymond’s eyelashes. He remembers the first contract they ever denied him—a werewolf pack holed up in a preschool. He’d been late because he took a wrong turn. Al had laughed while crossing his name off the roster. “This ain’t charity work, Cruz.”

I need you.  

The voice isn’t coming from the radio anymore. It’s in the vibration of the steering wheel, the hum of the tires, the click of the turn signal that won’t turn off. The dashboard lights flicker green, then red, then black.  

3:49 AM.  A shadow darts across the road. Raymond swerves. The tires shriek as they grab asphalt. For one weightless second, he’s airborne—then the car slams back down, the impact rattling his bones.  

The radio explodes with sound.  

I NEED YOU.  

The abandoned hospital rises from the ashes, its skeletal frame wrapped in construction plastic that flaps like burial shrouds in the hot wind. Temporary fencing sags where others have cut through before him. No Guild SUVs. No backup teams. Just the main entrance yawning wide, the darkness inside deeper than night.  

Raymond’s foot hovers over the brake.  

The voice coils around his ribs, insistent. You’re right on time.  

His hands tighten on the wheel. The Charger’s engine growls as he stares at that open doorway, at the plastic sheeting billowing like a last warning.  

Then, with a sharp twist of the wheel, he whips the car around in a screeching U-turn, tires spitting gravel. The hospital recedes in the rearview mirror, its darkened windows watching him flee.  

The voice howls after him, fading with distance.  

I NEED YOU.  

Raymond doesn’t look back. He drives straight through the storm of ashes, back toward the city, back toward the only thing that ever mattered. The sky bleeds red above him, but for the first time in years, his hands are steady on the wheel.  

————

Chapter 84

The Charger's engine hums through empty streets, the sound reverberating off boarded-up storefronts. Raymond drives without destination, the red glow of the sky painting the dashboard the color of blood. His hands ache from gripping the wheel too tight.  

Obedience.  

The word rattles around his skull like a loose bullet casing. He'd spent years following orders, believing the Guild's lies about protecting the innocent. But what had his obedience earned him? A daughter who didn't know his face. A wife who flinched at his touch. A soul so fractured he couldn't remember the last time he dreamed.  

The radio crackles to life on its own.  

"...and thus we come to Romans 12:21," intones a cultured British voice, rich with academic certainty. "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."  

Raymond's foot slips on the gas. The car lurches forward before he corrects it. The voice continues, oblivious:  

"The Greek implies not merely resisting wickedness, but actively supplanting it with virtuous action. A most radical notion, particularly in Paul's era..."  

The sermon drones on, parsing ancient verb tenses with fastidious care. Raymond stares at the road ahead, the words working their way under his skin.  

Not overcome by evil.  

Karina had said the same thing at the door. Had looked at him with those exhausted eyes and spoken like she knew the weight of that verse better than any theologian.  

The British voice grows more animated. "Consider the implications! This isn't passive resistance, but aggressive goodness. One doesn't simply avoid corruption - one replaces it entirely with..."  

Raymond tunes out again. The sky pulses overhead, the unnatural red light making the ash-filled air shimmer. He passes the burned-out shell of a church, its steeple collapsed inward like a broken ribcage.  

Obedience had been his armor. Follow orders, don't ask questions, cash the checks. It had been easier to believe in the Guild's system than to face the truth - that the evil wasn't just in the demons they hunted, but in the bureaucracy that sent them hunting.  

The sermon reaches its crescendo. "...therefore we see that overcoming evil requires not merely the absence of malice, but the active presence of..."  

Raymond slams his palm against the radio, silencing it. The sudden quiet rings in his ears.  

A stoplight ahead flickers from red to green and back again. He slows the sedan, ash crunching beneath the tires. The intersection is deserted.  

Not overcome by evil.  

He thinks of Isabella's tiny fingers clutching Karina's shirt. Of the gun he'd left in the shoebox. Of the way the hospital doors had yawned wide, waiting.  

The light turns green.  

Raymond turns the wheel.  

The Charger's headlights sweep across empty sidewalks as he points the car home. The British voice's words echo in his mind, mixing with Karina's warning.  

He may not know how to overcome evil. But for the first time in years, he knows what good might look like.  

It looks like going home.  

Then, The Procession of Fire.

Dozens of fire trucks scream past in the opposite lane, their cherry lights staining the falling ash crimson. Raymond pulls the sedan to the shoulder, watching through the haze as the massive vehicles rumble by—not just fire engines, but ladder trucks, hazmat units, vehicles he doesn’t even recognize. Their sirens wail in discordant harmony, a mechanical requiem.  

People stand frozen on sidewalks, faces upturned and glowing red. No one runs. No one screams. They simply watch as the procession of emergency vehicles streaks toward some unseen catastrophe, their postures slack with the resignation of those who’ve seen too many disasters.  

Raymond turns the audiobook back on.  

"—a common misinterpretation," the British narrator continues, voice crisp as a starched collar, "is that Romans 12:21 suggests we perform good acts despite expecting failure. Nonsense! The Greek construction implies triumphant defiance. One does good not while being overcome, but precisely so one cannot be overcome."  

The last fire truck passes, its wake stirring up cyclones of ash. Raymond pulls back onto the road, tires crunching over debris. The narrator’s words coil around his thoughts like smoke.  

"Consider the verb tense—present active imperative. Not ‘try,’ not ‘consider,’ but ‘overcome!’ A command to storm the gates of wickedness with virtuous fury!"  

The streetlights black out as Raymond drives beneath them. For a moment, the ash in the air looks less like fallout and more like embers—tiny sparks swirling in the headlights.  

A child stands at a bus stop, clutching a stuffed animal. Their eyes lock through the windshield. Raymond’s foot lifts from the accelerator—  

The narrator chuckles, a dry, academic sound. "Of course, Origen argued this passage demands we become living counterattacks against darkness. Not shields, but swords!"  

The Charger speeds up again. The child blinks, then turns away, vanishes into thin air.

I need you.

Raymond’s hands tighten on the wheel. He thinks of the holy shells in the shoebox. Of Karina’s exhausted eyes. Of the way Isabella had cried when he held her—not frightened, not angry, but confused. As if she couldn’t understand why this stranger smelled like blood and gunpowder.  

The narrator drones on, parsing verb conjugations with scholarly fervor. Raymond barely hears him now. The road ahead shimmers with heat haze, the asphalt softening at the edges of his vision.  

Not overcome by evil.  

Not hiding from it either.  

The engine growls as he speeds up, exits the highway. The city skyline burns red in the distance, but for the first time in years, Raymond Cruz isn’t driving toward the fire.  

He’s driving away from it.  

4:05 AM The gas station fluorescents hum like a dying beehive. Raymond tosses a crumpled twenty on the counter, grabs his cigarettes without waiting for change. The clerk doesn’t look up from his phone, where a news alert flashes.

Outside, the night air sticks to his skin. He cups his hand around the flame as he lights his cigarette, the first drag filling his lungs with something almost like relief. That’s when he hears them.  

"Non, ça c’est pas normal," a Creole-accented voice mutters. The taxi idles at pump three, its driver leaning against the hood, Bluetooth earpiece glowing blue. "Oui, le ciel là—" He cuts off, staring upward where the red glow pulses like a slow heartbeat.  

A woman in a faded sundress hovers nearby, twisting her hands. "Excuse me," she says, voice fraying. "Is this—do you think this is it?"  

The driver turns, takes in her wild eyes. "S’il vous plaît?"  

"The end. The end of everything." Her laugh cracks like thin ice. "My pastor’s been saying for years—"  

"Ah." The driver removes his earpiece. "You pray, sister."  

She shakes her head violently. "I’m scared that going on my knees and praying only makes me more mad."  

Raymond exhales smoke through his nose. The cherry of his cigarette mirrors the hellish sky. He should move. Get back in the Charger. Drive.  

The woman’s voice climbs. "They said on the radio it’s just wildfire smoke, but I smelled the air this morning and—"  

"Hey." The taxi driver touches her shoulder. "Prayer ain’t about changing God’s mind. It’s about changing yours."  

Raymond freezes. The cigarette burns forgotten between his fingers.  

The woman starts crying. Not delicate tears, but great heaving sobs that make her whole body shudder. The driver murmurs something in Haitian Creole, rubbing her back like she’s a spooked horse.  

The gas station clerk finally looks up from his phone. "Hey! No loitering!"  

Raymond stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. The woman’s sobs follow him to the Charger, mingling with the buzz of the neon sign overhead: LAST STOP BEFORE HIGHWAY!

He slides behind the wheel. The taxi driver’s words echo in his skull. “It’s about changing yours.”

The radio crackles to life without being touched.  

"I need you," whispers the voice.  

Raymond doesn’t answer. He watches the woman wipe her face, watched the driver help her into his cab. The engine starts with a growl.  

He knows where he’s going now.  

The engine screams as Raymond slams the accelerator, the speedometer needle trembling past the speed limit. The highway stretches before him like a black scar, the red sky pulsing overhead, casting the asphalt in shades of dried blood. The digital clock on the dashboard glows 4:21 AM—the witching hour inverted, a time when even the night holds its breath.  

He shouldn’t be going back.  

The thought flickers through his mind like static, but his hands don’t waver on the wheel. Karina’s voice echoes in his skull—“Her life depends on it”—but so does the other voice, the one that isn’t a voice at all but a presence, coiled deep in his bones.  

I need you.

The hospital looms ahead, its skeletal frame wrapped in construction plastic, the windows’ shattered eyes staring blindly into the night. But this time, it isn’t empty.  

Three cars are parked haphazardly near the entrance—a black SUV with tinted windows, a dented sedan, and a van with the Guild’s insignia barely visible beneath a layer of grime. The doors hang open, as if the occupants had fled in a hurry—or been dragged inside.  

Raymond skids to a stop, gravel spraying. The engine ticks as it cools, the only sound in the unnatural silence. No sirens. No voices. Just the wind hissing through the broken windows of the hospital, carrying with it the scent of rust and something sweetly rotten.  

He steps out, the shotgun heavy in his hand. The air is thick, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. The hospital’s entrance yawns wide, the darkness inside absolute.  

A shadow moves in one of the upper windows—a flicker of something too fast to be human.  

Raymond checks his clip. Full. Eight silver rounds. One for whatever’s waiting inside.  

Seven for the Guild.  

He steps forward.  

————

Chapter 85

4:28 AM. The hospital parking lot exhales its last breath—a dying thing choking on gasoline and forgotten prayers. Vehicles slump beneath the bleeding sky like sacrificial offerings: a Ford pickup with bones of rust, a black Mercedes with Belgian plates polished to funeral-shine, and the Guild van, its metal jaws pried wide. Perched on the van’s edge, a massive silhouette in wraparound sunglasses observes everything and nothing, its stillness more terrible for being ignored.  

At the top of the steps, the Belgian Guild representative named Gaspard consults a platinum watch. His irritation radiates in visible waves, distorting the air like heat over a fresh kill.  

"Ah, enfin."  

His voice slithers across the pavement, each syllable a scalpel tracing Raymond’s spine. The accent drips with the quiet horror of cathedral sacristies at midnight. "The famous Raymond Cruz. We were beginning to think you’d gone rogue. Or—" his gloved hand flutters—"developed a conscience."  

Raymond says nothing. The other hunters shift in the gloom—Rivas, a landslide of violence barely contained by a trench coat; the Kovac twins, their blades whispering secrets in perfect syncopation; Thompson, whose twitching fingers write last rites against his thigh. Assorted helpers linger in the shadows.

Gaspard checks his watch again. "One hour and five minutes past the arranged time. Did you all receive the same invitation? Or are we simply blessed with your collective disregard for punctuality?"  

Rivas spits. The sound is a butcher’s cleaver biting into a block of flesh. "Got the call same as you. Didn’t realize we were on Euro-time."  

One of the Kovacs—the grim-faced woman—snorts. "We got rerouted. GPS took us through a goddamn wildfire zone." Her blade glints as she points to the horizon, where an orange glow pulses like an infected wound.  

Raymond’s gaze lingers on the silhouette at the van’s edge. The red sky glides off its shoulders—not like light, but like liquid running off something impervious.  The figure doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just observes with the patience of a guillotine's blade.  

Gaspard follows his stare and stiffens. Just for a second. Then the smirk is back.  

Even the Guild rep fears him.

The wind howls. The hospital groans.  

The others continue arguing, their voices dissolving into the wind.  

And the silhouette keeps watching.  

Thompson shifts from foot to foot. "I—I thought it was a test. Guild’s always testing, right? Then the sirens started—"  

"Sirens?" The male Kovac twin cocks his head. "We didn’t hear any sirens."  

A gust of wind sends a shiver through the construction plastic shrouding the hospital. The sound is a chorus of dead children sighing.  

Raymond exhales, smoke curling from his cigarette. "Doesn’t matter why we’re late. We’re here now."  

Gaspard’s smile is a razor dragged lightly across skin. "Spoken like a man who’s already decided how this ends."  

Above them, the sky throbs—a raw, exposed nerve convulsing against the bones of the world.  

Gaspard checks his watch with theatrical precision. "We remain incomplete," he announces, the words dripping with continental disdain. "Mendoza's retinue has yet to grace us with their presence."  

The Kovac twins exchange identical eye rolls. One tests the edge of her blade against her thumb, drawing a bead of blood that she flicks into the dust.  

Rivas cracks his knuckles. "Since when do we wait on flunkies?"  

"Since the flunkies carry the blessed mortar rounds," Gaspard counters. His smile is all veneer, no warmth. "Unless you'd prefer to breach a den and face a master of one hundred vampires without antipossession artillery?"  

From the van's shadowed interior comes Mendoza's rumbling chuckle. "Patience, children. The cavalry's got GPS just like you."  

Raymond watches a moth batter itself against a flickering streetlight. Somewhere in the distance, a smoke alarm begins its dying wail. The night holds its breath.  

The female Kovac produces a small tin from her vest. The snick of its opening draws glances. Her brother accepts a pinch of crystalline powder between thumb and forefinger with ritual precision. Their assistant—a gaunt man with jumpy fingers—leans in like an acolyte receiving sacrament.  

Thompson’s pupils dilate. "Is that—"  

"Focus enhancer," she says, rubbing her gums. "Guild-approved."  

Rivas’s men exchange glances. One shrugs, producing a dented flask. Liquid sloshes, too thick for water.  

Raymond rolls his cigarette between his fingers. "Real subtle, kids."  

Gaspard’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "We all have our...preparations."  

The second twin offers the tin to Rivas. He hesitates, then dips two fingers with grudging familiarity.  

The hospital’s plastic shroud billows like a lung taking its first breath.  

Rivas expels another wad of phlegm onto the cracked asphalt like he is making a collection. "Eleven grand to storm a nest? Either the Guild’s getting generous, or they’re desperate."  

The male Kovac twin smirks, polishing his blade with a cloth. "Heard they cut another deal with the Vatican last week. Sold three relics to private collectors first."  

Thompson’s fingers twitch toward his flask. "What’s it matter? Money spends the same."  

"Does it?" The female Kovac doesn’t look up from her whetstone. "When Rome starts auctioning ancient holy weapons to hedge-fund vampires, maybe the Apocalypse isn’t coming." She tests the edge with her thumb. "Maybe it’s here."  

Rivas’ assistant chuckles, his wooden rosary clacking. "Guild’s always been a whore. Just now she’s forgetting to charge."  

Raymond watches Gaspard tap his phone screen, the blue light reflecting in his dead-fish eyes. "They’re not paying us to win," he mutters. "They’re paying us to die quiet."  

A beat of silence. Then Rivas grins, all yellowed canines. "Then let’s make it expensive."  

As Raymond watches them—Rivas laughing at some war story, the Kovacs passing their tin, Thompson giggling nervously, the camaraderie feels like a play where everyone knows their lines except him.  

Alone isn’t the same as lonely. Alone is a condition. Lonely is a confession.  

Italian loafers crunch on the gravel toward the hunters. Gaspard claps his hands, aiming them at Raymond Cruz’s face like a sharpshooter. “Your tracker disappears for forty-seven minutes. Care to explain?"  

Raymond spins an unlit joint. "Took the scenic route. Apocalypse makes for great sightseeing."  

A dry chuckle ripples through the group.  

"Your antidote unit," Gaspard presses. "We find it in a liquor store dumpster three days ago."  

"Early Christmas gift. Homeless guy looked like he could use a drink."  

This time the laughter is louder. From the van’s shadows comes a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrates in everyone’s bones.  

"Third question," Gaspard says, his smile razor-thin. "Why no assistant? No team? Just you against the darkness?"  

The night air goes still.  

"He’s Raymond goddamn Cruz."  

The voice booms as Mendoza emerges—a mountain of muscle and ink, his bulk making the van’s suspension creak. The red light glints off his mirrored sunglasses as he loads his custom crossbow.  

"When the Reaper comes calling," Mendoza rumbles, "this crazy bastard invites him in for coffee and asks about his grandkids."  

Raymond approaches, boots scraping on broken asphalt. Up close, Mendoza is even more imposing—six-foot-five, biceps thicker than most men’s thighs. His prison tattoos tell stories Raymond can read like a roadmap.  

"Church was fun. Didn’t mean to almost kill ya—twice.” Mendoza flashes teeth white enough to glow in the dark. "My bad about the holy water grenade. Got a little carried away."  

Raymond lights his joint, the match-flare illuminating the scar bisecting Mendoza’s left eyebrow—a souvenir from their last violent reunion among the pews.  

"'Getting carried away'. Almost only counts in horseshoes," Raymond exhales smoke. "And apparently grenade throws."  

Mendoza’s laughter shakes the ground. "Same old Cruz." He extends a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Truce? That demon inside’s bigger than both our egos combined."  

Raymond studies the offered hand. The eleven grand flashes through his mind. The memory of Isabella’s tiny fingers clutching Karina’s shirt.  

He grips Mendoza’s forearm. "Til sunrise."  

"Amen to that." Mendoza hefts his crossbow. "Now let’s go bag us an apocalypse."  

The Kovacs drop to their knees, blades crossed before them like a sacred barrier. Their lips move in silent prayer. Rivas hesitates, then joins them, knuckles white.  

Thompson lets out a nervous giggle. "Yeah, sure. Pray the demons away. Meanwhile, science cooks up vampire antidotes in test tubes. Maybe we should just sing the bastards our surrender?"  

Raymond exhales smoke. "Funny thing about tech—build a better mousetrap, the mice get smarter. Build a god, it asks questions you can’t answer."  

Thompson kicks a pebble, his laugh too loud. "Pray all you want. Vatican’s got drones now. Hell, I heard the Pope’s got social media."  

The Kovacs’ chanting falters. The woman glares. "And what’s your God? An app that delivers plasma to your door?"  

Rivas’s hulking companion—the one who never spoke—touches the flask at his belt, etched with faded Cyrillic. "Man makes the devil," he rumbles. "Then blames him for the mess."  

The male Kovac twin snorts. "Money’s the real antichrist. Try buying salvation with a credit card."  

Raymond’s thumb brushes his wedding ring under his glove. Karina had hated that joke. “If the devil’s so clever," he’d whispered to her, “why’d he give the Church money to pay the hunters?"

Mendoza leans against the van, arms crossed. "Funny thing about evil—it don’t need a pitchfork. Just a quiet yes when you oughta scream no."  

Thompson opens his mouth, but the female Kovac cut him off with a slash of her hand. "Enough. The only thing worse than a heretic is a bored one."  

The wind carries the scent of charred flesh from the distant fires. Raymond exhales. The devil had taken many forms in his life. None wore horns.  

From the van’s shadows, Mendoza’s voice rolls out like thunder over a burial ground:  

"Once, we were prey."  

The Kovacs’ chanting stutters.  

"Hunted through the dark by teeth and shadow," Mendoza continues. "Now the beasts live deeper. Coiled in blood. Whispered in bone."  

One twin snaps, "We’re not here for a damn campfire story—"  

"The demons never left," Mendoza rumbles. "They remember us. Before fire. Before gods. We ran. The hunt never ended."  

The male Kovac makes a strangled noise. "That’s blasphemy—you can’t just—"  

"It sleeps now." Mendoza taps his temple. "Some memories are written in screams."  

Thomson barks a laugh. "Evolution’s first truth: mankind was meat.”

A sudden birdsong cuts through the tension—clear and bright from the hospital’s dead oaks. Raymond turns toward it. For a hundred thousand years, that chirping meant safety. Meant sunrise. Meant the things that stalk the night had retreated.  

His body remembers before his antidote injection does.  

4:36 AM. The rumble of engines cuts through the night before the headlights appear—two black SUVs with tinted windows swallowing the lamplight whole. Doors open in perfect sync.  

Mendoza’s assistants step out.  

Four figures, each more unsettling than the last. An Albino with a rosary of human teeth. A predator with cat-reflective eyes. A hooded man counting something unseen. A woman with a cloth-wrapped bundle weeping dark stains onto the asphalt.  

The Kovacs go still. Rivas takes an unconscious step back.  

"Took you long enough," Mendoza growls.  

The Albino grunts. "Had to stop for gas."  

Gaspard claps his hands once again. "Now that we’re all here—"  

The hooded figure interrupts, producing a silver pocket watch. The pendulum inside swings wildly despite the lack of wind.  

"—we should begin," Gaspard finishes, his smugness dulled.  

The woman with the bundle catches Raymond’s gaze and smiles, revealing teeth filed to points. The stain on her package spreads slowly, forming what might be wings.  

Mendoza hefts his crossbow. "Orientation time, kids. Try not to wet yourselves."  

The assistants fall into formation behind him, their shadows merging into one monstrous shape. The hospital doors groan open—invitation or warning.  

Mendoza’s teeth flash. "Tick-tock. Either we go in now..." He racks his crossbow. "...or we wait for them to come out."  

Gaspard's clap cracks the night open. "Orientation, mes amis. This is not some back-alley operation where you shoot first and invoice later." He gestures to the abandoned ambulances, their lights spasming in postmortem throes. "The entity inside has been turning paramedics into... let's say, marionettes. Their sirens still sing sometimes. Charming, non?"  

Rivas spits. "Cut the crap. What’s the goddamn payout?"  

"Eleven thousand. Each." Gaspard’s smile could flay skin. "Assuming we can identify what’s left of you."  

The Kovacs exchange a glance written in bloodstains. Raymond’s eyes map exits—shattered doors, broken chains.  

A gust of wind makes the hospital shiver. Somewhere inside, metal screams as it hits the floor. Then the wet sound of something being dismantled.  

Thompson jerks. "Did you hear—"  

"Oui," Gaspard murmurs. "We all heard."  

The hunters cluster near the doors, breath fogging in the chill.  

"How many vamps we talking?" one of Rivas’ men asks.  

Gaspard adjusts his cufflinks. "Estimates suggest several dozen. Perhaps more."  

The male Kovac scoffs. "That’s not a number, that’s a fucking guess."  

"The contract specifies an infestation," Gaspard replies smoothly. "Our employer prefers discretion over precision."  

Raymond leans against a pillar. Mendoza chuckles beside him.  

"Tell you what," Mendoza rumbles. "Let’s lodge a complaint to The Pope. Demand a million bucks and a Vatican yacht." He flashes his teeth. "I call shotgun."  

Gaspard ignores him, swiping a tablet to display a grainy blueprint. "Antidote reserves are here, here, and here. Enough to reverse a small army of turns."  

Thompson swallows. "And the demon?"  

"Likely nested deep. But the turned are layered—fresh converts near the entrance, older ones further in." Gaspard’s voice drops. "Some humans may still be salvageable."  

Mendoza snorts. "Nice word for ‘not quite fucked yet.’"  

Gaspard ignores him. "This facility was quietly shuttered six days ago after an... incident. Official story was a gas leak. Reality?" He taps the tablet again. Security footage plays—a blur of screaming nurses, gurneys overturned, something pale and fast darting between shadows. "An ER full of patients became an all-you-can-eat buffet."  

The footage cuts to black.  

Silence.  

"So we’re the cleanup crew," Raymond mutters.  

"We’re the solution," Gaspard corrects. "The client wants this contained before sunrise. The Guild wants it quiet. And the Vatican wants proof of termination."  

Mendoza cracks his knuckles. "Another nice word."  

"Rules of engagement?" Rivas growls.  

"Holy arms preferred. Don’t shoot the half-turned unless they’re actively chewing on you, please."  

The group shifts, checking weapons. Raymond watches the hospital doors sway on broken hinges. Somewhere inside, something scrapes against metal—long, slow, deliberate.  

Mendoza leans in, his whisper gravelly. "Bet you ten grand the Vatican’s the ‘employer.’"  

Raymond doesn’t take the bet.  

The birds have stopped singing. Flakes of ash get caught in his eyelashes.

The group moves past the hospital doors, the dynamic shifting. Gaspard watches from the periphery, the silence of all he left unsaid ringing in their ears. The Kovacs exchange glances, their usual twin telepathy momentarily disrupted. Even Rivas seems to stand a little straighter.  

As they cross the threshold into the decaying hospital, Raymond can't help but glance back at the van. The massive silhouette of Mendoza stands there, watching. Waiting.  

Clutching his holy bow.  

And smiling.  

Gaspard catches Raymond's arm as the others are swallowed whole by the darkness. With a subtle tilt of his head, he directs him to an abandoned ambulance parked in the shadows. The rear doors creak open to reveal a lanky young man in a rumpled tweed jacket, his British accent crisp despite the tension in his voice.  

"Well, well. Stop the presses. You can tell your mates—the fabled lone warrior Raymond Cruz finally needs a helper."   

Raymond freezes. That voice—booming in the Charger. The headache. The confusion.  

"It’s you."  

Shane exhales sharply, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses. "I know you can barely remember. Neither can I. But I remember that I know you." His fingers tap an erratic rhythm—three quick, two slow.  

"That job in Budapest. The church basement. We weren’t just hunting. We were—"  

"Infected," Shane finishes. "By something that wants to be forgotten." He glances toward the hospital. "There was never any monetary interest in saving vampires. Guild and Vatican were planning to blow this place sky-high at dawn. But the employer isn’t the Church—it’s a businessman named Ferrante. Had them put a stop to it. The TNT’s already wired inside."  

Raymond's jaw tightens. "Then why send us in?"  

"Because the prize isn't saving vampires." Shane leans in. "It's—"  

"The master demon," Raymond interrupts.  

Shane blinks. "Yeah, he's in there. Except he ain't walking around." He pinches his thumb and index finger four inches apart. "You'll find him in a crystal 'bout yay big. Stolen from a Boston reliquary. We need it back."  

Raymond stares. "So there's no demon to kill?"  

"Oh, there's a demon," Shane mutters. "Just not the kind the others can handle. Between the crystal and a hundred pissed-off vamps? Their plates are full." He shoves a folded schematic into Raymond's hand. "Third-floor chapel. Red tile floor. Don't trust the shadows."  

A shout echoes from the hospital—Rivas cursing at something moving in the dark.  

Shane’s voice drops to a breath. "That crystal’s not a prison. It’s a door."  

Raymond’s brow furrows. "How’s a rock smaller than my fist hold a demon strong enough to turn a hospital?"  

"Same way a whisper can start a war." Shane tapped the schematic. "Boston reliquary wasn’t just storing it. They were hiding it. Someone stole it. Ferrante is paying us to steal it back."  

A shriek echoes from the hospital—human, then not.  

Shane vanishes into the ambulance’s shadows. "Demons don’t shrink, Cruz. They fold. And that thing’s been unfolding for centuries."  

Gaspard's voice cuts through the night: "Cruz! You're late to your own funeral."  

Raymond tucks the schematic away, the paper burning like a secret against his chest.  

Chapter 86

Raymond pushes aside the construction plastic. Spotlights strung along a tarp—their light crawling up the floor tiles like luminous fingers—point toward a fork in the lobby leading to several corridors. The walls hum with the memory of panic—overturned wheelchairs frozen mid-flight, IV poles tangled like fallen soldiers, a single nurse’s clipboard abandoned mid-sentence.

Muffled voices echo ahead—the other hunters moving deeper, securing rooms. Their sounds feel distant now, irrelevant. His path diverges here.

The corridor yawns before him, its darkness thick, patient. Raymond hesitates. His gun feels too light. Did he remember to load the clip? He steps forward. The hospital’s silence swallows him whole.

The left corridor is already secured—three hunters stand watch over a cluster of zip-tied figures twitching on the floor. Fresh turns. Their hissing sounds more confused than threatening.

One young woman can’t stop gnawing at her own eyeballs. Mendoza’s assistant zip-ties her wrists to her bleeding ankles.

The blood of a vampire is no mere mimicry of the human kind—it is something else entirely. Darker than crimson, it shimmers faintly in the light, laced with an eerie silver sheen that seems to move of its own accord. Where human blood gives life, vampire blood defies death. It pulses not with oxygen, but with something older, something wrong—an ancient force that whispers of grave soil and midnight hunger. To touch it is to feel cold fire, and to see it spilled is to know that nature has been broken, reshaped into something eternal and monstrous.

Mendoza leans against the reception desk, his massive arms crossed. “Took you long enough.”

Raymond ignores him, scanning the room. The briefing outside was clear—dozens, maybe a hundred vampires nested in this rotting carcass of a hospital. All answering to something worse. And yet here, at the entrance, only these few weaklings?

“Where’s Rivas?”

“Already moving,” says the female Kovac twin. She wipes her blade on a discarded lab coat. “Took half the team toward the east wing. Said they caught scent of the master.”

Thompson emerges from a side hallway, his rifle slung across his back. “We’ve got fourteen infected civilians secured in the old cafeteria. Antidote’s not doing shit though.” He holds up an empty syringe, the glass smeared with something black.

“What the hell you mean the antidote’s not working?” The Kovac twin nervously tightens her grip on her blade.

An old dark-skinned gentleman is zip-tied to a decorative spire, his face ravaged with clawings. He seems to recognize the vial and writhes in agony as it glints in the spotlight’s glow.

A muffled scream echoes from deeper in the hospital, followed by three sharp gunshots. The hunters in the lobby tense, hands going to weapons.

Mendoza chuckles darkly. “Sounds like Rivas found more than he bargained for.”

Raymond checks his pistol. Full magazine. Silver-jacketed rounds. The weight feels good in his hand.

“You two,” he nods to the Kovacs, “hold this position. Mendoza and company, Thompson—with me.”

As they move toward the doomed cafeteria, Raymond notes the unnatural quiet of the hallways. No scrabbling at the walls. No hissing from the shadows. Just the steady drip of water from broken pipes and the distant, rhythmic thud of something large moving in the hospital’s depths.

The real hunt is just beginning.

Mendoza unslings his crossbow with a grunt. “You smell that?”

Raymond does. Beneath the antiseptic and blood, something older. Something hungry.

The master is waiting.

Mendoza lumbers past with the inevitability of a landslide. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to. The monsters always come to him eventually.

The Kovac twins sharpen their blades in perfect unison, the sound like a serpent's hiss. They still believe in rituals, in sacred geometry carved into silver. Raymond envies them that. Faith remains a luxury he lost along with his wife's laughter, his daughter's small hand in his.

And Thompson—jittery, wide-eyed Thompson—fumbles with his rifle's safety. The rookie. The one who still thinks this is about saving people. Raymond almost pities him. Almost.

The cafeteria doors groan open on broken hinges. A sigh from the throat of the damned.

Raymond drops his cigarette, crushes it under his boot.

This wasn’t a mission. It was a confession.  

They step into the nightmare tableau.

The old hospital cafeteria is a graveyard of plastic trays and overturned chairs, the air thick with the stench of spoiled food and fresh blood. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting strobing shadows across the dozens of figures slumped at tables, tied to support beams, restrained in wheelchairs. Half-turns. Their mouths move in silent screams, their fingers twitch with unnatural spasms, their eyes—some still human, others already black with hunger—dart wildly around the room.  

At the center, an old woman in a flower-print dress thrashes against her restraints. Two of Mendoza’s assistants hold her down in a metal chair, their muscles straining as she arches her back with preternatural strength. Her silver hair is matted with sweat, her lips peeled back from gums that bleed where her teeth sharpen.  

"Third dose didn’t take," grunts one assistant, a thick-necked man with a rosary of knuckle bones around his neck.  

The woman’s head snaps toward Raymond as he enters. Her nostrils flare. For a second, recognition flickers in her milky eyes. Then it’s gone, swallowed by the hunger. She hisses, saliva stringing between her teeth.  

Thompson, standing near the kitchen doors with his rifle clutched to his chest, looks like he might vomit. "She was—she was feeding her grandson when they found her. The kid’s alive. Locked in the pantry."  

Raymond steps further into the room. The other half-turns track his movement with eerie synchronicity. A teenage boy tied to a table leg whimpers. A nurse in shredded scrubs strains against her zip-ties, her mouth working around words that won’t come. The air thrums with their collective desperation, their fading humanity.  

Mendoza looms near the dessert counter, his crossbow dangling from one massive hand. His mirrored sunglasses reflect the scene back at itself—dozens of trapped souls, dozens of failed cures. "Antidote’s just making ‘em angry now," he rumbles.  

He wipes his hands on his pants, leaving streaks of bleach and blood. He studies the twitching bodies strapped to chairs, the zip-tied forms writhing on the floor.  

"Guild said this shit actually works?" His voice is gravel in a tin can.  

Raymond thumbs the cracked vials at his belt. "Thirty-five percent."  

Mendoza snorts. A big, wet sound like a horse clearing its nostrils. "Thirty-five." He nudges the groaning teenager with his boot. The kid's pupils swallow the last brown of his irises whole. "That a real number or just what some lab-coated fuck pulled out his—“

A chair topples. Thomson nearly hits the ceiling.  

Raymond doesn't look up. The math does it for him.  

“Sixty-five percent failure rate,” he replies.

Sixty-five percent already dead.  

A staircase at the end of the cafeteria leads to higher levels of the hospital, the third-floor chapel… The prism awaits, counting down in colors only he can see.

The old woman suddenly stills. Her head lolls forward, her breathing ragged. When she speaks, her voice is cracked but clear: "Please."  

The assistants exchange glances but don’t loosen their grip.  

"Please," she repeats, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood on her cheeks. "I can feel it. The dark. It’s in my bones." Her hands flex, the zip-ties cutting into her wrists. She laughs a dark laugh now, her eyes two tiny black beads. The hunters stand back. This stare is a little darker than a vamp’s stare. A little older. 

‘Don’t let me near anyone else,” she continues. “I will eat the flesh off theirs.”

Raymond’s fingers brush the antidote vials in an open box on the table. Useless. He knows it before he even checks—the serum inside has gone cloudy, separated. Another batch compromised. Another promise broken. Fucking Guild.

The woman’s pleading eyes find his. "My grandson," she whispers. "Is he—?"  

Mendoza’s assistants shoulder open the dented pantry door. The boy lies motionless on the concrete, face down in a spill of flour, his small hands curled into fists. One assistant—the one with the bone rosary—presses two fingers to the child’s neck. A beat. He shakes his head at Raymond.  

No pulse.  

No surprise.  

The other assistant turns the boy over. His lips are blue, his eyes wide and glassy. Bite marks. Blood. The slow asphyxiation of terror, of hiding in the dark while grandma screamed his name with the wrong kind of hunger.  A half-turn gone wrong. The kind that doesn’t come back, for better or for worse. They are rare but they do occur.

Raymond exhales through his teeth. Thirty-five percent. The Guild’s math holds.  

Somewhere behind them, a chair scrapes. One of the half-turns begins to weep.  

The prism thrums in the hospital walls, warm as a second heartbeat.

"Your grandson is safe," Raymond lies.  

The grandma’s body jerks once, then stills. Her head lolls forward, chin resting on her chest like she’s simply fallen asleep. The tension in the cafeteria snaps—half-turns slump in their restraints, hunters exhale shakily.  

For three seconds, there’s silence.  

Then the boy in the pantry whimpers.  

The grandma’s head snaps up. Her milky eyes lock onto Raymond, lips peeling back from blackening gums.  

“Liar."

Her voice isn’t human anymore. It’s the scrape of coffin wood, the hiss of gas escaping a tomb. The word hangs in the air, vibrating with unnatural resonance.  

Then it’s gone.  

Only the boy’s muffled sobs remain, echoing from the pantry.  

The prism is calling. The nearby staircase seems to warp in his peripheral vision.

Then the dead woman’s mouth moves. 

A sound like wet leather stretching. Then laughter—deep, guttural, wrong. The kind of laugh that doesn't belong to an old woman who just died.

The hunters freeze.  

The grandma's corpse sits up. Her head lolls to the side, her neck clearly broken, yet her lips peel back in a grin.  

"Oh, little lambs," she croons, her voice layered with something darker beneath. "Did you really think poison would stop me?"  

Raymond's grip tightens on his pistol. "Don't listen."  

But the hunters are already staring, their weapons lowering just slightly. Thompson's hands shake on his rifle. The Kovac twins exchange glances, their usual certainty wavering.  

The corpse's grin widens. "You're all so tired, aren't you? Fighting. Always fighting. And for what?" Her milky eyes roll toward Mendoza. "You think your crossbow can kill the dark? You're just delaying the inevitable."  

Mendoza doesn't flinch. "Shut it down."  

One of his assistants steps forward, a silver blade in hand—but the grandma's corpse lunges without moving, her voice suddenly sharp, commanding.  

"Look at what you're doing!"  

The half-turns convulse in their restraints, their moans rising to a chorus of agony. The teenage boy tied to the table leg screams, his fingers clawing at his own face. The nurse in shredded scrubs sobs, repeating "Make it stop, make it stop" between gasps.  

Raymond moves toward the corpse, but a half-turn—a security guard still in his uniform—lunges from the side, teeth bared. Raymond sidesteps, driving his elbow into the man's temple. The guard collapses, but two more break free, their zip-ties snapping like dried twigs.  

"You see?" The grandma's voice echoes, even as her body remains slumped. "You're not saving anyone. You're just prolonging the suffering."  

Thompson backs against the wall, his rifle slipping in his sweat-slick grip. "She's right—we can't win this."  

"Of course you can't," the corpse purrs. "But you can let go. No more fighting. No more pain."  

The Kovac twins hesitate, their blades lowering. The female twin's lips move in a silent prayer, but her brother just stares at the grandma's corpse, his face blank.  

Raymond shoots a half-turn point-blank as it rushes him. "She's lying."  

"Am I?" The grandma's head tilts at an impossible angle. "How many have you lost, Raymond? How many have you watched turn? And for what? A Guild that doesn't care? A God who isn't listening?"  

A half-turn slams into Raymond from behind, knocking him into a table. He rolls, barely avoiding snapping teeth, and puts two rounds into its chest. It keeps coming.  

Mendoza hasn't moved. His crossbow is still trained on the grandma's corpse, but his finger hasn't pulled the trigger.  

"You're all so afraid," the corpse whispers. "But you don't have to be. The dark isn't cruel. It's just... hungry."  

Thompson's rifle clatters to the floor.  

The Kovac twins take a step back.  

Raymond sees it happening—the doubt, the despair. The demon isn't just talking through the dead woman. It's peeling back their resolve, showing them the futility they already feel.  

He grabs the nearest half-turn—the nurse—and slams her against the wall. "Fight it," he growls, not to her, but to the others. "This is what it does. It makes you think giving up is easier."  

The nurse's eyes flicker. For a second, something human surfaces. Then she snarls and lunges.  

Raymond puts her down.  

The grandma's corpse giggles. "Oh, Raymond. Always the hero. But even you can't lie forever."  

Mendoza finally moves. He doesn't shoot. He walks forward, grabs the corpse by the hair, and yanks the head back.  

The voice cuts off mid-laugh.  

The cafeteria falls silent.  

The half-turns slump, their brief frenzy over.  

But the damage is done.  

Thompson doesn't pick up his rifle. The Kovac twins don't raise their blades.  

And Raymond?  

He checks his clip.  

Half-empty.  

Just like their chances.

She nods once, then her body seizes again, her spine bowing until the chair creaks in protest. A wet snap echoes through the cafeteria as she dislocates her own shoulder to free one clawed hand.  

The assistants swear, scrambling to restrain her. The other half-turns erupt into frenzy, their moans rising to a chorus of anguish.  

Mendoza doesn’t hesitate. He strides forward, pulls a bleach bottle from the janitor’s cart, and upends it into the old woman’s screaming mouth.  

The reaction is immediate. Her body convulses, foam bubbling between her lips. The cafeteria falls silent as every half-turn watches her die, their faces slack with something almost like understanding.  

Thompson makes a broken sound. "Jesus Christ—"  

"Not here, he ain’t," Mendoza mutters, tossing the empty bottle aside.  

From the pantry, a child’s muffled sobs punctuate the sudden quiet. Raymond turns away. The prism is impatient. The old woman’s final plea echoes in his skull.  

Somewhere deeper in the hospital, something laughs.  

The half-turns all hear it. Their heads swivel toward the sound in perfect unison.

The laughter fades, but the silence that follows is worse.  

The half-turns remain eerily still, their heads cocked toward the east wing, as if listening to a voice only they can hear. The grandma’s corpse slumps back in her chair, her mouth still foaming bleach, her eyes wide and empty.  

Raymond exhales. His fingers twitch near his holster. Thirty-five percent. The number rattles in his skull like a bullet in a chamber.  

Mendoza cracks his knuckles. "That wasn’t the master."  

"No," Raymond agrees. "Just a whisper."  

The Kovac twins exchange glances, their blades still lowered. The female twin—Lena—swallows hard. "It got inside our heads."  

Her brother, Marek, nods. "It knew things."  

Raymond doesn’t answer. He’s heard the whispers before. The dark has a way of digging up old graves, of exhuming memories better left buried.  

Thompson hasn’t picked up his rifle. He stares at the grandma’s corpse, his hands shaking. "She was still her at the end. She begged us."  

Mendoza grunts. "And then she lied."  

The boy in the pantry whimpers again.  

Raymond turns toward the sound. The flour on the floor is streaked with small, desperate handprints. The child—no older than six—has dragged himself toward the door, his blue lips parted in a silent scream. His pupils are blown wide, his fingers curled into claws.  

Sixty-five percent.

Raymond draws his pistol.  

Thompson steps forward. "Wait—"  

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The boy’s body jerks, then stills.  

No one speaks.  

The prism thrums in the walls, its pulse syncing with Raymond’s heartbeat. It’s close now.  

Mendoza slings his crossbow over his shoulder. "East wing?"  

Raymond nods.  

Lena Kovac hesitates. "What about the rest of them?" She gestures to the half-turns still twitching in their restraints.  

Mendoza doesn’t look back. "Leave ‘em. They’re not what we’re here for."  

The hunters move out, their footsteps echoing down the blood-smeared hallway. Raymond lingers for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the cafeteria—the overturned chairs, the spilled trays, the bodies that won’t stay dead.  

A whimper cuts through the dark.  

Raymond freezes.  The hunters turn to look back at him.

Behind him, the half-turns stir. Not with hunger, not with violence—but with something worse. Pleading.  

"Please," rasps the teenage boy tied to the table leg. His voice is raw, human. "Don't leave us like this."  

Thompson flinches. "Oh God—"  

Lena Kovac spins, blade raised, but her grip wavers. The boy's eyes are wide, terrified. His fingers tremble as he reaches for her. "Help me."  

Marek grabs his sister's wrist before she can step closer. "Don't."  

But the cafeteria erupts in voices now—soft, broken, familiar.  

A nurse sobs, her face streaked with tears. "I have a daughter. She's only four."  

An elderly man slumps forward, his voice trembling. "I don't want to hurt anyone."  

A security guard, his uniform torn, whispers, "Just shoot me. Please."  

Raymond's finger hovers over his trigger. His jaw clenches. They're not human anymore. He knows this. He's seen it a hundred times. The hunger always wins.  

But then—  

A child's voice. Small. Scared.  

"Don't go."  

Raymond turns.  

A young woman—no older than eighteen—huddles beneath a table, her knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes are still brown, still alive. She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I'm scared of the dark."  

Thompson makes a choked sound. "We can't just—"  

Mendoza's crossbow creaks as he tenses. "It's not real."  

The girl whimpers. "It hurts."  

Raymond's breath comes sharp, ragged. His pistol feels like lead in his hand. She's already gone. He knows this. He knows.  

But when he raises the gun, his arm shakes.  

The girl's lip trembles. "Daddy?"  

Raymond's vision blurs.  

A blur of movement—  

Teeth sink into his forearm.  

The pain is white-hot, electric. The girl's face twists, her sweet features melting into something ravenous, her pupils swallowing her irises whole. She growls, jaw clamping harder, blood welling between her teeth.  

Mendoza doesn't hesitate.  

The crossbow bolt takes her through the temple.  

She drops.  

Silence.  

Raymond clutches his bleeding arm. The bite burns, the venom already seeping into his veins. His pulse thunders in his ears.  

Mendoza reloads, his face unreadable. "Move."  

The hunters stagger back, their faces pale, their weapons heavy. The cafeteria's pleas fade behind them, swallowed by the dark.  

But Raymond doesn't look back.  

He can't.  

The crystal prism hums.  

The master waits.  

Chapter 87 

The east wing corridor stretches before them, its flickering fluorescents casting long, trembling shadows. The hunters move in grim silence, their weapons at the ready. But Raymond lingers at the intersection, his gaze drawn to the stairwell at the far end of the hall. The prism thrums in his bones, pulling him like a lodestone.  

Mendoza's massive hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"  

Raymond doesn't flinch. "Third floor."  

"The master's nest is east." Mendoza's mirrored sunglasses reflect Raymond's own hollow-eyed stare back at him. "You heard Rivas."  

Did he? Raymond flexes his bitten arm. The wound pulses, hot and tight beneath his sleeve. He should feel the venom by now—the creeping chill, the feverish haze—but there's only the prism's hum, steady and insistent.  

"You're bleeding," Lena Kovac observes, her blade still slick with cafeteria blood.  

Mendoza's grip tightens. "You got bit."  

A statement, not a question.  

Raymond meets his stare. "It's nothing."  

Mendoza barks a laugh—a harsh, humorless sound. "Nothing?" He rips Raymond's sleeve up, exposing the wound. The bite marks are already darkening, the skin around them mottled gray. The hunters tense. Thompson takes an unconscious step back.  

“Another bite and he’s already been infected in the past?!”

Mendoza's voice drops to a growl. "You know the rules."  

Raymond does. A bitten hunter doesn't leave the nest. Not alive.  Antidote had changed all that, but not tonight.

The prism thrums louder. He should have gone straight for it. Should have left the cafeteria to its fate. Thirty-five percent was never enough.  

Mendoza unslings his crossbow. "Last words?"  

Raymond's pistol is in his hand before he thinks. The barrel rests against Mendoza's ribs. "Try it."  

The standoff stretches. The hunters watch, frozen.  

Then—  

A scream echoes from the east wing. Human. Cutting off too soon.  

Rivas' voice crackles over the radio: "We're getting torn apart in here—" Static. A wet crunch. Then silence.  

Mendoza doesn't lower his crossbow. "Your call, Raymond. Die here like a man, or turn into one of them while we're busy saving your ass?"  

The prism pulses. The stairwell door creaks open on its own, revealing darkness beyond.  

Raymond makes his choice.  

He pulls the trigger.  

The gun doesn't fire.  

Mendoza's smile is all teeth. "Safety's on, rookie."  

The crossbow swings up—  

And Raymond is already moving, diving through the stairwell door as the bolt embeds itself in the frame where his head had been. He takes the steps three at a time, Mendoza's roar of fury echoing behind him.  

The bite burns as Raymond ascends.

The third floor exhales as Raymond reaches the landing.  

The air here is different—thicker, warmer, laced with the scent of old incense and something metallic beneath. The hallway stretches before him, its walls papered in peeling floral print, the carpet stained with dark blooms of dried blood.  

Vampires line the corridor.  

Not the snarling, frenzied creatures from the cafeteria. These are wasted things—hollow-cheeked, their skin stretched tight over brittle bones. They slump against walls, curled in doorways, their limbs folded like broken wings. Some clutch rosaries. Others cradle empty bottles of holy water to their chests.  

One reaches for him as he passes.  

Raymond tenses, but the creature only brushes his wrist with skeletal fingers, its touch feather-light. Its eyes—clouded with cataracts—track him with something like recognition.  

"Too late," it whispers.  

Another takes his sleeve, guiding him forward with surprising gentleness. Its nails are yellowed, cracked, but it doesn't claw. Doesn't bite. Just steers him down the hall with the solemnity of a pallbearer.  

More hands find him.  

A withered nun presses a chapped kiss to his knuckles. A child in a tattered hospital gown tugs him past an overturned gurney. Their fingers are cold, their grips weak, but they move him along with eerie purpose, their hollow eyes fixed on some point ahead.  

None speak. None attack.  

The prism thrums along the walls towards him, its pulse syncing with his slowing heartbeat. The bite on his arm burns, the venom working through his veins like ink in water. He should be fighting. Should be shooting. But there's no threat here—only this strange, silent procession.  

The hallway ends at double doors.  

The vampires release him, stepping back as one. Their heads bow.  

Raymond pushes through.  

The hospital corridor narrows like a throat closing. Raymond moves through the darkness alone, his breath shallow, his pulse too loud in his ears. Behind him, the sounds of the hunt fade—Mendoza's heavy footfalls, the metallic click of his crossbow reloading, the low curses as he loses Raymond's trail. Ahead, only silence. And something else.

A draft carries the scent of old blood and candle wax.

Raymond turns a corner and stops. The chapel doors hang open, their stained-glass windows shattered, leaving jagged teeth of colored glass in the frames. Inside, two figures kneel over a corpse, their backs to him. They drink with the slow, methodical focus of the half-starved, their movements sluggish, their heads bowed as if in prayer.

Not hunters. Not yet monsters. Something in between.

The chapel air is thick with the smell of rust and spoiled wine. The pews are overturned, hymnals scattered like fallen leaves. At the altar, a crucifix hangs crooked, the Christ figure's face chipped away, leaving only a hollow-eyed stare.

Raymond steps inside.

The antidote vials in Raymond's pocket feel suddenly useless. The Guild's promise—thirty-five percent recovery rate—a joke. These two are too far gone. He sees it in the way their fingers tremble around their meal, the way their skin has already taken on that waxy pallor. The change is irreversible.

One of them looks up.

Raymond doesn't move.

The vampire's eyes are clouded, the pupils blown wide, but there's no recognition there. No threat. Just hunger, dull and insatiable. It stares at him for a long moment, then lowers its head back to the corpse, its throat working as it swallows.

The other doesn't even notice him.

The crystal pulses in its reliquary, singing in a language that predates bones.

Shane echoes in Raymond's mind. "It's not a prison. It's an invitation."

He imagines Gaspard reaching for it, his eyes gleaming. "Eleven thousand dollars."

The first gunshot comes from nowhere.

The second comes from Raymond's pistol.

The vamps don't react.

Raymond exhales. His hand slides the prism into his pocket, its edges biting into his palm through the fabric. It's heavier than it should be. Or maybe that's just him—his body betraying him, his blood thickening, his bones aching with the slow, inevitable turn.

He's dying twice. Once as a man. Once as something worse.

The vampires don't react. They're too lost in their feeding, their movements sluggish, their breaths ragged. They're sick. Dying, even as they cling to this half-life.

The prism burns in his grip. He doesn't pull it out. Doesn't dare. Not here. Not while Mendoza is still hunting him, while the others might stumble upon this place.

But he knows what it wants.

The first vampire lets out a wet sigh, its head lolling back. Blood drips from its chin, dark and thick. Its companion makes a low, mournful sound, like a dog whining at a grave.

Raymond backs away.

He's seen enough.

The corridor outside is empty, the darkness swallowing his footsteps. Somewhere deep in the hospital, a door slams. A shout echoes, too distant to make out words.

Mendoza is still searching.

Raymond presses a hand to his chest, feeling the too-slow beat of his heart. The turn is coming. He feels it in the way his teeth ache, the way shadows seem to cling to him longer than they should.

The prism hums against his thigh, a low, insistent vibration.

He knows what he has to do.

But not yet.

Not here.

He moves deeper into the dark.

The third floor hallway stretches before Raymond like a cathedral aisle. The air hums—not with the hospital's stale antiseptic stench, but with something older. Something reverent.  

The vampires do not attack.  

They kneel.  

Their wasted forms line the corridor, slumped against walls or curled on the stained carpet. As Raymond passes, their heads lift in unison. Milky eyes track his movement. Cracked lips part in silent wonder.  

A skeletal woman in a nurse's uniform reaches for him. Her fingers brush his elbow—not to restrain, but to steady. Her touch lingers like a mother checking a child's fever.  

"You feel it too," she murmurs. Not a question.  

Raymond's skin prickles. The bite on his arm throbs in time with his slowing pulse, but the pain is distant now. Secondary. Something deeper moves beneath his flesh—a slow, creeping awareness that isn't entirely unpleasant.  

The prism's song vibrates in his teeth.  

Another vamp—an old man with a priest's collar hanging loose around his gaunt throat—presses trembling palms together. "We tried to warn them," he whispers. His voice cracks like dry parchment. "About the light."  

Raymond's footsteps falter. His reflection glimmers in a shattered wall mirror, and for a heartbeat, the face staring back isn't his own. The eyes are too dark. The mouth moves without sound.  

Then it's gone.  

The vampires sigh in unison, a sound like pages turning in an old book.  

A child—no older than six, her hospital gown stiff with old blood—tugs at Raymond's sleeve. "It doesn't hurt anymore," she confides. Her fingers leave smudges of rust on the fabric.  

Raymond tries to pull away, but his limbs respond sluggishly. The hallway tilts. The walls breathe.  

The prism's pulse is his pulse now.  

The vamps part before him, their skeletal hands gesturing toward a doorway at the hall's end. The door hangs ajar, darkness pooling beyond.  

"They wouldn't listen," says a one-armed veteran, his medals still pinned to his sunken chest.  

"You will," murmurs a teenage boy with a rosary wrapped around his wrist.  

Raymond's pistol slips from numb fingers. The steel clatters on the tiles, but the vampires don't react. They only watch with their knowing, patient eyes as the thing inside Raymond unfurls.  

His vision fractures.  

The hallway stretches infinitely in all directions, a maze of peeling wallpaper and flickering fluorescents. The vamps' whispers coil around him, their words slipping through his ears like smoke:  

We were afraid too.  

The hunger is just loneliness wearing different clothes.  

Let us show you what we've seen.  

Raymond stumbles forward. His shadow stretches long behind him—too long, its edges wavering like heat haze. The doorway looms closer. The darkness within stirs.  

The last thing he sees before crossing the threshold is the vampires bowing, their foreheads pressed to the filthy floor in something that might be grief.  

The last thing he hears is his own voice—but not his own words—whispering:  

I understand now.

The staircase coils downward like the inside of a conch shell, each step worn smooth by decades of desperate feet. Raymond moves without sound, his boots finding purchase on the damp stone as if guided by something older than memory.  

The air grows thick with the scent of wet earth and candle smoke. The walls weep condensation, the moisture tracing the contours of old graffiti—names, dates, pleas scratched into stone by fingernails long since turned to dust.  

"You don't understand," he murmurs to the dark. His voice doesn't echo. The words sink into the walls like water into thirsty soil. "Raymond Cruz must die."  

A draft stirs the hair at his nape. It carries whispers—not from behind or beside, but from within. The voice that answers isn't his own, yet it speaks through his teeth all the same:  

All his spirit will turn black.  

The stairs deepen. The light from above fades to a sickly glow, then winks out entirely. Raymond doesn't stumble. His pupils dilate, drinking in the darkness until it resolves into shapes:  

A landing.  

A door.  

A figure waiting.  

The master stands with its back to him, gaunt shoulders hunched beneath a tattered cassock. Its fingers—too long, too many joints—trace patterns in the condensation on the door's surface. Symbols Raymond's eyes refuse to focus on.  

"You're late," it says. The words vibrate in Raymond's molars.  

The bite on his arm pulses in time with his slowing heart. The venom has reached his bones now, threading through marrow like ink through water. He should be afraid. Should be fighting.  

Instead, he steps forward.  

The master turns.  

Its face is a negative of Raymond's own—the same sharp angles, the same scar above the brow, but inverted, hollowed out. Where Raymond's eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion, the master's are pools of perfect black. Where Raymond's mouth is set in a grim line, the master's stretches too wide, its lips peeling back from teeth filed to needlepoints.  

"You've been calling to me," Raymond says. Not an accusation. A recognition.  

The master cocks its head. "You've been listening."  

Beyond the door, something vast shifts. The wood groans. The symbols shimmer wetly, their edges blurring like ink in rain.  

Raymond's hands flex at his sides. His fingers remember the weight of his pistol, though the weapon lies abandoned somewhere far above. "Why me?"  

The master's smile is a wound. "Why not?"  

The prism thrums in Raymond's pocket. The stone has grown warm, its heat pulsing in time with the thing behind the door. With the thing inside his veins.  

Raymond exhales. His breath doesn't fog in the chill air.  

"Raymond Cruz must die," he repeats.  

The master reaches for him. Its fingers brush his temple, cold as grave soil.  

All his spirit will turn black.  

The door opens.  

It swallows him whole.  

Beyond the threshold, the air vibrates with a sound like distant thunder—or gunfire. Hunters' voices echo through the walls, muffled but drawing closer. Shouted orders. The metallic clatter of weapons being readied. The Guild hadn't abandoned the mission after all.  

Raymond steps forward into a vast chamber that might have once been a hospital basement. Rusted pipes crisscross the ceiling, dripping black water onto concrete stained with decades of filth. The space hums with energy, the prism's pulse now so strong it makes Raymond's teeth ache.  

Vampires litter the floor like discarded dolls.  

Not the aggressive monsters from the upper floors. These are wasted creatures, their bodies curled in on themselves, their fingers clutching at nothing. As Raymond passes, they twitch and sigh, their milky eyes rolling toward him with something like relief.  

The first one dies as he nears it.  

A gaunt man in a security guard's uniform gasps, his body convulsing once before going still. A wisp of black smoke curls from his lips, slithers across the floor, and vanishes into Raymond's shadow.  

Then another.  

A nurse collapses mid-crawl, her withered hand outstretched. The darkness leaves her in a sigh, drawn to Raymond like iron filings to a magnet.  

More follow.  

All around the chamber, vampires shudder and still, their stolen life draining away. The black mist coils through the air, threading itself into Raymond's skin. With each death, he feels it—the weight of their stolen years, their hunger, their sins. It settles in his bones like sediment.  

The hunters' voices grow louder. A door slams somewhere above. Boots on stairs. They're coming.  

Raymond should run. Should fight.  

But the prism's call is louder.  

He moves toward the center of the chamber where the darkness pools thickest. The vampires here are already dead, their bodies arranged in a spiral pattern, their faces frozen in something almost like peace. At the epicenter, a single chair waits—wooden, scarred, its legs bolted to the floor.  

Raymond knows this seat.  

He's dreamed of it.  

The last vampire—a child no older than ten—looks up as Raymond approaches. Her eyes are clear, human. She smiles, showing teeth that haven't yet sharpened.  

"You're here," she whispers. Then she coughs, a black tear tracing down her cheek. "It doesn't hurt anymore."  

Her small body goes limp.  

The darkness leaves her in a rush, colder than the others. It fills Raymond's lungs, his blood, the hollow spaces between his thoughts.  

Somewhere behind him, a hunter shouts.  

Raymond turns.  

The gunshot's echo still hangs in the basement air when Thompson steps through the doorway. His rifle remains raised, tactical light cutting a trembling path through the swirling black mist clinging to the walls. His breath fogs in the unnatural cold.  

Then he sees Raymond.  

The rifle lowers. Just an inch.  

"Jesus Christ, Cruz..." Thompson's voice cracks. His light traces the bodies—dozens of them—all withered, all empty, arranged in that terrible spiral. At the center, Raymond stands haloed in shifting darkness, his shadow stretching too long across the concrete.  

Raymond turns. His smile looks familiar. Wrong. "Thompson." His voice sounds like Raymond's voice, but layered—something underneath, something old. "The skeptic. The man who always asks why."  

Thompson's finger hovers near the trigger. His mouth goes dry. "What did you do?"  

Raymond spreads his hands. The gesture looks almost beatific. "What the Guild couldn't." He steps forward. Thompson doesn't back away—but his knuckles whiten on the rifle. "No more half-turns. No more mercy. Just... silence."  

The black mist coils around Raymond's ankles like a living thing. It pulses in time with his words.  

Thompson swallows. His head aches. "You're not Cruz."  

Raymond laughs—a sound that starts human and ends as something else. "I'm what he always was. Underneath." Another step. "The man who knew the math. Thirty-five percent. Sixty-five. The percentages never changed, did they?"  

The numbers ring in Thompson's skull. The Guild's lies. The failed cures. The bodies stacked in triage tents. His vision swims.  

Raymond stands close now. Close enough that Thompson sees how his pupils swallow the last flecks of brown in his irises. Close enough to smell the grave soil on his breath.  

"You were right to doubt them," Raymond murmurs. His voice sounds kind. "All those rituals. The holy water. The silver. Superstition. Theater." A cold hand touches Thompson's cheek. The contact burns. "You knew."  

Thompson's knees buckle. The rifle clatters to the ground. His head splits open—memories flood in—the first time he saw a vamp up close, how its eyes looked human for just a second before the hunger took over. The children in the quarantine zones. How the Guild's antidote made them scream.  

Raymond crouches beside him. His fingers—too cold, too wrong—tilt Thompson's chin up. "You were the only one who saw."  

Thompson cries now. The tears freeze on his cheeks. "It never worked," he whispers.  

Raymond's thumb brushes away a tear. The skin it touches goes numb. "No. It didn't."  

Somewhere above, footsteps pound. Shouted orders. The others come.  

Raymond leans closer. His lips brush Thompson's ear. "You don't have to lie anymore."  

Thompson's hand finds his sidearm.  

Raymond pulls back, smiling. "Good man."  

The gunshot echoes through the chamber just as Mendoza bursts through the doorway.  

Thompson is gone.  

Only Raymond remains, the black mist swirling around his body for a moment—almost tender—before dissipating.  

Mendoza crosses himself.  

Chapter 88

The basement air hangs thick with gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Raymond stands motionless, his boots planted in the spreading pool of Thompson's life. The pistol dangles from his fingers.  Thompson’s pistol still in his half-clenched hand.

Mendoza hasn't lowered his crossbow. The other hunters fan out behind him, their weapons trained on Raymond—silver blades, blessed rounds, UV lamps humming to life. Their faces are masks of horror and betrayal.  

Raymond's mouth tastes like ashes.  

He remembers Thompson's voice—It never worked—remembers the way the words had slithered from his own lips, sweet as poison. Remembers the relief in Thompson's eyes when the bullet tore through his skull.  

He thanked me.  

The realization hits like a gut punch. His stomach heaves. Bile scorches his throat, but he swallows it down.  

Mendoza's mirrored sunglasses reflect Raymond's own face back at him—pale, hollow-eyed, the veins around his temples pulsing black. "Cruz," Mendoza growls. "Last chance."  

Raymond doesn't answer. His tongue feels too heavy, too wrong. The thing inside him coils tighter, savoring the hunters' fear, their trembling fingers on triggers. It wants him to speak. To explain.  

He grinds his teeth until his jaw aches. The weight of damnation presses down on him.

The female Kovac steps forward, her silver dagger glinting. Her hands don't shake. "Raymond," she says, softer. "Fight it."  

The plea cuts deeper than any blade.  

Raymond's vision blurs. Tears well, hot and furious, but don't fall. He wants to scream. To beg them to run. To put a bullet in his skull before the thing inside him makes them understand.  

But his lips stay sealed.  

The basement walls thrum with the prism's pulse. The turned vampires' bodies lie where they collapsed, their hollowed-out husks grinning up at the ceiling. Raymond's shadow stretches long across the concrete, its edges wavering like smoke.  

Mendoza's finger tightens on the trigger. "Answer me, goddamn you."  

Raymond exhales. His breath doesn't fog in the chill air.  

The silence stretches.  

Then—  

A single tear tracks down his cheek. It cuts through the grime, the blood, the sweat. A human thing. A weakness.  

The hunters tense.  

Raymond closes his eyes.  

The first vampire drops from the ceiling like a spider.  

Its emaciated body slams into one of Mendoza's men, driving him to the concrete before he can scream. The hunter's UV lamp shatters, spraying glass across the basement floor.  

Then the walls move.  

Dozens of wasted figures peel away from the shadows—vampires that had been clinging to the pipes, crouching in the corners, waiting. Their milky eyes catch the dim light as they surge forward in a wave of grasping hands and snapping teeth.  

Chaos erupts.  

Mendoza spins, his crossbow firing almost before he's fully turned. The silver bolt takes a vamp through the throat, pinning it to the wall. It thrashes, black blood bubbling from its mouth.  

"Form up!" Mendoza roars.  

The hunters scramble into a defensive circle, their weapons flashing. Silver blades slice through rotting flesh. Gunfire echoes off the concrete walls, deafening in the enclosed space. A vamp's head explodes in a shower of gore, its body collapsing onto Thompson's still-warm corpse.  

Raymond stands frozen in the eye of the storm.  

The vampires ignore him.  

They flow around him like water around a stone, their hollowed faces turned toward the living, the breathing, the prey. One brushes against his arm—cold fingers skimming his wrist—before launching itself at Lena Kovac.  

She meets it with her dagger, the blessed silver carving through its chest. It screams, a sound like rusted hinges, before crumbling to dust.  

Raymond's pulse hammers in his throat.  

They don't see me as food.  

The realization sends a shudder through him. The thing inside him—the presence that's been whispering in his veins—holds them at bay. He's one of them now. Or close enough.  

Mendoza's voice cuts through the din. "Cruz!"  

Raymond turns.  

Mendoza stands ten feet away, his crossbow empty, a machete in his other hand. A vamp claws at his back, its teeth sinking into his shoulder. Mendoza grunts, driving an elbow into its face. Bone cracks.  

Their eyes meet.  

For a heartbeat, Raymond considers staying. Considers fighting.  

Then the prism's call thrums through his bones, louder than the gunfire, louder than the screams.  

Run.  

Raymond moves.  

He ducks under a vamp's grasping arms, sidesteps a hunter's wild swing, and bolts for the stairwell. The door hangs open, the steps beyond swallowed by darkness.  

"Traitor!" someone yells—Lena, maybe. The word barely registers.  

Raymond takes the stairs three at a time, the sounds of battle fading behind him. His boots pound against the concrete, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The bite on his arm burns, but the pain is distant.  

The hunters are distracted.  

The vampires are occupied.  

And Raymond?  

Raymond is free.  

The basement erupts into a storm of fangs and gunfire.  

Vampires pour from every shadow, their emaciated bodies moving with unnatural speed. The hunters form a ragged circle, their backs pressed together, weapons flashing in the dim emergency lights.  

Lena Kovac spins, her silver dagger carving through a vampire's throat. Black blood sprays across her face as the creature collapses, its fingers still twitching toward her boots. Her brother Marek fires his shotgun point-blank into another's chest, the blessed salt rounds tearing through rotting flesh.  

"Reloading!" Marek shouts, ejecting spent shells.  

A vampire lunges for his exposed side—  

—only to explode in a shower of gore as Mendoza's crossbow bolt punches through its skull. The massive hunter doesn't break stride, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the carnage as he methodically reloads.  

Chaos reigns.  

A young hunter—barely more than a recruit—screams as three vampires drag him down. His UV lamp shatters against the concrete, the burst of ultraviolet light burning the creatures' flesh even as they tear into his throat. The scent of copper floods the air.  

Mendoza surveys the battlefield like a general.  

He sees the Kovacs holding their ground, their movements perfectly synchronized despite the terror in their eyes. Sees two more hunters fall, their throats ripped open before they can scream. Sees the tide of undead pressing closer, their numbers seemingly endless.  

One hundred? Two hundred? It doesn't matter.  

Mendoza raises his crossbow.  

A vampire leaps from a pipe overhead—  

—and meets a silver bolt mid-air. The projectile punches through its ribcage, the blessed wood igniting its shriveled heart. It crashes to the ground in a heap of smoldering flesh.  

"Fall back to the stairs," Mendoza orders, his voice calm amidst the screams.  

The remaining hunters obey instantly. They fight their way toward the exit, their weapons carving a bloody path through the undead horde.  

Mendoza covers their retreat.  

His crossbow thunks rhythmically—each shot finding its mark. A vampire clutching at Lena's hair drops with a bolt through its eye. Another crawling toward Marek's ankles spasms as silver pierces its spine.  

The hunters reach the stairwell.  

"Go," Mendoza says.  

They don't need telling twice. The survivors scramble upward, their boots pounding on concrete, their panicked breaths echoing in the enclosed space.  

Mendoza stands alone at the base of the stairs.  

The vampires hesitate.  

For a moment, there's only the sound of dripping water and the wet, ragged breathing of the undead. Their milky eyes watch him. Their clawed fingers twitch.  

Mendoza smiles.  

He unslings his backup crossbow—a heavier model, its stock carved with ancient wards. The vampires hiss as the sacred symbols catch the dim light.  

Then they attack.  

Mendoza moves like a machine.  

Bolt after bolt flies true. Vampires drop, their bodies piling up at the foot of the stairs. Black blood slicks the concrete. The air fills with the stench of burning flesh.  

Still they come.  

Mendoza's arms burn with exertion. His supply of blessed bolts dwindles.  

When the last silver-tipped projectile leaves his crossbow, he doesn't reach for another.  

Instead, he draws his machete.  

The blade—forged from a melted-down church bell—sings as it clears its sheath.  

The first vampire to reach him loses its head in one clean stroke. The second falls screaming as the blessed steel severs its arm at the elbow.  

Mendoza advances.  

Not running. Never running.  

Step by step, he cuts his way through the horde. Their claws rake his armor. Their teeth snap at his throat. None find purchase.  

A path opens before him—not toward the exit, but deeper into the basement. Toward the bloodiest part of the battle. Toward where Thompson's body lies cooling on the concrete.  

Toward where Raymond Cruz disappeared.  

The vampires part before him like wheat before the scythe.  

Mendoza walks.  

Raymond's boots pound against the stairwell concrete, each step echoing like a gunshot in the enclosed space. His breath comes in ragged gasps, the bite on his arm pulsing with every heartbeat. The higher he climbs, the louder the prism's call becomes—a vibration in his teeth, a pressure behind his eyes.  

Why am I running?  

The question hits him like a physical blow. He stumbles, catching himself against the rusted railing. His hands—his hands—are slick with sweat. With blood. Thompson's blood.  

Below, the sounds of battle fade. The screams. The gunfire. The wet tearing of flesh.  

Raymond looks down at his palms. The lines of his life—the callouses from years of handling weapons, the scar across his right thumb from a botched silver reload—they're all still there. But the man who earned those marks feels like a ghost.  

A sob claws at his throat. He swallows it.  

The stairwell door to the first floor hangs open, a rectangle of flickering fluorescent light. Raymond steps through—  

—and into a slaughterhouse.  

The lobby is littered with bodies. Not vampires. Hunters. Assistants mostly—the young, the inexperienced, the ones left behind to guard the exits. Their weapons lie beside them, some still clutched in stiff fingers. A girl no older than twenty stares up at the ceiling, her throat torn open, a silver knife inches from her outstretched hand.  

Raymond knows her. Knew her. Sarah. Always humming while she cleaned her gear.  

He steps over her body. His stomach churns.  

The front doors are boarded shut, nails driven deep into the frame. Someone's last desperate attempt to keep the infection contained. Bloody handprints streak the wood where they tried to claw their way out.  

Why am I running?  

The question comes again, louder this time. Raymond turns from the doors, his boots crunching on broken glass. The reception desk lies overturned, medical files scattered like leaves.

No sign of living hunters. No sign of Mendoza.  

Just bodies.

So many bodies.  

Raymond's reflection glimmers in the broken monitor glass. His face is pale, his eyes sunken. The veins at his temples stand out in dark relief. When he bares his teeth—why does he bare his teeth?—his canines gleam too sharp.  

A noise behind him.  

Raymond spins, pistol raised.  

Nothing. Just the settling of the building. The groan of pipes. The drip of something wet from the ceiling tiles.  

His arm trembles. The gun feels foreign in his grip. When did I draw it?  

Across the lobby, the elevator dings.  

The doors shudder open.  

Inside, a single UV lamp flickers, casting long shadows. The floor is slick with blood. And leaning against the back wall—  

—is Mendoza's crossbow.  

Raymond's breath catches. The weapon lies abandoned, its stock cracked, the string snapped. A silver bolt protrudes from the elevator wall, pinning a scrap of fabric—black, tactical. Mendoza's sleeve.  

The prism's call surges.  

Raymond's vision tunnels. The lobby fades. The bodies. The blood. All that remains is the pull—upward—toward the source of the humming in his bones.  

His feet move without permission.  

Toward the stairs.  

Toward the second floor.  

Toward whatever's left of himself.  

He presses his back against the elevator doors, his fingers twitching around the grip of his pistol. The infection sears through his veins, a familiar poison he's carried for three years, held at bay by willpower and spite. Now, with the scent of fresh blood thick in the air and the screams of the newly turned echoing down the hallway, it's winning.

Across the ruined hospital lobby, Mendoza stands like a monolith, his crossbow trained on Raymond's chest. The big man's mirrored sunglasses reflect the carnage around them—twitching bodies, half-turned hunters still clutching their weapons, their eyes gone black with hunger. The antidote has failed. Again.

"You're looking peaky, Cruz," Mendoza rumbles. His finger rests against the crossbow's trigger. The barbed silver bolt gleams in the flickering emergency lights.

Raymond's gums ache. His vision pulses at the edges, shadows stretching like taffy. He can hear Mendoza's heartbeat, can smell the salt of his sweat beneath the gunpowder and bleach.

"Touch that trigger," Raymond growls, his voice rougher than he intends, "and you're better off dead."

Mendoza tilts his head, considering. The crossbow doesn't waver.

Between them, the turned hunters stir. Rivas is the first to rise, his machete still gripped in fingers that now end in claws. The Kovac twins follow, their blades dragging against the tile, their once-perfect synchronization now a jerky, predatory mimicry. Thompson crouches in the corner, his rifle abandoned, his mouth stretched too wide.

They aren't vampires yet. Not fully. But they aren't human anymore either.

Mendoza exhales through his nose. "Thirty-five percent, huh?"

Raymond bares his teeth—a threat or a plea, he isn't sure. "You always were shit at math."

A gurney crashes to the ground. The turned hunters turn toward the sound, their heads cocked like dogs hearing a whistle.

Mendoza doesn't blink. "How long?"

"Long enough." Raymond's knuckles crack as he tightens his grip on the pistol. The hunger is a living thing now, gnawing at his ribs. "They're between us and the exit."

"And you're between me and them."

The overhead lights buzz, dim. In the half-dark, the turned hunters' eyes shine like wet ink.

Mendoza's smile is all teeth. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."

He fires.

The bolt takes Rivas through the throat, pinning him to the reception desk. The others turn as one, hissing.

Raymond is already moving.

The world narrows to the pound of blood in his ears, the stutter-step of his heartbeat. He fires twice—once into the male Kovac's knee, once into his shoulder. Non-lethal. For now.

Mendoza moves like a landslide, his bulk surprisingly quick. He swings the crossbow like a club, catching the female Kovac across the jaw. Bone cracks.

Raymond's vision swims. The hunger surges, whispering. They're already dead. Finish it. Feed.

He clenches his jaw until his teeth creak.

Mendoza grabs him by the collar, yanking him behind an overturned gurney just as the remaining turned hunters lunge.

"You good?" Mendoza grunts, reloading.

Raymond's hands shake. His canines throb. "No."

Mendoza nods like that's answer enough. "Cover me."

The lobby erupts in gunfire and screams.

Somewhere beneath the hunger, beneath the rage and the fear and the old, old pain, Raymond Cruz makes a choice.

He always does.

He moves. But first, the half-turned hunters kneel in a ragged circle around Raymond, their heads bowed like supplicants before an altar. Their fingers—already clawed and blackening—tremble as they reach for him, not to attack, but to touch. To worship.  

Raymond stumbles back, his boots slipping in blood. "Stop—"  

The word comes out choked.  

A hunter with half his face melted from holy water presses his forehead to the tile. "You see the truth now," he rasps. "You hear the song."  

Mendoza stands at the edge of the circle, his crossbow raised but not firing. His mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes, but his jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth.  

Raymond's hand flies to his throat, to the black crucifix that has hung there since his daughter's first communion. The metal feels warm beneath his fingers. "There's no god here," he snarls. "Just us."  

The half-turned sigh as one, a sound like wind through dead leaves.  

Then the hunter with the melted face moves.  

Fast.  

Too fast.  

His claws rip the crucifix from Raymond's neck, the chain snapping like twine. The tiny figure of Christ spins through the air, landing with a clatter in the corner.  

Raymond doesn't move to retrieve it.  

Mendoza does.  

The crossbow thumps. The bolt takes the worshipping hunter through the temple, pinning his skull to the wall. He slumps, his ruined face still twisted in ecstasy.  

The other half-turned don't flinch.  

Raymond's pistol is in his hand before he makes the decision to draw it. The first shot takes a woman through the heart—Sarah's replacement, the new medic. She smiles as she dies.  

The second shot silences a man who once shared his rations with Raymond during the long winters between hunts.  

Mendoza methodically reloads.  

They work in silence, putting down hunter after hunter. None fight back. None even raise their hands in defense. They simply kneel, and wait, and believe—until the bullets come.  

When it's done, the chapel stinks of cordite and voided bowels.  

Raymond stands over the last body—a boy barely old enough to shave, his lips still moving in silent prayer even as the light leaves his eyes. The pistol grows heavy in Raymond's hand.  

Mendoza ejects a spent bolt. "You okay?"  

Raymond looks at the discarded crucifix in the corner. At the bodies. At his own black-veined hands.  

"No," he says.  

And finds, to his surprise, that he means it.  

Moonlight filters through broken window glass, painting jagged patterns across the carnage. Between them, the bodies of their fallen comrades form a grotesque circle - hunters who had knelt willingly for execution, their faces frozen in beatific smiles.  

Mendoza's crossbow creaks as he draws back the string. The silver-tipped bolt glints in the flickering emergency lights, its point leveled at Raymond's heart. His massive frame blocks the chapel doors, cutting off any escape.  

Raymond doesn't raise his gun. His fingers hang loose at his sides, twitching occasionally as the infection spreads through his veins. The bite on his forearm pulses visibly, black tendrils creeping beneath his skin like ink in water.  

"I'm sorry," Mendoza rumbles. His voice doesn't shake, but the tendons in his neck stand taut. The mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes, but his jaw works like he's chewing on something bitter. "You know the rules. You'd do the same."  

Near the altar, Raymond's discarded crucifix lies in a pool of congealing blood. The tiny silver Christ figure is bent at an unnatural angle, one arm torn from the cross.  

Raymond's throat works as he swallows. He could fight. Could draw his pistol in one last desperate act of defiance. Could let the thing inside him - the dark presence that's been whispering in his veins - take over completely.  

Instead, he nods. Just once.  

Mendoza exhales through his nose. His finger tightens on the trigger, the crossbow string trembling with tension -  

The massive window behind them explodes inward.  

A hail of shards rains down as something crashes through - too fast to comprehend, all rending claws and snapping teeth. The crossbow fires wild, the bolt embedding itself in the lobby wall as Mendoza is thrown backward.  

The last thing Raymond sees before the darkness takes him is a pair of glowing red eyes - and the glint of a familiar black cross.

Chapter 89

5:55 AM. The lobby erupts into chaos as the creature lands on Mendoza's back. Raymond ducks as a wild crossbow bolt whizzes past his ear, embedding itself in the blood-slickened wall. The massive hunter stumbles forward, his sunglasses clattering to the floor as he reaches backward, trying to grab the thing clinging to him like a monstrous backpack.

"Get it off!" Mendoza roars, slamming himself against the lobby wall. The plaster cracks but the creature holds fast, its too-long fingers digging into his tactical vest.

Raymond's pistol comes up but he hesitates - there, clamped between the creature's needle-like teeth, dangles his black crucifix, the silver Jesus figure bent at an impossible angle. The boy from the pantry. The grandmother's grandson. Only now his limbs stretch unnaturally, his fingers ending in black talons that tear at Mendoza's armor.

Mendoza spins again and Raymond sees the boy's face - one eye still startlingly human, blue and wide with terror, the other pupil blown black, oozing thick dark fluid. The boy's mouth works around the crucifix, his baby teeth sharpening even as Raymond watches.

"Shoot it!" Mendoza bellows as he crashes into a bench. Wood splinters. The crucifix falls from the boy's mouth, landing in the wreckage with a soft clink.

Raymond fires three times. The first two rounds punch through the boy's shoulder - black blood sprays across the signs lining the wall. The third goes wide as Mendoza staggers, the boy now sinking his teeth into the hunter's exposed neck.

Mendoza's scream shakes the hospital. He reaches back, fingers finding purchase on the boy's hospital gown, and with a strength born of desperation, hurls the creature across the room. The boy hits the counter with a sickening crunch, the glass cracking beneath the impact.

For a heartbeat, everything stills. Mendoza collapses to his knees, both hands clutching his ravaged neck. Blood pulses between his fingers in rhythmic spurts. Across the hall, the boy twitches, his limbs snapping back into unnatural positions as he rises.

Raymond moves between them, his weapon trained on the boy. "Stay down," he growls, but his hands shake. The boy can't be more than eight years old. Or what's left of him can't be.

The boy's head cocks to one side, that one blue eye focusing on Raymond with eerie clarity. His mouth opens - a wet, tearing sound - and what comes out isn't a child's voice but something layered, ancient, and laughing.

"Raymond," it croons through the boy's ruined vocal cords. "We've been waiting for you."

Behind him, Mendoza gurgles, collapsing fully onto his side. The pool of blood spreads rapidly across the chapel floor, mingling with the shattered glass and spent shell casings.

The boy's limbs elongate, his joints popping as he crouches on all fours. "He'll be dead in ninety-three seconds," the thing says conversationally. "Aortal rupture. You could save him. Or you could come with me." It extends one clawed hand. "Your choice."

Raymond glances back at Mendoza. The hunter's face has gone ashen, his lips moving silently. His hand twitches toward his dropped crossbow, fingers brushing the stock but unable to grasp it.

When Raymond turns back, the boy is gone. Only the shattered remains of a waiting room window mark his passage, the night wind howling through like ghostly pleas.

Raymond drops to his knees beside Mendoza, pressing his hands over the hunter's in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. The blood is warm, too warm, and there's so much of it.

Mendoza's lips move. Raymond leans close, his ear nearly touching the dying man's mouth.

"See you...in hell...Cruz," Mendoza whispers. A bubble of blood forms and pops at the corner of his mouth.

Raymond grabs Mendoza's face, forcing the hunter to look at him. "No. Say it. Say 'Jesus loves us both.' Say it!"

Mendoza's remaining eye focuses briefly, a spark of the old defiance flashing. His mouth twitches in what might be a smile or a grimace. The light leaves his eyes between one shallow breath and the next.

The lobby falls silent except for the wind through broken glass. Raymond sits back on his heels, his hands sticky with blood. The crucifix lies a few feet away, the tiny Christ figure's face rubbed smooth from years of anxious fingers. Outside, something howls - a sound that starts as a child's cry and ends as something else entirely.

Raymond picks up Mendoza's crossbow. The silver bolts gleam in the moonlight. He loads one mechanically, the action practiced after countless hunts. The weight feels different now. Everything feels different.

He steps over Mendoza's body, heading for the broken window. The night air smells of rain and something electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. Somewhere out there, the boy runs. Somewhere out there, the thing that spoke through him waits.

The blood continues to spread, creeping toward the fallen crucifix like a dark tide. 

The air in the lobby tastes of rust. Raymond Cruz moves through the darkness with the slow precision of a man walking into his own execution. The exit looms ahead, its double doors slightly ajar, shattered glass everywhere.

He knows before he steps outside that the prism is no longer in his pocket.

The weight in his chest tells him. The way his blood moves sluggish and thick, responding to some invisible pull. The way his teeth ache, his gums throbbing where his canines press too sharp against the inside of his lip.  

Three years of carrying the infection. Three years of fighting the turn.  

And now this. Raymond turns back.

He parts the construction plastic with the barrel of his pistol.  

The scent hits him first—burning wax and something older, something that smells like the inside of a freshly opened tomb. 

Ahead of him— a scene of chaos; Mendoza dead, fluorescent-lighting box dangling from the ceiling.

And beneath it, resting on the bloodstained marble, lies the prism.  

It is smaller than he'd expected. No larger than a baseball, its edges uneven, its surface catching what little light remains in the lobby and fracturing it into colors that shouldn't exist. It pulses faintly, a slow, rhythmic glow that matches the unnatural thud of Raymond's own heartbeat.  

He takes a step forward.  

The shadows move.  

They peel themselves from the walls, from the ceiling, from the hollows between the broken row-seats—figures made of smoke and rotting choir robes, their faces shifting between human and something else. Something with too many teeth.  

Demons. Not vampires. Not even close.  

Raymond's finger tightens on the trigger. He counts six. No, seven. Their forms waver like heat haze, their edges never quite solid. They don't advance. Don't attack. Just watch him with eyes that reflect the prism's sickly glow.  

Waiting.  

The air thickens, pressing against Raymond's skin like a lover's hand. His vision swims. For a heartbeat—just one—he sees the chapel as it must have been moments before he arrives: the demons kneeling in a half-circle around the prism, their heads bowed, their mouths moving in unison. Not guarding it.  

Worshipping it.  

Then the wave hits.  

It passes through the lobby like the breath of some sleeping god, invisible but undeniable. The spotlights flare, their glow burning black for a single, endless second. The demons shudder, their forms rippling, their mouths opening in silent screams.  

Raymond feels it in his bones. In his blood. In the infection that has lived inside him for three long years.  

It is calling him.  

The prism glows brighter.  

The demons don't move to stop him as he steps forward. Don't so much as twitch as he reaches out, his fingers closing around the prism's unnaturally warm surface.  

It isn't fear that holds them back.  

It is reverence.  

The moment his skin makes contact, the lobby vanishes.  

Not in a flash of light. Not in a swirl of smoke.  

It simply ceases to exist around him.  

One heartbeat, he is standing on cracked marble, the demons watching him with their hollow eyes.  

The next, he is outside, the prism clutched in his hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps.  

No transition. No memory of movement.  

Just—  

Here.  

The hospital doors stand closed behind him, whole and unbroken. Through the glass, shadows move. The demons have returned to their vigil.  

Raymond doesn't wait to see if they'll follow.  

He runs.  

The prism burns in his grip, its edges cutting into his palm. It isn't just warm now. It is alive, pulsing in time with his slowing heartbeat.  

Somewhere deep in the hospital, something howls.  

It doesn't sound angry.  

It sounds hungry.  

Tiny droplets of rain begin to pelt his forehead. Raymond hits the parking lot at a sprint, the prism's glow making his eyes water. Behind him, the hospital doors explode outward, the sound swallowed by a sudden, deafening silence.  

He doesn't look back.  

Can't.  

The prism is whispering now.  

And he is listening.  

The rain falls in sheets as he stumbles across the parking lot, the prism burning a hole in his jacket pocket. His boots splash through black puddles—oil or blood, he can't tell. The hospital looms behind him, its broken windows like empty eye sockets.

Then he sees it.

Gaspard's body lies sprawled between two parked ambulances, his Guild-issued trench coat splayed open like broken wings. His throat is torn out, the wound too jagged for a blade—this was claws. Teeth. The rain dilutes the blood pooling beneath him, turning it pink as it snakes toward the storm drains.

Raymond's breath hitches.

They'll think I did this.

The Guild's suspicion had been a slow poison long before tonight. His infection. His failures. The way he'd questioned orders. Now, with Mendoza and the others dead and Gaspard butchered? He's the perfect scapegoat.

He scans the lot. The hunters' vehicles remain exactly where they left them—Mendoza's armored van, the Kovacs' modified coupe, even Thompson's shitty Honda with the Vampires Suck bumper sticker. Only Shane's black SUV is missing.

Convenient.

Raymond crouches beside Gaspard's body, ignoring the way the rainwater soaks through his jeans. The prism hums in his pocket, its vibrations painfully syncing with his pulse. Up close, Gaspard's wound is worse. The boy? No—the thing wearing the boy had precision. This is frenzied. Desperate.

Gaspard's fingers are locked around something. Raymond pries them open.

A silver medallion—the Guild's insignia—snapped clean in half.

Not possible.

The Guild's silver is blessed. Tempered. It doesn't break.

Unless whatever killed him was something the Guild had never accounted for.

A sound.

Raymond whirls, pistol drawn, but the lot is empty. Just the rain and the distant wail of sirens. The prism's whispers grow louder, threading through his thoughts like smoke.

Run.

His car is twenty feet away. The Charger's dark luster offering sanctuary and mobility. For three years, it's been his only constant.

He takes a step toward it.

Then stops.

Mendoza's face flashes behind his eyes—the way his lips moved in those final seconds, the unspoken words dying with him. A plea. A last defiance.

Raymond's fingers twitch. The guilt is a physical weight, pressing down on his lungs until he can't breathe. He should've been faster. Should've seen the boy coming. Should've—

The prism pulses.

A wave of dizziness hits him, his vision swimming. For a second, he's back in the chapel, watching the demons kneel. Watching them worship.

The medallion slips from his fingers, landing in the bloodied water with a soft plink.

The sirens are closer now.

Raymond stumbles to his car, yanking the door open. 

The interior smells of old coffee and gun oil. 

Rain drums against the Charger's windshield, the sound hollow and distant. Raymond sits in the driver's seat, his fingers gripping the wheel hard enough to make the leather creak. The prism hums in his jacket pocket, its vibrations crawling up his ribs like spider legs.  

His left arm burns.  

The bite marks—jagged and black-veined—throb beneath his sleeve. The infection spreads in slow, insistent waves, whispering promises in a language that isn't quite words.  

Not yet.  

Raymond exhales through clenched teeth and pops the glove compartment. Inside, nestled between spare ammo and a half-empty bottle of painkillers, is a single vial of antidote. His personal supply. The Guild's batches had failed, but this one—this one he'd brewed himself.  

He pulls it out, turning it in the dim light. The liquid inside is clear, not the cloudy separation he'd seen in the cafeteria. Still good.  

The prism's hum turns sharp. A warning.  

Raymond ignores it.  

He rolls up his sleeve, revealing the wound. The skin around it is mottled, the veins beneath gone black. He doesn't hesitate. The needle goes in, the plunger depresses.  

The effect is immediate.  

Fire races through his veins, holy water and silver nitrate burning away the infection. His back arches against the seat as the antidote does its work, purging the vampiric rot from his blood. The black veins recede, the wound knitting shut—  

—but the pain doesn't stop.  

The prism pushes back.  

A fresh wave of agony lances through his arm, the bite marks reopening in thin, precise lines. Blood wells, dark and shimmering, dripping onto the Charger's upholstery.  

Raymond grits his teeth. The antidote works—he can feel it, the clarity returning to his thoughts, the hunger receding—but the prism refuses to let him heal completely.  

It wants him marked.  

Wants him tainted.  

Outside, the rain falls harder. The hospital's emergency lights cast wavering reflections in the puddles, turning them into pools of liquid gold.  

Raymond stares at his arm. The wound pulses in time with the prism's vibrations, a reminder. A claim.  

He's cured.  

But he's not clean.  

The rain intensifies, hammering against the Charger's roof like impatient fingers. Raymond watches the droplets race down the windshield, their paths intersecting and diverging like the choices that brought him here. The prism's presence in his pocket feels heavier now, as if it's grown roots into the fabric, into him.  

His left arm burns with renewed fury.  

The bite marks pulse angrily, the black veins spiderwebbing outwards again despite the antidote's work. Raymond presses his palm against the wound, feeling the unnatural heat radiating through his skin. The holy water in the antidote—his secret ingredient, the one the Guild had stopped using—should have purged the infection completely.  

But the prism has other plans.  

A fresh jolt of pain makes him gasp. The wound weeps that strange, shimmering blood—too dark to be human, too thick to be vampiric. It coats his fingers, sticky and warm, and for a moment Raymond swears he sees shapes forming in the droplets before they fall. Faces. Screaming.  

The prism thrums approvingly.  

Raymond reaches for the rearview mirror, angling it to examine his reflection. His eyes are still his own—no blackened sclera, no elongated pupils—but the shadows beneath them look deeper, more pronounced. As if something beneath his skin is hollowing him out from within.  

The Charger's interior now feels like a relic from another life. His shotgun rests in the backseat, the silver-tipped shells gleaming dully in their bandolier. Useless against what's inside him now.  

A flash of lightning illuminates the parking lot. For that split second, Raymond sees them—figures standing motionless between the abandoned vehicles. Not vampires. Not hunters. Things with too many joints in their limbs, their faces smooth and blank as mannequins. Watching.  

Then darkness swallows them again.  

He doesn't let himself think. Doesn't let himself feel. Just presses the start button, shifts into drive and floors it.

The Charger's engine roars to life, tires screeching as he peels out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, the hospital shrinks, its silhouette jagged against the storm-lit sky.

Then—

A flicker of movement near Gaspard's body.

Raymond's blood runs cold.

The boy stands there, his too-long limbs silhouetted by the ambulance lights. One blue eye. One black. He doesn't chase. Doesn't scream.

Just watches.

And smiles.

The prism's whispers crescendo, vibrating through Raymond's bones. It's not just hunger he hears in them now.

It's triumph.

The highway stretches ahead, dark and endless. Raymond grips the wheel until his knuckles bleach white. The sky is a dull, mustard color now. 

He doesn't know where he's going.

Only that he can't stop.

"The nearest exit will do."

Raymond's voice sounds alien to himself, hoarse from disuse and the thing growing in his throat. The Charger's GPS blinks obediently, routing him to a fluorescent-lit oasis five minutes down the way—the same gas station where he'd bought cigarettes and bad coffee hours earlier, when tomorrow still felt like a probability.

6:25 AM. Rain slashes across the windshield as he pulls into the cracked asphalt lot. The neon sign buzzes intermittently, casting jittery pink light over fuel pumps crusted with dead insects. Inside, a different cashier leans against the register—tall, acne-scarred, chewing gum with bovine disinterest. The morning shift. Raymond kills the engine but doesn't exit, watching the kid's silhouette through rain-streaked glass.

His phone vibrates in the cup holder. AL - GUILD DISPATCH flashes on the screen.

Raymond's bitten arm twitches. The wound weeps sluggishly, staining his sleeve. Al's been the Guild's dispatcher for fifteen years, a raspy-voiced lifer who knows every hunter's position, every op code. If Mendoza's team hasn't checked in...

He lets it ring. The voicemail notification pops up seconds later, but he doesn't listen. Instead, he stares at the prism on his passenger seat, its uneven surface drinking the gas station's neon glow and fracturing it into colors that hurt his eyes.

He’s disappointed in himself for not answering.

The phone rings again. He gives in this time.

"You're alive." Flat. No relief. Just observation.  

Raymond wipes sweat from his brow, his fingers coming away streaked with soot and something darker. "For now."  

A pause. Too long. The line hisses with static, or maybe it was the wildfire smoke thickening between them.  

"They're calling it a containment breach," Al says finally. "Whole east wing's quarantined. Gaspard's screaming for your head on a spike."  

Raymond's laugh tastes like copper. "Nothing new."  

Another silence. This one stretched taut as a garrote wire. Raymond watches the highway through the rain-streaked windshield. Shadows move in his peripheral.  

"You find it?" Al's voice drops, the words careful. Too careful.  

The prism burns in Raymond's pocket. He doesn’t answer.  

Al exhales hard through his nose. "Christ, Ray."  

"They were already dead." Raymond flexes his hand on the wheel, watching the tendons shift beneath skin gone suspiciously pale. "The antidote's worthless. Mendoza knows it. Gaspard too."  

"Doesn't matter what they know." A keyboard clacks in the background. "What matters is what they can prove."  

The subtext hangs between them, ugly and undeniable. Al isn’t just warning him. He is covering his own ass, fingers already flying across some Guild-issued terminal, red flags popping up in neat bureaucratic rows. Raymond Cruz: rogue asset. Possible exposure. Recommended termination.  

Headlights flare in the distance. Two sets. Coming fast.  

"Al."  

"I hear you." More typing. "Listen—"  

Raymond kills the call.  

Another ring.

This number he knows by heart at this point. Shane.

Raymond answers with the barrel of his pistol pressed against the dashboard, as if the gun could travel through the connection. "You gutless fuck. Left Gaspard to bleed out like—"

"Gaspard's dead?" Shane's voice cracks mid-syllable. A chair scrapes in the background, like he's just stood up too fast. "When? The hospital's dark—Mendoza's team stopped responding—"

"Cut the act." Raymond watches the cashier rearrange beef jerky displays. "You were first out. Your SUV's gone. And that medallion didn't break itself."

Silence. Then a sharp inhale. "Listen carefully, Cruz. If Gaspard's medallion snapped, it means something breached the—"

"Save it for your Satanic bible study." Raymond's finger curls around the trigger guard. The prism pulses in his peripheral vision. "You wanted the prism bad enough to kill for it. What's it really do? Open a gate? Summon something?"

Shane's exhale sounds dangerously close to a laugh. "You have it? Christ. Put it in a lead box and—"

Raymond hangs up. The phone immediately lights up again—Shane calling back—but he silences it with a jab of his thumb. Outside, the gas price display sets the price for the morning.

His reflection in the rearview mirror gives him pause. The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened, the lines around his mouth more pronounced. The bite marks throb in time with the prism's vibrations, a counter-rhythm to his heartbeat. He digs the vial of antidote from his pocket—two doses left—but hesitates. The holy water in the solution makes the prism recoil, but the relief never lasts.

Headlights sweep across the lot. Raymond's hand goes to his pistol, but it's just a semi-truck rumbling toward the diesel pumps. The driver never glances his way.

The phone vibrates with a text notification:

AL: Guild protocol 9 initiated. All hunters report to nearest safehouse for debrief. Your GPS shows you at marker 77. Confirm receipt.

Raymond stares at the message. Protocol 9 means quarantine—full lockdown until threat assessment. Standard procedure after a mass casualty event. But the timing...

He types one-handed: Who authorized?

The response comes instantly: Shane. 18 minutes ago.

Rain drums on the roof. The trucker at the fuel pumps lights a cigarette, the flare of his lighter briefly illuminating a face weathered by decades of highway tales. Normal. Human. Raymond envies him with sudden, vicious intensity.

Another text appears, this time from Shane: They're coming for you. Run. The prism's more important than you know.

Raymond's thumb hovers over the screen. The prism hums on the seat beside him, its surface swirling with those impossible colors. He thinks of the demons kneeling before it. The boy's mismatched eyes. Gaspard's snapped medallion.

With deliberate slowness, he rolls down the window and hurls the phone into the adjacent field. It arcs through the rain and vanishes into the tall grass.

The trucker glances over, shrugs, and resumes pumping fuel.

Raymond reaches for the prism. Its surface feels fever-warm against his palm, the edges biting into his skin just shy of drawing blood. The wound on his arm pulses in response, the black veins darkening again despite the antidote.

"Alright," he murmurs. "Let's see what you really are."

As if in answer, the gas station's lights flicker. The cashier looks up from his magazine, frowns at the ceiling. The trucker pauses, nozzle still in his tank.

Then the power fails entirely.

In the sudden darkness, the prism glows brighter, casting jagged shadows across the Charger's interior. Raymond's breath fogs in the rapidly cooling air. Outside, the trucker swears and fumbles for a flashlight.

The cashier's silhouette moves behind the counter—too fast, too fluid. Raymond's pistol is up before he consciously decides to draw. The figure cocks its head at a distinctly unnatural angle.

Not the cashier anymore.

The trucker's flashlight beam sweeps across the building. "Power outage or what?" His voice carries through the rain.

The thing behind the counter smiles. Raymond sees the gleam of teeth even through the rain-streaked glass. It raises one finger to its lips in a hushing gesture, then points—not at Raymond, but at the prism.

It thrums in his hand, eager.

Raymond shifts the Charger into drive. Tires screech as he peels out of the lot, prism glowing on the passenger seat, the gas station vanishing into the storm behind him.

He doesn't look back.

Not when his own reflection in the rearview mirror shows eyes that gleam prismatic for just an instant before fading back to normal.

The highway stretches ahead, black and endless. The Charger's engine purrs. The wound in his arm stops hurting for the first time in hours.

Raymond Cruz drives.

Chapter 90

6:55 AM. The Charger's tires crunch over broken pavement as Raymond parks on the uphill residential street. The rain stops with unnatural abruptness—one moment hammering on the roof, the next silent—as if someone flipped a celestial switch. He kills the engine. Through the windshield, the sky hangs mustard-yellow and motionless, like a bruise refusing to heal.

This neighborhood escaped the fire. White picket fences. Hydrangeas too perfectly blue. The kind of street where people wash their cars on Sundays and pretend not to notice the world ending three blocks over.

Raymond digs beneath the passenger seat, fingers finding the magnetic case. Inside, the second burner phone—untraceable, unknown even to the Guild—blinks to life when he thumbs the power. His reflection glows pale in the screen. The bite marks on his arm have stopped bleeding but still pulse in time with the prism's vibrations from the glovebox.

He dials Shane.

"Jesus, Cruz—" Shane's voice is all static and tension. "Don't move. I'll call you back in—"

“But—!” The line dies. Raymond stares at the phone. Before he can redial, it rings.

"Secure line," Shane says when he answers. "They're triangulating every—"

Another beep interrupts. Call waiting. Raymond checks the screen: AL - GUILD DISPATCH.

"Shit," Shane hisses. "That's Al. Don't say anything." A click as the call merges. "Al? Yeah, I'm here. No, still no contact from—"

"Cut the crap." Al's smoker's rasp carries the weight of decades dispensing Guild orders. "We both know he's calling you right now. Protocol Nine means no exceptions. Especially not for Cruz."

Raymond's grip tightens on the phone. Outside, a sprinkler system kicks on across the street, the rhythmic hiss at odds with the post-storm stillness.

Shane's voice goes carefully neutral. "If you think he's compromised—"

"Not me. Tremaine." Al spits the name like a bad taste. "He's been reviewing personnel files since the hospital went dark. Says Cruz's psychological profile shows—"

A new voice slices through the line, crisp British vowels polished by old money and older cruelty: "Ah, Mr. Shane. And presumably our wayward Mr. Cruz listening in?" Tremaine's tone suggests a man accustomed to being both feared and obeyed. "How... economical."

Raymond stays silent. The prism in the glovebox hums louder.

"I'll take that as yes," Tremaine continues. "Gentlemen, we have a rogue operative carrying what may be the most dangerous artifact in Guild history. And we're debating protocol?"

Shane tries to interject: "Sir, if we could—"

"Shall I list the concerns?" Papers shuffle in the background. "Missed psychiatric evaluations. Questionable loyalty markers. And this..." A dramatic pause. "We're meant to trust him with nocturnal acquisitions when he couldn't even attend his daughter's birth?"

The words hit like a silver round to the chest. Raymond's vision tunnels. They'd dredged up Karina’s hospital records. Used that against him. That had total “acquisition” of him.

The line crackles with tension as Tremaine's smooth voice oozes through the speaker:  

"Come now, Mr. Cruz. We both know you've never been good at putting family first." A pause, thick with implication. "Though I suppose that's rather convenient now, isn't it?"  

Raymond's knuckles whiten around the phone. The Charger's interior suddenly feels suffocating.  

Shane cuts in: "That's out of line, Tremaine—"  

"Is it?" The Englishman's chuckle sends ice down Raymond's spine. "We protect what's ours. And right now, your daughter is simply... unprotected."  

The call dissolves into shouting, but Raymond doesn't hear it. The prism's hum grows louder in his lap, its vibrations matching his racing pulse. Outside, the mustard sky darkens.  

Al sighs—the sound of a man out of choices. "Tremaine's got the board's ear, Shane. They want Cruz contained. And the prism."

"Contained." Shane's laugh holds zero humor. "That what we're calling it now?"

"Enough." Tremaine's voice drops an octave, something reptilian slithering beneath the polish. "Mr. Shane, you will arrange a meet. Standard extraction point. Mr. Al, prepare a containment team. And Mr. Cruz..." A smile audible through the line. "Do try to resist. It's more sporting that way."

The call disconnects.

For three heartbeats, the only sound is the sprinkler's metronomic hiss.

Then Shane exhales sharply. "You still there?"

Raymond watches a drop of water slide down the Charger's windshield. It trembles at the edge of the glass, refusing to fall. "Why'd you answer?"

"Because you're holding the prism. And Tremaine wants it." Shane's voice drops to a whisper. "That hospital wasn't just a nest, Cruz. It was a church. Those vamps weren't hiding the prism—they were guarding it."

Outside, the streetlights flicker. Not the usual post-storm surge. This is purposeful. Hungry. The prism's glow seeps through the glovebox's seams, painting the interior in pulsing, otherworldly light.

Raymond reaches for it. "What is it really?"

"Don't open the—" Shane cuts himself off. A door slams in his background. When he speaks again, it's faster, quieter. "I’m sending you an address where you will signal me when you’ve arrived. Two hours. And Cruz? Bring the prism. But for God's sake, don't look directly at it."

The Charger's engine ticks as it cools on the abandoned street. Raymond grips the burner phone tighter, watching the too-still mustard sky through his windshield. Shane's breathing rasps through the speaker—quick, adrenaline-sharp.  

"So let me get this straight," Raymond says, thumb tracing the edge of the prism's lead-lined case on the passenger seat. "You want me to drive straight into a Guild extraction point after you just got off a call where you agreed to hand me over." He doesn’t sound stand-offish, more defeated.

Static crackles as Shane exhales. "I need you to trust—"  

"I don't." The bite marks on Raymond's arm throb beneath his sleeve. "Why two hours? Why the rail yard? You setting up a kill box?"  

A pause. Then Shane's voice drops, the words hurried: "Because that's how long it'll take Tremaine's cleanup crew to get here from D.C. Because the rail yard's got tunnels even the Guild doesn't have mapped. Because—" A sharp inhale. "—you're holding the only artifact that can prove I'm not crazy."  

Raymond's fingers still on the prism case. It hums against his touch, whispering in tones that vibrate his molars.  

Shane continues, faster now: "Tremaine— no, Ferrante the man who employs Tremaine— had teams digging under that hospital for years. Not for vamps—for that prism. Whatever it is, it's older than the Guild. Older than Christianity." A bitter laugh. "And you just walked out with it in your pocket."  

Outside, a sprinkler kicks on across the street, the rhythmic hiss too perfectly timed. Raymond watches the water arc over manicured lawns. This neighborhood shouldn't exist—not after the downtown fires, not with the sky that color.  

"So what's your play?" Raymond asks quietly.  

"Give them what they expect." Shane's chair creaks as he leans closer to his mic. "I'll meet you with a body bag and a blood pack. We make it look good. Then I take the prism and you the tunnels while I stall."  

Rain begins pattering on the roof again—gentle at first, then harder, as if the storm remembers it's supposed to be raging. Raymond watches droplets chase each other down the glass.  

"You believe in me?" The question escapes before he can stop it. "You don't think I'm Satan on Earth like everybody else does?"  

Silence. Then Shane's voice comes softer: "I think you're the only hunter who ever asked why we use holy water from a specific Italian spring that dried up in 1987. The only one who noticed our 'vampire antidotes' stopped working right after Tremaine took over R&D." A beat. "And I think if you were truly turned, that prism wouldn't just be whispering to you—it'd be singing."  

The line crackles with distant thunder—or maybe just bad reception. Raymond stares at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His pupils are still round. Still human. For now.  

"Two hours," he finally says.  

"Two hours," Shane confirms. "And Cruz? Don't look directly at the prism before then."  

The rain drums harder against the Charger’s roof as Raymond’s grip tightens on the phone.  

“I won’t,” he says, glancing at the prism’s case. Then, quieter: “But if you screw me, Shane, I’ll just fucking kill myself.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Skip over this Guild. Skip over all you so-called Christians. Direct line to hell. Don’t need nobody’s help.”  

Static hisses through the line. For a moment, there’s only the sound of Shane’s measured breathing. Then—  

“Cruz.” Shane’s voice is low, deliberate. “You’re a father again.”  

Raymond’s hand goes still. The world narrows to the phone pressed against his ear, the rain blurring the windshield into a watery smear of yellow sky and dark pavement.  

“That’s the Guild’s call,” he says finally, each word sharp as broken glass.  

The silence stretches. Somewhere in the background of Shane’s end, a door creaks open, voices murmuring in hushed tones.  

“They’re monitoring her,” Shane says at last. “Just like they monitored you.”  

Raymond’s breath fogs the glass in front of him. The prism thrums inside its case, a slow, insistent pulse against his skull.  

“It looks like I have a helper for the first time in my historical career.”

“Two hours,” Shane says again, and ends the call.  

The Charger’s engine roars to life. In the rearview mirror, the empty street watches him go.  

Somewhere behind him, a curtain twitches in an upstairs window.  

He doesn't look back.  

The burner phone vibrates in Raymond’s lap with an unknown number. The screen flashes “Restricted” as he answers.  

"Baby?"  

The voice is Karina’s—same pitch, same slight rasp from when she’d cried too hard in recent weeks. 

Raymond’s grip tightens. The prism pulses in its case beside him.  

"Karina?"  

"They’re following me," the voice gasps, breathless in a way that doesn’t sound quite stable. "I took a cab—I don’t know where to go—"  

"Where are you?" Raymond’s already pushing the pedal to the floor, his eyes darting for wandering traffic police.

"The old train depot off 7th. Please, just—" A choked sob. "I don’t have long."  

The phone trembles in Raymond’s hand, pressed tight to his ear as Karina’s sobs crackle through the line. Each ragged breath cuts deeper than any vampire’s claw.  

“Raymond—just tell me—” Her voice splinters. “Can I trust you?”  

Raymond’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. The Charger’s headlights cut through the dawn gloom, painting the empty street in sickly yellow. 

“I’m coming,” he says, too rough, too fast. “Just hold on. I’ll be there in ten.”  

A wet sniff. “You promise?”  

The question guts him. He remembers the day he married her, her hands clutching his as she demanded the same promise: “You won’t let go?” He’d lied then too.  

“Promise.” Tires screech as he takes the turn too fast. “Karina—has anyone called you? Today?”  

Silence. Then, confused: “No. Why?”  

Raymond exhales through clenched teeth. 

“No reason.” He forces calm into his voice. “Hide. Don’t answer for anyone but me.”  

Karina’s breath hitches. “You’re scaring me.”  

The prism’s whispers surge, threading through his thoughts like smoke: She should be scared. She will be.

Raymond presses the gas harder. “I’m coming.”  

Static swallows her next words. 

The phone slips from the dash as the Charger rockets forward, engine screaming. The prism pulses in time with his racing heart.  

“You can trust me. I’ll be there in ten.”

The line goes dead.  

For several seconds, Raymond drives in silence. Then he dials another number—his former home phone number, the one he hasn’t used in months.  

It rings twice before she answers.  

"What." No hello. Just that flat, exhausted syllable.  

Raymond exhales. "You home?"  

A pause. The rustle of sheets. "It’s seven in the fucking morning. Of course I’m home."  

In the background, a coffee maker gurgles. Isabella whines nearby. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.  

Raymond closes his eyes. "Just checking."  

Another pause. Then, sharper: "Are you drunk?"  

"No." He rubs his forehead. The bite marks on his arm throb. "I just... needed to hear your voice."  

The line goes so quiet he thinks she’s hung up. Then:  

"Don’t do that." Karina’s voice cracks. "Don’t call me when you’re like this. I’m not your guilt sponge."  

The prism hums louder, as if laughing. Raymond watches his reflection warp in the rearview mirror—his eyes too dark, his teeth too sharp.  

"Karina, I—"  

"Stop." A shuddering breath. "Just stop."  

The click of her hanging up echoes louder than any gunshot.  

Raymond drops the phone. Outside, the mustard sky darkens toward bile-green. The false Karina’s voice still rings in his ears—that perfect imitation, that flawless fear.  

A trap.  

And he’s walking right into it.  

The Charger’s engine growls. The prism’s whispers coil around his thoughts like smoke.  

He drives.  

8:03 AM. The town car glides past the art-deco façade of the discreet social club, its black windows reflecting the neon glow of the city in fractured streaks of crimson and electric blue. The building stands as a relic of another era—chrome accents catching the streetlights, geometric patterns etched into its stonework, a polished ebony door flanked by two broad-shouldered men in tailored suits who look like they've been carved from the same marble as the pillars behind them. Their presence is theater. The real security hides in the shadows between the club's artfully placed ferns and behind its two-way mirrors.  

Inside the car's plush interior, Sister Rosemary sits perfectly still, her spine not touching the leather seatback. Her hands—pale, veined with the faintest tracery of age—rest folded in her lap, fingers laced with the precision of rosary beads counted ten thousand times. The silver hair pulled into its severe bun gleams like a halo under the passing streetlights, each strand disciplined into place. Her eyes, sharp as the blade she keeps strapped to her thigh beneath her habit, methodically scan the streetscape outside, missing nothing: the nervous twitch of the club's door manager's left eyelid, the too-casual lean of the taxi driver parked across the street, the way the second-story curtains twitch ever so slightly behind their gilded rods.  

The driver—a thick-necked man with a healed knife scar peeking above his collar—keeps his gaze rigidly forward, his breathing deliberately even. He's been handpicked from the Vatican's security detail, trained to anticipate her needs before she voices them. Right now, he knows better than to speak. Knows better than to even clear his throat. The last driver who made that mistake now works the night shift in the basilica's boiler room.  

Shane rolls down the passenger-side window with deliberate slowness, letting the humid morning air coil into the climate-controlled interior like an unwelcome spirit. The scent of rain-soaked pavement and distant garbage mixes with the cloying sweetness of jasmine from some overpriced hotel's landscaping. A police siren warbles twelve blocks away, the sound warping as it bounces between the glass-and-steel canyons of the financial district.  

"Prism might be in play," he says, not looking at her as he flicks cigarette ash into the slipstream. "Might not." His voice carries just enough hesitation to be deliberate. "Intel's shaky."  

The traffic lights strobe across Sister Rosemary's impassive face as they pass beneath them. One. Two. Three. She waits until the fourth flash before responding, letting the silence stretch taut between them.  

"You're telling me this," she says finally, each word measured like communion wine poured for a condemned man, "because you think I care. Or because you think I'm involved."  

Shane's smirk doesn't reach his eyes. "Wouldn't be the first time the Church played both sides."  

The temperature in the car seems to drop several degrees. Sister Rosemary turns her head just enough for the light to catch the gold crucifix hanging from her neck—not the delicate feminine thing one might expect, but a heavy, medieval-looking piece that could double as a knuckle-duster. Her gaze pins Shane with the weight of centuries of Inquisitions.  

"In these days, Mr. Woodbridge," she says, her voice like a scalpel sliding between ribs, "I am the wrong person to be suspicious of."  

The traffic light ahead cycles from yellow to red. The town car comes to a stop so smooth the bottled water in the built-in cooler doesn't ripple.  

Shane exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. "Then who should I be looking at?"  

A muscle twitches near Sister Rosemary's jawline—the only outward sign of her irritation. "The Guild's own records would be a start." She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Or do you still believe their failures are merely incompetence?"  

Outside, a group of laughing bankers spills from the club's side entrance, their thousand-dollar shoes scuffing the pavement. One of them stumbles into the path of a bicyclist, sparking a brief shouting match. The security men don't move.  

Shane's fingers tighten around his cigarette, crushing the filter slightly. He doesn't answer.  

The light turns green; the club's neon sign reflects in the rear window, its glow washing over Sister Rosemary's face like liquid rubies.  

"Tell Raymond," she says as the power window begins its silent ascent, "that faith isn't the problem." The glass seals with a barely audible thump. "It's who he's chosen to have faith in."  

The soundproof partition slides shut before Shane can form a reply, leaving him alone with his reflection in the darkened glass—and the uncomfortable truth staring back at him. In the rearview mirror, he catches the driver's eyes flicking toward him for the briefest instant before snapping forward again. Message delivered. He exits the vehicle quietly.

8:23 AM. Raymond Cruz leans against the brick wall outside the social club, the art-deco façade casting jagged shadows across his face. The city pulses around him—honking cabs, laughter spilling from bars, the distant thump of bass from a passing car. None of it touches him. His gaze flicks toward the elevated tracks as a train snakes through the financial district, its silver body glinting under the morning sun. It rumbles past glass towers, a mechanical serpent carrying suits and briefcases toward the station just blocks away. The rhythm of its wheels syncs with his heartbeat—steady, relentless.  

His attention snaps back to the club’s entrance, where two men in tailored suits stand like sentinels, their eyes scanning the street with practiced disinterest.  

The burner phone feels heavy in his hand. He thumbs Shane’s contact, holds it to his ear. Three rings. Four. Voicemail.  

“You know what to do.”

Raymond doesn’t leave a message. He stares at the screen as it lights up again—*Al Calling*—and lets it go to silence. Whatever the Guild wants, it can wait. Whatever Al knows, he isn’t sharing. Not really.  

A black town car rolls past, windows tinted to midnight. Raymond catches the faintest reflection of himself in the glass—pale, hollow-eyed, a man already halfway to ghost. The car doesn’t stop.  

He exhales. The prism throbs in its Guild-issue lead case. He waits.  

9:23 AM. The social club’s interior smells of cigar smoke and old money. Polished mahogany, crystal decanters catching the dim light, the kind of place where deals are made with a handshake and a bullet if necessary. Shane Woodbridge steps inside, his left arm cradled against his ribs like it’s been dislocated—an easy enough injury to fake for the cameras. Blood smears his temple, another theatrical touch.  

"Right this way, Mr. Woodbridge," murmurs the attendant, a man with the bland handsomeness of a corporate assassin. "Mr. Tremaine is expecting you."  

Upstairs, the atmosphere shifts. The air grows heavier, thick with something that isn’t just humidity. Through a half-open door, Shane catches a glimpse of Tremaine—tall, impeccably dressed, his salt-and-pepper hair giving him the air of a distinguished academic—leaning over a table where Mr. Ferrante sits.  

Ferrante.  

Even in profile, the man radiates wrongness. His fingers tap rhythmically against the tabletop, each movement precise, mechanical. His eyes—when they flick up—aren’t just suspect. They glow. Like something scooped out the man behind them and left only the hunger.  

Shane looks away before Ferrante can feel the weight of his stare.  

The attendant leads him to the front room, where Tremaine waits beside an open lead case—the one Raymond was supposed to have left behind.  

Tremaine doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He lifts the case, turns it upside down. Nothing falls out.  

"Disappointing," Tremaine murmurs, his British accent crisp. "I expected better theater from you, Shane."  

Shane keeps his breathing steady. "Cruz wasn’t as sloppy as we thought."  

Tremaine sets the case down with deliberate care. His cufflinks gleam—onyx set in silver, the Guild’s insignia subtly etched into the stone. "Where is it?"  

"With him." Shane meets Tremaine’s gaze. "He ran. I couldn’t stop him."  

A beat of silence. Then Tremaine smiles—a slow, humorless thing. "You’re lying."  

The air in the room thickens. Shane’s pulse kicks up, but he doesn’t flinch. "Check the security feeds."  

"Oh, I will." Tremaine steps closer. Up close, his cologne is understated—sandalwood and something faintly metallic. "But here’s what I know: Raymond Cruz doesn’t leave loose ends. If he wanted the prism, he wouldn’t have left you alive to talk about it."  

Shane’s jaw tightens.  

Tremaine sighs, as if disappointed by a child’s poor marks. "Twenty-four hours, Shane. Bring me the prism. Or I’ll assume you’ve chosen the wrong side."  

Behind him, the door creaks open. Ferrante stands there, his hollow eyes fixed on Shane. His lips move, but the voice that comes out isn’t his—it’s layered, guttural, the sound of something old and ravenous speaking through a human throat:  

“He already has."

10:17 AM. Raymond stands on the train platform, the prism heavy in his coat pocket. The lead case is gone—discarded in a dumpster miles back. The artifact hums against his hip, its whispers threading through his thoughts like smoke.  

Across the tracks, a figure steps out of the shadows.  

Karina.  

Not the impostor from the phone. The real one—her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, her arms crossed against the morning chill. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just watches him with tired eyes.  

The train approaches, its headlight cutting through the gloom.  

Raymond doesn’t move.  

The prism pulses.  

Somewhere behind him, the city burns.  

AtilA