✧ 57 ✧
The battle commenced.
Maggie moved first.
Not forward—up.
The moment the coven surged, she vanished from where she stood and reappeared on the wall, boots pressed flat against stone as if gravity had forgotten her.
A heartbeat later, she flipped backwards, landing on a wooden beam near the low ceiling just as a vampire lunged through the space her throat had occupied.
Too slow.
She grinned, fangs glinting.
Below her, Martha didn't wait.
The undead werewolf tore into the nearest vampire with reckless hunger, claws sinking into ribs, jaws snapping through flesh.
The confined basement worked against her size, but she made it work for her, slamming bodies into walls, cracking bone against stone.
Her growls came out wet and broken, bubbling through the ruin of her throat.
The seniors adapted quickly.
They were old. Old meant patient. Old meant clever.
Two of them broke away from Maggie, not to chase her, but to cut her off. One climbed the opposite wall with inhuman strength, fingers digging into stone, while another leapt for the beam ahead of her path.
They weren't following her. They were predicting her.
Maggie's smirk faltered for half a second.
Enough.
A third vampire came from behind—silent, fast, calculated. He didn't lunge. He waited until she moved.
Then he struck.
Maggie twisted midair, body bending in an impossible arc as claws grazed her side instead of gutting her. She hit the ground in a roll, sprang up, and ducked just as another set of hands snapped shut where her head had been.
"Cute," she muttered to his ear.
The vampire didn't have a chance to turn around when the scene in front of him changed. He was now looking at his headless body. His failed attempt cost him his life, or his afterlife, that is. His head flipped midair, and he saw two daggers in the hands of his murderer.
Four down.
Three got crushed by Martha already, while one got his head severed by Maggie.
Maggie's eyes flicked—once, twice. Counting.
Seven to go; not counting their mother.
Across the room, Martha slammed a vampire into the ceiling hard enough to leave a dent before dropping him in a limp heap. She barely had time to snarl before the next attack came—not from the front, but above.
A body dropped from the low ceiling, claws aimed for her spine.
Martha twisted, though not cleanly; a vampire claw raked across her already-torn shoulder, peeling back dead flesh. She didn't flinch. She didn't feel it.
"Stop this madness." Anne wailed as her favorite child was being sliced. "I'm begging you, Maggie. Please, stop this! Why are you doing this? All for just one human boy?"
"It's not about humans." Maggie rised. "It's about saving innocents. It's about ending this endless cycle of carnage."
Martha grabbed the attacking senior, turning the tables. Her jaws clamped down on his face.
Bone cracked.
Blood spilled.
But while she fed, they moved.
Another vampire darted in from the side, fast and precise, driving a blade deep into her side. The weapon stuck in her dead flesh, buried to the hilt.
Martha only snarled—wet, choking—and turned.
He didn't pull the blade out.
He let go.
Two more hit her at once—one from behind, locking her arms, the other leaping from the wall and slamming both feet into her chest. The force drove her back into the stone, chains on her collar rattling wildly.
They weren't trying to kill her.
They were trying to pin her.
Maggie saw it.
"No—"
A hand caught her ankle mid-step.
Another grabbed her wrist.
They had let her run.
Let her dodge.
Let her think she was untouchable.
Now they closed in.
One vampire twisted her arm behind her back while another slammed her into the ground. Stone cracked beneath her shoulder. A third moved in, slower than the rest, deliberate, aiming for her throat.
Maggie bared her teeth, eyes burning brighter.
She—No. They were losing this fight.
A shadow landed on her face. She raised her head and saw the priest looking down on her. She tried so hard to show him her skills. To show him what she had learned from him as her mentor. To use what he had taught her all these years against him, yet she failed.
"You really thought you could win this?" he said.
Another figure stood beside him, coming closer, lower.
"Are you happy now, Maggie?" Anne mocked. "Your rebellious foolish actions only caused more carnage. And for what?" she scoffed. "For one little blood bag?"
Maggie didn't have to look at her mother to know that she was crying for Martha. She just sneered at the priest, then turned away.
The priest huffed as he scrolled away from the unfortunate family reunion that was about to be cut short.
A single hurtful squeal came from Martha's direction, alerting Anne to the cruel reality—her favorite daughter was dying.
"My baby," Anne gasped, the most terrifying gasp one could muster. She put her hands on her temples, then shrieked, "Don't hurt my baby!"
"She's not your baby." Maggie finally looked at her mother, who was now a sobbing mess. "She hasn't been since 1992." Shedding a single tear, her nose wrinkled. "Now she's just another rotten monster."
"Mother." Maggie's eyes return to their natural blue. Her voice cracked when she said, "You have but only one daughter. Can't you see me?"
Maggie was begging her mother with her eyes to see the truth. That she was the only daughter she had left. That Martha isn't the Martha they knew thirty years ago.
But Anne looked at her like she was the delusional one.