> A man’s meat is too often a woman's poison. — W. Somerset Maugham

The moment she crossed the threshold, Nord's instincts screamed at her. Almost instantaneously, she was slammed against the weathered wall. Adamastor's eyes were aflame, a dangerous shade of red that had replaced the familiar gaze she knew. Before she could react, he violently ripped her blouse open at the collar. He tilted her head aside, revealing the vulnerable stretch of her neck.

Fighting back panic, she mustered all the strength she could to fend him off. Her fists and feet struck out at him, but it was like hitting a wall. "Adamastor, it's me. Stop!" she yelled, her voice tinged with both terror and disbelief. He seemed not to hear her or care as his fangs penetrated her neck like twin daggers.

A venomous pain spread rapidly from the bite, seeping into her muscles and joints. As she tried to close her fingers around the handle of one of her hidden daggers, Nord found she couldn't; her hand was numb, unresponsive, betraying her when she needed it most. Letting her arms fall flat, and both blades met the ground without a sound.

The bite itself was almost eclipsed by a different, insidious form of agony: a venomous burn that snaked its way through her bloodstream, freezing her muscles and sealing her lips in a voiceless scream. As if entranced, Adamastor seemed unaware—or uncaring—of her torment, engrossed in the act of siphoning her blood.

She could feel the moist press of his lips against her wound and hear the quiet, grotesque symphony of his slurps and moans of satisfaction. He leaned into her even more, his body weight keeping her pinned, a prisoner on her own wall, unable to escape the horror of the moment.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, warm and betraying, as she realized the depth of the situation she was in. Whether out of hunger, frenzy, or something darker, Adamastor had become something she couldn't reason with—at least, not at that moment.

Nord's thoughts spiralled into a dark void, disconnected from a body that seemed to have mutinied against her own will. Her muted screams and still struggles were suffocated by the venom coursing through her veins, trapping her in a horrific tableau she couldn't escape.

Adamastor hovered above her, his whispered words—maybe meant to be comforting, perhaps remorseful, perhaps love or entirely something else—fusing into an indistinct hum. The words seemed to descend into an endless chasm, growing fainter and fainter as her awareness detached, whisked away by a bewildering blend of warmth and advancing darkness.

Suddenly, his eyes flickered open and met hers. It was as if a switch had been flipped. Confusion and shock replaced the primal hunger that had consumed him. He hid his fangs, and he staggered back in panic.

Nord slumped to the ground, gasping for air as if resurfacing from a perilous dive. The venom's numbing effect now nailed her to the floor, and her neck still throbbed from the puncture wounds, still bleeding and staining the floor.

Adamastor's eyes—once aflame with predatory desire—now swam with a mixture of horror and regret. "Nord, I—"

"Stop," she cut him off, her voice barely above a whisper yet laden with an authority that belied its softness. "Just stop."

Her words echoed throughout the shrine, lingering in the thick air like an irrevocable verdict. Adamastor opened his mouth as if to speak, perhaps to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but no words came.

For a beat, time itself seemed to pause, leaving them locked in a tableau woven of regret and harsh revelations. And then Nord's vision blurred, the walls of the shrine folding into an impenetrable darkness that swallowed her whole.

----------------------------------------

I'm here.

"Who?"

I'm here!

"Who?" She glanced around, her surroundings unchanged. Just the dim walls of her own mind and the vague outline of memories barely visible in the half-light.

"I'm here!" The voice reverberated again, richer this time, seeping into the furthest corners of her consciousness. It was a voice that should have felt like an intrusion, like a shadow crawling into the sanctity of her own mind. But instead, it was soothing—almost comforting.

"Who are you?" She whispered, almost afraid her own voice would shatter the connection.

"Don't you recognize me?" The voice was a caress now, gentle as a breeze yet weighted with an unspoken promise.

She paused, her heart pounding not with fear but anticipation. It was as if the voice resonated with something deep inside her, something she'd long forgotten but never truly lost.

"Should I?" Her own voice was tinged with curiosity and a hint of expectancy.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

"In time," the voice assured her, its tone imbued with a serenity that seemed almost sacred. "For now, just know that you're not alone. Not anymore."

The voice should have been terrifying. It emanated from a presence that, by all traditional measures, should have represented danger. But instead of fear, Nord felt an odd sense of completeness.

The cold that usually touched her soul seemed to wane, replaced by a warmth that defied. She wanted more. She wanted to stay.

It was as though she were floating, watching through a foggy window as her body acted of its own accord.

Her eyes—no, the Hallow's eyes—scanned the chamber with a ravenous intensity, setting upon the figure before it.

The being calling out her vessel's name seemed pathetic, ridiculous and weak! And the Hallow was so hungry, no, it was starving!

"Fight it, Nord! Do you hear me?" Adamastor's voice broke through the heavy air like a spear piercing a curtain. His eyes were wide, frantic, a mixture of dread and stubborn resolve.

"Say something, dammit! Nord!" His palm met her cheek in a tentative slap. The sound echoed in the small room, more a desperate plea than a genuine attempt to revive her. Under any other situation, the helplessness of the gesture would have drawn a laugh.

The Hallow lurking within Nord sensed his distress, and a ripple of sadistic amusement fluttered across its consciousness. How does he know it's not her? How? The thoughts were whispers in the midst of its malevolent awareness. The real Nord was submerged deep within, swaddled in a comforting abyss, as if the Hallow that possessed her was a warm, secure blanket. Home and tenderness, the Hallow knew how to please its vessel.

Nord, however, could sense a vague commotion from her buried self, as though through a fogged-up window. She felt her own body begin to spring forward, an involuntary lunge. But Adamastor was a step ahead. His knee drove into her midriff, anchoring her to the ground with a ferocity she couldn't counteract.

"Nord, you have to push this thing away! You're stronger than it!" Adamastor's voice was tinged with desperation, yet behind it lay a bedrock of faith. His eyes locked onto hers, searching for some glimmer of the woman he knew, "You must!"

A flicker of lucidity broke through Nord's haze. For a moment, she stared back at him, the struggle within her as palpable as the sweat beading on her forehead. Then, as quickly as it came, the flicker vanished, swallowed up by the voracious dark entity that gripped her.

And Adamastor felt it—felt her slip away again. His knee still pressing into her, he knew the battle was far from over.

"Help! Anyone!" he yelled, "Anyone, help!" his voice echoing in the empty chamber.

The Hallow within her scoffed, revelling in the despair in his call. Who would come to save a miserable, incomplete vampire? A frozen walking corpse, a creature even his own Master would reject. The thought delighted the dark force within her and filled it with a scathing sort of glee.

The Hallow's dark amusement was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps thudding through the room like a desperate heartbeat.

"What the fuck did you do to her?" The voice was tinged with hysteria but also something else. Anger. Despair? No, something else, something far more precious. The Hallow savoured the delicious note of unhappiness. It seemed the half-demon cared for the vessel. How intriguing and how delicious.

"I... I didn't mean for this to happen. I lost control," Adamastor's voice faltered, coloured by unmistakable fear. But what frightened him more—the wrath of a demon or the loss of her, the vessel? The Hallow revelled in its newfound body, the perfect shell it had long craved. I'll protect her, I'll cherish her. She is mine to have!

"You bit her? You fucking bit Nord? Are you... I swear..." Baal's words hung in the air like a suspended blade. "I'm going to kill you!"

"Not now! Baal listen! We need to take her..." The voice became a mumble, too soft for the Hallow to catch. But it didn't matter. Whatever plot they were whispering, the Hallow knew its own strength. And it was growing more potent with each passing second.

Somewhere within, Nord slept, not fighting to reclaim her consciousness. Sleep, sleep, my beautiful new me.

Nord was voluntarily trapped in her own mind, a spectator in a battle for her salvation, which she didn't partake in. She didn't hear the clock was already ticking.

You are safe with me. You're loved. What else do you want that I can't provide? I can give you everything. Anything!

It watched as the half-demon kneeled, shedding his cardigan with a swift motion. "You're going to be alright. Remember, we trained for this, and I'm here now," he whispered, "I'm here, not going anywhere. You hear me, Morningstar?"

The words should have been comforting, but the Hallow found them irritating, an annoying buzz in its newfound dominion.

Love, hope, what a joke, what a tease!

Then everything plunged into darkness like a curtain had been pulled across the world.

The Hallow sensed the change in weight, the feeling of being lifted off the ground. It was no longer confined, no longer pinned under the weight of the vampire's knee. Its excitement surged; this was the perfect moment to strike, to seize complete control and unleash its vicious fury.

The Hallow wrenched its vessel's body free, rolling lithely on the floor. It tossed aside the cardigan that had been draped over its face and looked up, meeting the eyes of its so-called foes.

There they stood: one a vampire, his eyes awash with the thirst for blood, his mouth still drooling the blood of her vessel and the other a hornless, tailless demon.

Weak.

The Hallow revelled in the scent of their vulnerability, their weakness. The Hallow's eyes glinted with dark delight. "Who should I kill first?" she taunted, swirling to face the two creatures who dared to oppose her.

"Me!" The vampire's voice rang out, "You should kill me first."

"What are you doing, dude? I'm more powerful than you!" Baal argued, his own eyes filled with an odd blend of frustration and fear.

The Hallow chuckled darkly. "Boys, boys, let's calm down. I can kill both of you at the same time. Or you can run. Let's count to ten, shall we?"

Adamastor looked at Baal Berith and muttered, "Right or left?"

"One," the Hallow began its ominous countdown.

"Right," Baal replied, his voice resolute.

"Two..." The Hallow's voice was practically a purr, savouring the moment.

"Left, you know the meeting point!" Adamastor shot back. Without another word, both broke into a sprint, darting in opposite directions. In a blur of intangible speed, they vanished from the cemetery as though swallowed by the shadows they had emerged from.

"Ten!" The Hallow's spat, a note of triumph and annoyance mixing in its tone. It stood there, alone in the cemetery.

But deep within, a pulse of Nord's consciousness shimmered, emboldened by the momentary distraction. This wasn't over, not by a long shot.

"Please stop!"

Choose! Who should I hurt first? Which one do you care about the most?