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The severed head rolled under the pew with a wet thump, coming to rest against the priest’s polished shoe. The man didn’t scream—just stared down at it, blinking, as if waiting for the punchline to a joke he hadn’t heard yet.

"You were late with the tithe," said the woman in the doorway, flicking blood from her nails. Her dress, the color of a freshly scabbed wound, clung to her hips where the fabric had split during the chase. The church smelled of incense and iron now, a combination that made her nostrils flare.

The priest's mouth moved silently, forming words that wouldn’t come. His gaze darted between the head at his feet and the woman in red—no, not a woman, not anymore, if she ever had been. The thing in the doorway smiled, revealing teeth that tapered to points like shards of broken glass.

Behind the altar, a rustle of heavy fabric. Sister Agatha emerged from the sacristy, her wimple slightly askew from hurried prayer. She froze mid-step, her hand flying to the wooden crucifix at her throat. The vampire’s head snapped toward her with the precision of a predator catching new scent. "Ah," she purred. "Dessert."

Sister Agatha’s scream barely had time to echo before the vampire’s fingers clamped around her throat, silencing her with a squeeze that crushed cartilage. The priest scrambled backward, overturning the chalice—consecrated wine splashed across the altar like cheap stage blood. The vampire dragged the nun by her wimple, the starched fabric tearing as easily as skin beneath a blade.

The kitchen was all butcher-block and copper pans, the scent of yesterday’s bread mixing with the coppery reek of fresh terror. The vampire slammed Sister Agatha onto the central table hard enough to crack the wood. A cleaver hung from a hook above the sink; the nun’s fingers scrabbled for it, but the vampire caught her wrist and twisted until the bone snapped with a sound like stepping on dry twigs.

The vampire's fingers slid beneath Sister Agatha's wimple, peeling it away like the rind of a fruit. The fabric tore with a wet sound—somewhere between cloth ripping and flesh parting—revealing the pulsing vein along her throat. The nun's breath came in ragged bursts, her lips moving in silent prayer even as her body spasmed against the splintered table.

"Still calling on your god?" The vampire leaned down, her tongue tracing the curve of the nun's jaw. "How quaint." With a flick of her wrist, she tore the front of Sister Agatha's habit open, buttons pinging against copper pans. The nun's chest rose and fell rapidly, her skin flushed pink with panic. The vampire inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring at the scent of adrenaline-rich blood rushing just beneath the surface.

The copper pans rattled on their hooks as the door to the rectory kitchen burst inward, hinges screaming like slaughtered pigs. The vampire froze mid-bite, Sister Agatha’s blood still dripping from her fangs. Every candle flame in the room bent toward the doorway as if bowing—except they weren’t candles anymore, were they? The nun realized through fading vision that the flickering lights were pairs of eyes, dozens of them, clustered in the shadows beyond the threshold.

"Drayton comes," whispered one of the watching vampires, voice rasping like a coffin lid dragged over gravel. The words sent a visible shudder through the blood-smeared creature atop Sister Agatha

The watching eyes blinked out one by one—extinguished like candles snuffed between wet fingers—until only the scent of damp earth and old blood lingered where they’d stood. The vampire atop Sister Agatha lifted her head slowly, lips still glistening with stolen life. Her fingers uncurled from the nun’s torn habit as if releasing a caught bird, though the nun’s chest had long since stilled.

Drayton’s footsteps made no sound on the flagstones, yet every copper pan trembled on its hook. He stood in the doorway, his frock coat the black of a starless midnight, his cravat stiff with dried blood from collarbone to jaw. The kitchen’s single remaining candle guttered in his presence, casting his hollowed cheeks into sharp relief. His gaze traveled from the ruined table to the nun’s splayed limbs, her habit ripped open to reveal the purpling bite marks along her ribs.

Drayton's fingers twitched at his sides, the tendons standing out like wires beneath his pallid skin. The candlelight caught the glint of his signet ring—a coiled serpent devouring its own tail—as he stepped forward, his polished boots avoiding the puddles of wine and blood with practiced ease. "You disgrace the gift," he murmured, though the words carried the weight of a cathedral bell. The vampire atop the nun's corpse flinched as if struck.

Her lips parted to protest, but Drayton moved faster than the dying candle's flicker. His hand closed around her throat, lifting her clear of the shattered table with a crack of splintering wood. The nun's body slumped to the floor, limbs splayed in a grotesque parody of supplication. Drayton's grip tightened until the other vampire's carotid pulsed visibly beneath his thumb. "We are not jackals," he hissed. "Not yet..."

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Cadrewolf2
03:57 Feb 19 2026

Wow amazing

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