7. 6

6

Serina

Eight Months Later…

T he heaviness of the silver dagger in my hand felt reassuring, a solid weight that grounded me in the chaos that had become my life.

It was different from the wooden stakes I'd been clutching in recent nights, the ones I'd driven into the hearts of countless vampires. Their dust hadn't settled with the morning sun before I was on to the next, and here I was, pressing the cold, sharp edge against the jugular of a werewolf who whimpered beneath me.

With every shallow breath he took, the blade nicked his skin, adding to the network of cuts and burns the silver inflicted on him. The abandoned house creaked around us, groaning like a dying beast, but it was this creature—this werewolf—who bore the brunt of its pain.

My father's voice, once a guiding light of fairness and hope, even with monsters, was drowned out in my mind by the roar of blood in my ears.

He wasn't here now, couldn't be here after what those monsters did to him, and no rule-following werewolf was going to change that.

“Please,” the creature gasped, his eyes reflecting the moonlight that dared to seep through the boarded windows of this decrepit space. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

My grip tightened, the leather of the hilt biting into my palm. They all said something like that, didn't they? Every monster cornered by me pleaded innocence before their end. I was only here because my last kill gave me this dog’s name but nothing else.

Who knew? Maybe they had only provided it because they had a grudge.

Because this one, as far as I knew, had a record as clean as the lies were filthy, never crossing the lines we drew in our fragile truce.

Yet here I was, ready to redraw those lines with his blood.

The rage that filled me left no room for doubt or mercy. It was a wildfire, consuming the tender memories of what my father taught me about kindness and justice.

It was simple, really. The monsters took him from me, so I'd take them from the world.

“I don't know anything,” he whimpered, the words barely escaping his torn throat. “Your father wouldn’t want this, Serina .” He growled then. Damn, he knew who I was. He must have recognized the resemblance or perhaps my scent. “I don’t know anything, I swear it.”

For a fleeting moment, his plea punctured the red haze of my vengeance. The weight of the silver dagger in my hand felt suddenly foreign, as if it were an extension of someone else's will.

A ghost of a memory flickered through the fury.

“Remember, sweetheart, it's irrelevant whether they are monsters or not. What truly counts is their actions. Which is why we give them a choice. Once they decide to step out of line, that’s when they have to accept the punishment for what they did,” he said, my father's voice, warm and unwavering.

He cleaned his gun with practiced precision, showing me how to take apart and clean my own before I could even ride a bike without training wheels.

“What happens if they step out of line?” I asked, watching him intently.

“We deal with it like hunters do.”

I came to, remembering he taught me that every soul deserved a chance. That even those who lurked in the dark had a story, a life. It was a belief he had held onto fervently, even as those very monsters snatched him away from me.

“Fairness,” I whispered to the empty room, the word hollow and cold in the air.

Dad believed in fairness, in second chances. But fairness had died with him, trampled beneath the feet of creatures who knew only hunger.

The werewolf's eyes found mine, heavy with pain and fear, but I saw no monster there—only a creature caught in the crossfire of a war it did not choose to be a part of. A pang of something akin to guilt gnawed at my heart, but it was quickly scorched away by the relentless fire of my resolve.

“Well, he isn't here anymore because of monsters,” I muttered, more to myself than to the shivering form before me. “And I'll kill them all.”

In that instant, the decision was made. The silver dagger plunged down, driven by a force borne of grief and unquenchable anger. His eyes, wide with the shock of betrayal, locked onto mine.

There was no accusation there, only the dawning realization of his fate.

I watched, paralyzed by the act that unfolded with grim inevitability, as the life bled from his gaze, leaving nothing but the dull sheen of death. The silence that followed was oppressive, filled only by the ragged echo of my breathing and the quiet drip of blood from silver to the floorboards.

He was gone, another casualty in my quest for revenge, one that very well seemed innocent in all of this.

And maybe he was. But I shoved that down.

Nothing would stop me. I would follow every lead, and if they didn’t give me answers, I would kill them and move on to the next. Suddenly, I was left with the weight of his life on my conscience and the bitter taste of vengeance on my tongue.

The night air clung to my skin, cold and unfeeling as I stumbled from the abandoned house. I couldn’t get the metallic stench of blood out of my nostrils. As if it trailed after me, a ghostly reminder of the life I had just ended.

The silver dagger felt unreasonably heavy on my hip, as if it were laden with the weight of the werewolf's fucking soul.

“Maybe he didn't know anything,” I whispered to the stars, my voice brittle in the silence.

It was a possibility that gnawed at me, tearing jagged holes in my certainty. But the image of my father—his laugh, his unwavering kindness—flickered through my mind, fueling the fire inside me.

As I walked, the city's distant lights flickered and beckoned, mirroring the turmoil within me. Was I losing myself in this quest for revenge? The question prowled around my mind, a persistent shadow I couldn't shake off. My boots echoed on the pavement, a lonely rhythm that matched the hollow thumping of my heart.

Before I knew it, I stood in front of a bar, its neon sign buzzing like annoying bugs’ wings. I needed something to drown out the noise in my head, to wash away the sticky film of guilt that clung to me.

A drink, or maybe five, seemed like the only answer to the storm of emotions threatening to consume me.

They wouldn’t—I wouldn’t let them. But I desperately needed them to settle. These feelings only served to piss me off further. Good thing the promise of oblivion waited inside, nestled at the bottom of a glass, and I was all too ready to take the plunge.

The club was an eclectic mix of old brick walls and modern neon. Pulsating lights danced across the floor, casting everyone in a kaleidoscope of color. Smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the tang of spilt alcohol. It clung to my senses.

My boots stuck slightly to the floor as I shouldered my way through the crowd. Was it from blood or drinks? I didn’t know.

The music pounded in sync with my turbulent thoughts, a bass line reverberating through bone and blood. Bodies moved around me, swaying and twisting.

“Whiskey, neat,” I said, leaning against the scarred wooden bar.

The bartender—a guy with tattoos crawling up his arms, dark hair, and easy eyes—flashed a knowing smile.

“Rough night?” he asked, pouring the amber liquid with practiced ease.

“Let's just say I'm not here for the atmosphere,” I replied, downing the whiskey in one gulp, welcoming the fire in my numbness.

“Another, then,” he chuckled, obliging without further question. His eyes, however, lingered with the soft edges of sympathy. In another life, maybe that would've mattered.

The second drink went down easier, and by the third, the world had softened at its edges.

My gaze wandered over to a group nestled in a corner booth: two couples lost in their happy little bubble. The men were beautiful, flawless in a way that screamed unnatural.

Then, as if fate itself sneered at my attempt at an escape, I saw it, the smallest glint of darkened veins flickered with the lights in here under their eyes. Shit.

I knocked back another shot, the sharpness of the alcohol a pathetic weapon against the resurgence of hate. Their giggles were a siren song, drawing me back to the hunt—back to the purpose that had consumed me.

“Looks like my night is looking up,” I muttered to the bartender, who raised an eyebrow but didn't pry. He had probably seen enough to know some stories were better left untold.

I tossed cash down on the bar and then pushed off of it.

With legs steadier than my conviction, I slipped through the side door into the alleyway. Bricks cold and unforgiving pressed against my back as I waited.

Thick vines clung and crept up the sides of the building, giving me more coverage from the monsters that now lurked just ahead in the alley, chatting.

There were two of them, seeming to be a lower class of vampire, changeling, and I hadn’t yet figured out what they were truly capable of. There were three classes, all deadly and dangerous, but the lower vampires, the ones that were new, were always too cocky.

I could practically taste the arrogance as they talked and flirted their way into the pants of their next meals.

These women had no clue what awaited them.

I clenched my wooden stakes to my chest and calmed my racing heart. Not from fear but rather adrenaline; wild and reckless adrenaline. The rain had started about a half hour ago, making loose strands of my braided wet dark burgundy hair slip down the sides of my face.

I had hidden within the darkness of night, blending into their surroundings more times than I cared to remember. Tonight was no different.

Some called the Velika family fools for hunting the monsters that saw us as prey. Especially since we were delicate humans compared to their impeccable strength, hearing, magic, and power. But regardless of my disadvantage, my family name made the monsters shudder, and I wasn’t one to run from the creatures made from nightmares—I would become theirs.

Especially now . I had nothing to lose.

The only things that could defeat a vampire were the sun, fire, and wooden stakes. And although there were many more monsters that lurked in this world that my blades and guns were thirsty to kill, I wasn’t after them. Not right now.

At least, not until they got in my way.

I was after revenge .

I was after the vampires that took my father from me. And maybe these two would have an idea of where to go next.

When things began to get more hot and heavy between the four of them, I struck. I pushed myself off the wall and began stalking toward them.

I was sure these vampires could smell another human present, but why would they care about that when they were about to feed?

Why would a mere human scare them?

Right before the first male was going for the blonde woman’s neck, I shoved my sharpened wooden stake through his back into that perfect spot. I used all my strength to push it through as he gasped out a pained hiss before falling to the ground. Both women screamed and ran.

The other vampire was gone at this point, but I could feel the burn of his eyes against my skin. Goosebumps pebbled across my neck as I walked further into the dark alley away from the dimly lit street.

The moment his presence was behind me, my body could practically feel him readying to strike.

I shifted around on my feet, sending my second stake into his stomach. He hissed in pain before ripping free of the stake, moving at speeds so fast my mortal eyes couldn’t keep up with him.

He came from nowhere, ramming his body into mine, sending me flying through the air before my body cracked against the stone wall of the club we had come out of. Pain radiated through me.

I slid down the wall, trying in vain to catch myself, but my ankle rolled an awkward direction as I stumbled to my feet.

He came for me again, but I grabbed the sawed-off shotgun that was strapped to my back under my jacket, already loaded with buckshots. I normally stuck to stakes in close combat with a vampire in such a public place, as they were quiet and just as lethal, but I didn’t have a choice.

I aimed and pulled the trigger. The vampire blasted a few feet away from me, landing with a hard thud on the concrete.

He gasped for air before he began groaning. With the splintered wood in his body, he would be weak and his wounds wouldn’t heal until he removed every little piece that was embedded in his skin.

I swung my gun back into its holster while I got to my feet, limping over to him. Pain shot up my leg with every step. I leaned over with my good leg and wiped my stake clean against his jeans before I sheathed it and looked for the other one.

With a sigh, I realized I’d have to grab it from the other guy’s back before I left with the information I needed.

I squatted, keeping my distance.

“Who killed John Velika?” I asked.

He choked over his words. “What are you talking about?”

“Eight months ago, some of your kind killed John Velika. Who. Killed. Him? Who was involved? It was a planned attack,” I asked, shoving two of my fingers into one of his larger wounds and causing him to growl in pain. He’d feel it just as strongly as any human.

Once he caught his breath, he started, “I–I don’t—”

I shoved my fingers deeper, and he cried out.

“There was a party around that time, a lot of my kind were there.” He snarled the words for emphasis. “I had heard about John’s death, but I never knew who killed him. Maybe go there to try and find some answers.”

“Where?” I demanded.

“On the outskirts of Fredericksburg, close to where everything happened,” he said. I removed my fingers, and he released a breath.

Of fucking course it would be the one town I’d been avoiding for almost a year.

With a huff, I grabbed the stake on my hip.

“Please, no, I gave you what you wanted. I haven’t done anything. We wouldn’t have killed those women; we were just having some fun. I haven’t crossed any lines. Please, just let me go. Just let me—” His words were cut off as I shoved the stake into his heart and his body went limp against the pavement.

I didn’t care about rules anymore, and I didn’t bother cleaning up my mess. The sun would take care of it for me.

Next stop, Fredericksburg.