Chapter 3 Miranda
MIRANDA
Physics dictates that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Matilde lunges across the table with the velocity of a striking viper, her jaw unhinged, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
My brain screams predator, but my hands rely on leverage.
I grab the heavy silver candelabra in front of me. It’s solid sterling, three branches, dripping with hot wax. I don’t swing it; I shove it. I use the table as a fulcrum and thrust the base into Matilde’s chest just as her claws graze the silk of my bodice.
Thud.
The impact sounds wet. It stops her forward momentum just long enough for her to stagger back, snarling—a sound that vibrates in the sub-bass frequency, rattling the china.
"Run," I whisper to myself. The command overrides the paralysis seizing my limbs.
I kick off my heels. Traction is critical.
I can’t sprint on polished hardwood in stilettos.
I bolt for the archway, my stockinged feet slipping on the Persian rug before finding grip.
Behind me, the dining room explodes into chaos.
Chairs splinter. Wood snaps. It sounds like a demolition crew taking a sledgehammer to the furniture, but faster. Violently faster.
I hit the hallway, the air heavy with the scent of burning wax and copper.
"Get her!" The silver-haired man’s voice echoes, distorting into a shriek that hurts my eardrums.
I don't look back. I run.
The house, which seemed merely large before, now stretches like a distorted funhouse.
The gas lamps flicker as I tear past them, shadows lengthening and twisting.
I hear them behind me. It’s not the sound of footsteps.
It’s the sound of displaced air. Whoosh.
Whoosh. They aren't running; they’re closing the distance with inhumane speed.
I skid around a corner, my shoulder slamming into the wainscoting. Pain flares—sharp, hot, grounding—but I use the bounce to propel myself toward the foyer.
A figure steps out from the shadows of the library, blocking my path.
It’s the male servant who served the soup. The vacant look is gone, replaced by a hungry, black-eyed focus. He stands perfectly still, blocking the exit to the front door.
"Ms. Fredson," he says, his voice a monotone drone. "Please return to the table. The main course is waiting."
"Move," I gasp, my lungs burning.
He steps forward, arms spreading wide. He’s going to tackle me.
Adrenaline floods my system, dumping cortisol into my blood. Fight or flight. The flight path is blocked.
I grab a heavy, wrought-iron fire poker from the stand next to the library entrance. It’s rusted, heavy, unbalanced.
He lunges.
I swing the iron bar with both hands, putting the full torque of my hips into the motion. The pointed end connects with his chest, right under the sternum.
Chunk.
The metal punches through his vest, through the shirt, sinking inches deep into the meat of him. The force of the blow knocks him back against the wall. He slides down, the poker sticking out of his chest like a morbid flag.
"Oh god," I choke out. The mechanic in me shuts down; the human takes over. I just killed a man. I just murdered the help. "I... I didn't mean..."
I let go of the handle, stepping forward, hands shaking violently. "Hey, stay with me. I need pressure on the wound. I need—"
The servant looks up.
He isn't gasping for air. There is no blood bubbling at his lips. He looks at the iron bar protruding from his sternum, then looks at me. He looks annoyed.
He grips the handle of the poker and pulls.
The sound is wet and sucking, like a boot pulled from deep mud. He tosses the bloodied iron onto the floor with a clang. The hole in his chest doesn't bleed. It’s just a dark, empty cavity.
He smiles. His gums are grey. Fangs, sharp and white, click into place.
"That was rude," he says.
Holy shit.
The biological impossibility hits me like a bat to the head. No blood. No pain response. Rapid tissue regeneration.
"Vampires," I wheeze, the word tasting like acid. "You're actually vampires."
He licks his lips. "We prefer 'Duval.'"
He steps toward me.
I scream—a raw, guttural sound that tears at my throat—and scramble backward.
I spin on my heel and sprint for the side door, the servants' entrance I saw earlier.
I don't check to see if he’s following. I can hear the others coming from the dining room, a stampede of apex predators on expensive flooring.
I burst through the door and into the humid, suffocating night.
The heat hits me like a wall, instant and oppressive. The air is thick with insects and the scent of the swamp—wet earth, decay, and standing water.
My rental car is fifty yards away on the gravel drive.
"Keys, keys, keys," I chant, patting the pockets of my dress.
Empty.
Panic. Cold, paralyzing panic threatens to seize the gears. Think, Miranda. Trace the steps.
I left them in the car. Because I was distracted by the creepy house. Because I’m an idiot.
I sprint across the gravel. The sharp stones shred my stockings and bite into the soles of my feet, but I don't feel the pain. I only feel the terror nipping at my heels.
I reach the car. I yank the handle.
Locked.
"No, no, no." I try again.
I look through the glass. The keys are dangling in the ignition. I locked it manually when I got out.
I hear a hiss from the porch. I turn.
Matilde stands on the steps, the moonlight catching the blood-red silk of her dress. She looks like a nightmare deity. She points a long, skeletal finger at me.
"Fetch," she commands.
Three shadows detach themselves from the darkness of the house and rush me.
I look around wildly. A decorative rock border lines the driveway. I grab a jagged piece of limestone the size of a grapefruit.
I smash it against the driver’s side window.
Crack. The safety glass spiderwebs but holds.
"Break, damn you!"
I swing again, putting every ounce of desperate strength into it. The glass shatters, raining cubes into the seat.
I reach in, unlocking the door, and dive into the driver’s seat. Glass shards bite into my skin. I shove the key and turn.
The engine sputters. Don't you dare. Don't you dare fail on me now.
"Come on!" I slam my hand against the dashboard.
The engine roars to life. I slam the gearshift into drive just as a body slams against the passenger window.
It’s the woman with the ink-black hair. She’s snarling, her face pressed against the glass, her hands clawing at the handle. She punches the window. The glass cracks.
I stomp on the gas.
The tires spin on the loose gravel, spitting stones, before catching traction. The car lurches forward, fishtailing violently.
I sideswipe a stone planter, the metal screeching like a dying banshee, and tear down the driveway.
I check the rearview mirror. They aren't stopping. They’re running after the car. And they’re gaining.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!"
I hit the main road—if you can call it that. It’s a strip of asphalt buckling under the weight of tree roots and neglect. I floor it. The speedometer climbs. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
Something heavy lands on the roof.
The metal buckles inward with a terrifying crunch directly over my head.
I scream, the sound merging with the whine of the engine.
Claws—literal claws—punch through the metal roof like it’s tinfoil. They tear a jagged strip open, letting the humid night air shriek into the cabin. A pale hand reaches down, grabbing for my hair.
"Pull over, little cousin!" a male voice laughs from the roof. It’s the silver-haired man. He sounds exhilarated. "Dinner isn't over!"
"Get off!"
I yank the wheel hard to the left, then snap it back to the right.
The car swerves wildly, tires screaming in protest. I feel the weight on the roof shift.
He digs his claws in deeper. He’s anchoring himself.
"You can't drive fast enough," he taunts, his face appearing upside down in the shattered windshield, his eyes black pits. "The road ends in the swamp, Miranda."
"Then let's see how you handle aerodynamics!"
I see a low-hanging branch of a massive live oak approaching fast, draped thick with moss and heavy wood.
I don't brake. I aim for it.
I line the passenger side of the roof up with the branch.
"Crazy bitch!" he screams.
Thud-CRACK.
The impact shakes the entire frame of the car. The branch shears off, taking the side mirror and dragging across the roof with the force of a wrecking ball. There’s a howl of pain, and the weight vanishes.
I check the rearview. A broken figure is tumbling in the dust behind me.
I don't slow down. My hands are locked on the wheel, knuckles white. My breath is coming in short, shallow gasps that I can't synchronize to anything. The rhythm is broken. The machine is spinning out of control.
I glance at the GPS on the dashboard. It’s spinning in circles. Recalculating... Recalculating...
"Useless," I hiss.
The fog is getting thicker. It’s not normal fog. It’s rolling in from the bayou like a white tide, swallowing the headlights. Visibility drops to zero. I can’t see the road markings. I can’t see the trees. I’m driving blind at sixty miles an hour into a void.
The air conditioner vents blast cold air, but I’m sweating through the dress. The smell of ozone is fading, replaced by the heavy, wet stench of the swamp.
Suddenly, the fog parts.
Standing in the middle of the road, illuminated by my high beams, is a shadow.
It’s not a deer. It’s too big. It’s massive—a wall of black fur and muscle standing on four legs, easily the size of a pony. Amber eyes glow in the headlights, burning with an intelligence that stops my breath.
A wolf. A giant, impossible wolf.
It doesn't move. It stands its ground, staring right at me.
"Move!" I scream, slamming on the brakes.
The ABS pulses under my foot, a rapid-fire staccato thud-thud-thud. The tires lock up on the damp asphalt. The car becomes a sled.
I’m going to hit it.
I yank the wheel hard to the right to avoid the impact.
The car responds, swerving violently. I miss the wolf by inches—I see the coarse texture of its fur, the curl of its lip—but I lose the road.
The tires hit the soft shoulder. The gravel gives way to mud.
The world tilts and gravity takes over. The car leaves the ground, weightless for a terrifying second, soaring into the blackness beyond the embankment.
My stomach drops into my shoes. I grip the wheel, bracing for an impact that I know is going to break me.
The nose of the car dips.
Splash.
Water—black, oily, and cold—explodes over the windshield as the car plunges nose-first into the bayou.