The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the hardened earth echoed in Delilah’s ears, a monotonous tune that had long since lost its charm. Dust rose in lazy clouds around the carriage wheels, coating the passengers in a fine layer of grime. The once-vivid memories of Zilah’s bustling markets and warm, sunlit streets seemed a distant dream as they pressed onward through barren fields and dense forests that whispered secrets with every gust of wind. The fatigue of the road clung to them, seeping into their bones as tempers grew as frayed as the carriage’s worn leather seats.
Delilah sat huddled on the floor of the carriage, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as if trying to shield herself from the weight of the journey. Across from her, Aster sat calmly on a bench, her legs crossed and hands resting neatly on her lap. The third companion, Harkin, lounged nearby, his piercing red eyes scanning the horizon with a mix of disinterest and irritation. His fair skin gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his long white hair, plaited to the side, shifted slightly with the sway of the carriage. His pointed ears were adorned with a collection of black rings, and long red earrings dangled from their tips, imitating dripping blood. Two rings adorned the right side of his bottom lip, completing the picture of a man who seemed to wear danger-like a second skin.
“Dagon, right?” he had asked upon meeting her, his eyebrow quirking as he took in the sight of her with a lazy smirk. “Name’s Harkin Caochlaoch. I’d say it’s lovely to meet you, but I didn’t want to do this.”
“Be nice to her Harkin,” Aster warned, crossing her arms over her small chest.
“Hmm, whatever.” His dismissive tone cut through the air like a blade, and that was the end of their introductions.
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Now, a week later, tension had grown thick in the cramped confines of the carriage. Unlike Aster, who sat patiently with an air of quiet serenity, Harkin was visibly losing his temper. His long fingers flipped a dagger up and down idly, the blade glinting menacingly as he sulked.
“I would’ve gotten there, killed them, and been back by now,” he sighed, flipping the blade again.
“Patience, Harkin,” Aster responded, her tone soft but firm.
He scoffed, his red eyes gleaming with annoyance. “I’m over 600 years old, Aster! And I’m on escort duty for some mangy fledgling? How am I supposed to stay quiet and patient—Ari?
Aster’s expression didn’t falter. “I’m older than you and doing the same. Yet you don’t see me throwing tantrums.”
Harkin grumbled something unintelligible but fell silent, his dagger flipping a final time before disappearing into its sheath.
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Two days later, the carriage trundled into Spiriburgh, the small, dilapidated city that Delilah had once called home. The sight of its twisted streets and decaying buildings made her stomach churn violently. Poverty hung heavy in the air like a shroud. The sick, the old, and the desperate lined the streets, their hollowed eyes turning toward the carriage as it passed. Begging hands reached out, trembling and skeletal, but no one dared to approach too closely.
“Filth,” Harkin muttered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I bet they taste even fouler.”
Aster shot him a sharp look, and he quickly turned his gaze to the window.
Delilah pulled her hood further over her head, trying to disappear into its shadows. As they reached the inn where they would stop for the night, she braced herself for the memories clawing at the edges of her mind.
“You know this place, Aygo?” Harkin asked, his sharp voice cutting through the quiet as he glanced back at Delilah.
“Aygo?” she repeated, her hooded head tilting slightly, confusion etched across her face.
“Yeah,” he said with a smirk, his crimson eyes gleaming mischievously. “Like Dagon, but drop the D and the N. Aygo. Easier to say. Deal with it.” He gave a lazy shrug, his long white braid shifting as he stepped off the carriage with a fluid grace. Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the desolate inn ahead, boots crunching against the dusty road.
Delilah let out a soft sigh, her gaze drifting to the weathered building as she nodded. “Yeah… I used to work here for a few coins when I was a kid.” Her voice carried a faint edge of bitterness, the weight of old memories pressing down on her words.
“The Cruel Angel Inn,” Harkin said as he stepped out of the carriage, poking at the rusted sign that dangled precariously from its post. “What kind of shitty name is that?”
Delilah sighed as she followed him out. “It’s named after the gods. People here blame them for the city’s state and the high mortality rate. The name stuck.”
Harkin raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment further.
Inside, the inn was as dreary as its exterior promised. The hunched innkeeper greeted them with an eerie toothless smile and led them to their room upstairs. It was a cramped, depressing space with one double bed and a single mattress pressed together to form a makeshift sleeping area. The bathroom down the hall consisted of two buckets—one empty and one with murky water—and a questionable soap bar floating inside. The barred windows let in slivers of moonlight, casting faint shadows across the cracked walls.
Harkin grimaced as he stepped inside. “This is… horrific.”
Harkin, who had been mid-sentence, suddenly froze. His crimson eyes widened, and his face flushed slightly as he turned on his heel. “Damn it, Aster! Give a warning!” He grabbed Delilah by the arm and dragged her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Leaning against the wall outside, he scowled as he paced the corridor, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. Delilah watched him, bemused, as he muttered under his breath. Finally, he snapped, “Stop staring!”
She shrugged, sinking to the floor. “You’re acting like a child.”
Before he could respond, Aster called out for them to return. Harkin glared at Delilah one last time before pushing the door open.
“Aygo, hurry up and change,” Harkin snapped, his tone sharp as he tugged off his shirt in one fluid motion. His muscled torso was unblemished, the pale skin flawless and smooth, a stark contrast to what his crimson eyes would soon see. “Tomorrow we’ve got the rest of this journey, but honestly, it’d be faster on foo—” His words faltered, his eyes widening in shock as they fell on Delilah’s bare back, crisscrossed with deep, jagged scars.
“What the hell… How did you get those?” he demanded, his voice dropping lower, a rare note of unease threading through his words.
Delilah paused, her movements unhurried as she slipped her nightdress over her head. She let out a tired sigh, her shoulders sinking slightly under the weight of the question. “How do you think I became a vampire?” she replied, her voice flat, almost emotionless.
Harkin frowned, his usually confident demeanour cracking. “I didn’t realize you were turned,” he muttered, his gaze still fixed on the scars. “You… you died?”
“Yeah,” she said simply, pulling the fabric down to her knees before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Twenty-seven stab wounds. Left to rot on the street. Just a couple of meters away from here, actually.” She let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humour, as though mocking the cruelty of it all.
Harkin opened his mouth as if to say more but hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. For once, he didn’t press further, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before turning away. Delilah, seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation, lay down without another word, her expression unreadable.
The room was tense as they settled in for the night. Delilah claimed the single bed without hesitation, shooting a pointed look at Harkin that spoke volumes: Keep your thoughts about Aster to yourself and share the double with her. Harkin’s jaw dropped, a rare moment of unguarded surprise flashing across his face, but he grumbled something under his breath and slid under the blanket beside Aster. He positioned himself as far away from her as physically possible, stiff and awkward at the edge of the bed.
Eventually, she couldn’t ignore the plan forming in her head. This is my chance. Quietly, she slid out from under the thin blanket and placed her feet on the cold wooden floor. Careful not to wake the others, she tiptoed to the far wall where their bags were stacked. Grabbing hers, she slung it over her shoulder and crept to the door.
She paused for a moment, glancing back at the bed. Aster was curled up, her dark braids spilling across the pillow, and Harkin’s pale arm was loosely wrapped around her. The sight sent a pang of something Delilah couldn’t name through her chest, but she shook it off. Turning back to the door, she slowly twisted the handle and slipped into the hallway.
The wooden floor groaned faintly under her weight, but she moved carefully, her steps feather-light as she descended the narrow staircase. The dim glow of moonlight filtered through the dirty windows, barely illuminating the space. She was halfway down when a calm voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Delilah froze, her heart leaping into her throat. At the bottom of the stairs stood Aster, arms folded loosely, her head tilted slightly as she regarded Delilah with a mixture of exhaustion and disappointment, visible despite the white cloth around her eyes. She scratched at her scalp, tugging at one of her braids as though the situation were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
“Come now, Dee,” Aster sighed, her voice soft but firm. “You know better than to try and flee. Turn around. Back to bed, please.”
Defeated, Delilah slumped her shoulders and trudged back up the stairs. Aster followed her, her presence a silent reminder that escape wasn’t an option.
When they reentered the room, Harkin was leaning casually against the wall, shirtless, his dagger flipping lazily between his fingers. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of them and let out a low chuckle.
“Well, that was a stupid idea,” he said, amusement dripping from his voice. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the dagger across the room. The blade sank into the wall with flawless precision, embedding itself right where Delilah’s head would rest when she lay down.
“Harkin…” Aster’s voice carried a warning, her tone sharper than usual.
Harkin rolled his eyes but pushed off the wall, padding back to the bed without protest. “Fine, fine. I’m going to sleep,” he muttered, flopping down onto the mattress.
“Good,” Aster replied curtly, her frustration evident. She turned to Delilah, her gaze softening slightly. “Sleep.”
Before Delilah could respond, Aster placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her toward her bed. With surprising strength, she all but pushed Delilah onto the mattress, ensuring she stayed put.
Aster then returned to the double bed, slipping beneath the blanket where Harkin had already settled. He instinctively shifted closer, his arm curling around her once again, though his expression was one of indifference as he drifted back into sleep.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Delilah lay in her own bed, staring at the ceiling as the room fell into silence. Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight, but at least now, escape would have to wait.
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The following day, they left the carriage behind and continued their journey on foot, winding through the maze-like streets of Spiriburgh and into the small village of Falstide. By late afternoon, they reached a house Delilah knew all too well. It loomed before them like a spectre, its cracked facade and crooked shutters were as menacing as the memories that haunted her.
She froze. Panic clawed at her chest, threatening to crush her.
“You can’t stop now,” Harkin growled. “It took us ages to get here.”
“Harkin, for the love of the gods, let her breathe,” Aster snapped, her usually serene voice edged with frustration. Her golden eyes glinted with a rare sharpness as she fixed him with a glare. “She’s about to walk into a house that holds nothing but nightmares for her—and you think cracking jokes is appropriate right now?”
Harkin threw his hands up, his rings catching the faint glow of the lanterns lining the street. “I’m just saying, if it were me, I’d be done with this place already. Torch it, and leave no loose ends. But no, we have to wait even longer because she’s a-.”
“Enough. If you were in her position, you wouldn’t have even left the palace yet.”
Aster was the embodiment of composure—always poised, her voice steady and never raised. She spoke with purpose, her words measured and deliberate, and carried herself with an air of efficiency that bordered on perfection. Everything about her was meticulously clean and organised, as though chaos had no place in her world.
Yet, with Harkin around, she seemed almost… human. His presence chipped away at her unshakable demeanour, exposing flashes of irritation and a mild temper that Delilah had never thought Aster capable of. It was as though he existed solely to test the limits of her patience, provoking a side of her that felt oddly ordinary—a stark contrast to the composed figure Delilah had come to expect.
But Delilah couldn’t spare the energy to analyse this shift, not with the nausea twisting her stomach like a vice. The weight of the situation pressed down on her, threatening to spill over at any moment. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the task ahead, pushing the unsettling thoughts and emotions to the back of her mind.
With a deep, shuddering breath, she stepped forward, her companions watching silently as she approached the door. Her fist hovered for a moment before she knocked.
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The door creaked open, and a soft, melodic voice greeted her. “Oh, hello, miss. How can we assist you today?” The woman standing there had warm green eyes, twin to Delilah’s own, that sparkled in the sunlight. Her face carried a gentle smile, her demeanor welcoming, almost maternal. “Please, come in. We rarely get visitors,” she gushed, stepping aside to let Delilah in.
“Yes, dear, that’s me,” the woman replied cheerfully, moving to the small hearth to heat water. “How can we help you?”
Delilah’s gaze swept over the room, each familiar detail twisting the knife in her gut. “I was just wondering… do you have a child?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice neutral, though her hands trembled beneath her cloak.
The woman froze, her smile faltering slightly as she opened her mouth to speak. “Er, we actually—”
“We do not,” a man’s voice cut in sharply. Delilah turned to see him descending the staircase, his heavy footsteps thudding against the worn, curved steps that had been smoothed from years of use. His eyes were hard, and suspicious, and his tone was colder than she remembered. “Why do you ask?” he demanded, his gaze narrowing. “Who are you?”
Thinking fast, Delilah forced a smile. “Erm, my name is Aster,” she said, borrowing her companion’s name in a moment of desperation. “Aster Caochlaoch,” she added, her tone light. “I used to play with a girl from here when I was younger, and I was just hoping to find her. She was very dear to me.”
The man’s expression didn’t soften. “Sorry, but we’ve never had a daughter,” he said flatly.
The words hit Delilah like a blow to the chest. Pain rippled through her, but she kept her smile firmly in place as she accepted the tea her mother—no, this woman—placed in her hands. Her stomach churned, tears pricking the edges of her vision as anxiety morphed into a deep, simmering anger.
Her eyes flicked to the table, the very one where she’d been chained down for days, left to starve. The staircase where she’d been thrown from time and again, each scar on her body aching with the memory of her falls. Her gaze shifted to the small door beneath the stairs—the dark, airless room where she’d been locked away for weeks at a time.
Her mother’s kind voice became a cruel mockery. The sickness in her stomach boiled into a fiery rage, and tears began to stream down her cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. A laugh escaped her lips, cold and sharp, startling both her parents.
“What are you—” her father started, but he barely had time to react before she lunged. Her foot hooked around his ankle, and she yanked, sending him crashing to the floor.
“You did have a daughter,” she hissed, standing over him. “Her name was Delilah.” She drove her boot into his ribs, the crack of bone echoing in the room. “You tortured her. Abused her. Left her to die on the streets of Spiriburgh.” She kicked him again, harder.
“And she did die,” she snarled, unsheathing a wicked dagger from her thigh. The blade gleamed, its serrated edges catching the light. She knelt beside him, grabbing a fistful of his hair to force him to meet her gaze. Her voice was cold, unrecognisable, as she whispered, “You had a daughter. And she’s right fucking here.”
The first stab was swift and precise, sinking deep into his abdomen.
“One,” she counted, her voice dripping with malice.
The second stab ripped through muscle, the serrated blade tearing the wound wider.
“Two.”
She didn’t stop until she reached twenty-seven. His screams ceased after the seventh, his lifeless body crumpling beneath her.
Her mother’s sobs filled the silence, and Delilah turned, her bloodied hands trembling with rage.
“Please, Delilah,” the woman pleaded, her once-kind face now twisted in fear. “Don’t hurt me. I’m so sorry.”
Delilah’s smile returned, but it was cruel and hollow. Without a word, she drove the dagger into her mother’s leg, using the serrated edge to saw through flesh, tendon, and bone. The woman’s screams filled the room, piercing and unrelenting, until the blade struck home for the final time.
When it was over, Delilah stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving. The bodies of her parents lay torn and bloodied at her feet, their mutilated forms barely recognisable.
A guttural scream tore from her throat, raw and primal, shaking the very walls of the house. Birds fled from their perches, their wings beating frantically against the sky, the pure shrill of her despair raged around the small village of Falstide.
The door burst open, and Aster and Harkin stormed in, their weapons drawn.
“Holy fuck,” Harkin muttered, his crimson eyes wide as he took in the blood-slick walls and the bodies on the floor.
Delilah collapsed to her knees, clutching her head as fresh waves of agony rippled through her. Aster knelt beside her, retracting her claw-like nails as she tried to soothe her, but Delilah’s screams wouldn’t stop.
Blood seeped from phantom wounds across her torso, limbs and back, each one a cruel echo of her death. Her ears elongated, her fangs extending further as her body contorted with the pain. Black, viscous fluid poured from her mouth, staining the wooden floor as she convulsed.
Aster called her name, her voice filled with desperation, but Delilah couldn’t hear her. The world spun, the pain consuming her entirely. Finally, the darkness closed in, and she slumped into Aster’s arms, her screams fading into silence as unconsciousness claimed her.
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Aster
The room fell eerily silent as Delilah’s body went limp in Aster’s arms, her head lolling to the side. The only sounds were Aster’s sharp breaths and the faint creak of the blood-soaked floorboards beneath them.
“Is she—” Harkin started, his voice unusually uncertain, the usual smugness stripped away.
“She’s alive,” Aster interrupted, her tone clipped. Her golden eyes, sharp and calculating, darted over Delilah’s pale face. “But barely.”
The black ichor that had spilled from Delilah’s mouth began to spread across the floor like a living shadow, curling and writhing as though it had a mind of its own. Harkin took a wary step back, his hand instinctively moving toward his dagger.
“What the hell is that?” he demanded, his voice laced with both anger and unease.
“Residual energy,” Aster murmured, brushing a strand of her braid away from her face. “It’s her death, her pain—it’s manifesting.”
“Manifesting? Fantastic,” Harkin muttered sarcastically, his crimson eyes flicking between Delilah’s unconscious form and the writhing shadows. “This is why I don’t get involved in personal vendettas. Shit like this always happens.”
“Would you shut up and help me?” Aster snapped, her tone unusually sharp as she struggled to lift Delilah. Despite her slender frame, there was an undeniable strength in her movements as she hoisted the younger woman onto her shoulder. “We need to get her out of here before this spreads.”
“Spreads?” Harkin repeated, his irritation quickly giving way to alarm. He gestured at the ichor with his dagger. “You’re telling me that’s going to get worse?”
“Possibly,” Aster said grimly, already moving toward the door. “This kind of energy doesn’t dissipate on its own. It feeds on emotion—anger, despair, grief. And in this place…” Her voice trailed off, her expression darkening.
Harkin didn’t need further explanation. The oppressive weight of the house, with its bloodstained walls and memories of suffering, was almost palpable. He swore under his breath and followed Aster, pausing only to retrieve his dagger from the floor.
As they stepped into the cold night air, the ichor seemed to claw at the edges of the doorway, writhing and snapping like a trapped beast. Aster didn’t glance back, her focus entirely on the path ahead as she carried Delilah toward the village’s outskirts.
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Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale, ghostly light over the abandoned streets of Falstide. The air was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against the skin and made every sound seem louder than it should be.
“We can’t stay here,” Aster said, her voice firm despite the strain on her expression. The white bandage over her eyes remained still, a quiet symbol of the blindness she’d borne for so long. “She needs rest, but not here. This place will only make it worse.”
“And where exactly do you suggest we go?” Harkin asked, his irritation returning as he glanced back at the house. The shadows in the doorway seemed to pulse, as though waiting for them to return.
“There’s an old chapel on the outskirts of the village,” Aster replied, her senses acutely attuned to the world around her despite her lack of sight. “It’s abandoned, but consecrated ground should keep the energy at bay while she recovers.”
Harkin snorted. “A vampire in a chapel. That’s rich.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Aster shot back, her patience clearly wearing thin.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Lead the way.”
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The journey to the chapel was tense and silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Delilah stirred faintly in Aster’s arms, a pained whimper escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake.
When they reached the chapel, it was clear the building had seen better days. Its once-proud steeple was leaning precariously, and the wooden doors were splintered and weathered by time. Still, the faint glow of moonlight through the cracked stained glass windows gave it an air of quiet sanctuary.
Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and long-extinguished candles. Aster gently laid Delilah on the dusty altar, brushing a strand of pink hair from her face.
“Will she be all right?” Harkin asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Aster didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she knelt beside Delilah, her hands hovering over the younger woman’s chest. A faint golden light emanated from her palms, illuminating the deep scars that crisscrossed Delilah’s back and arms.
“She’ll survive,” Aster said finally, though her tone was heavy with uncertainty. “But this isn’t over. Whatever’s inside her—it’s waking up. And when it does…” She trailed off, her golden eyes meeting Harkin’s. “We can’t stay here long,” she said quietly, her voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of urgency. “This place won’t hold the ichor for long. ”
“When it does, what?” Harkin interrupted, his impatience bubbling up again, though it was tempered with a genuine concern. “What are we even dealing with? What is this stuff?”
Aster exhaled sharply, her eyes flicking toward the altar where Delilah lay, barely conscious. “The ichor isn’t just a physical poison. It’s a force—a manifestation of pure, unfiltered pain, hatred, and suffering. It’s been festering inside her for far too long. It feeds on negative emotion, grows stronger with every act of violence, every drop of blood. And now it’s awake.”
Harkin’s gaze darkened, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his dagger as though bracing for something to leap out at them. “So this is just a preview? And we’re supposed to wait around for it to explode?”
Aster met his eyes, her blind gaze not faltering, with a calmness that bordered on unsettling. “No. We’re not waiting around for anything. We’re leaving.” She paused, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “But we’re not done here. This thing inside her, it’ll come for us again. It’s far from finished.”
Harkin gave a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re telling me we’re supposed to wait for it to come back? A decade? A century?”
“It won’t be the same next time,” Aster replied evenly. “The ichor is an ancient energy, and once it finds a vessel—especially one as powerful as Delilah—it doesn’t stop. It won’t rest until it’s consumed everything. And that means us, too. It’s just waiting for the right moment. But the next time… it will be stronger. And harder to defeat.”
Harkin’s frown deepened. “So we’re stuck with this ticking time bomb?”
“No,” Aster said quietly, kneeling again by Delilah. “Not stuck. But we need to prepare. And Delilah…” She hesitated, brushing her fingers lightly over the other woman’s forehead. “She’ll have to fight it. It’s the only way to keep it from spreading, from consuming everything in its path. And that’s a battle that will take everything from her.”
A silence fell over them, thick and heavy, as the weight of her words settled in. The night outside seemed to press closer, the shadows still stirring in their unseen watch.
Harkin grunted, pacing in a tight circle. “I can’t say I’m thrilled about any of this.”
Aster’s gaze drifted back to Delilah, as though she could see her ashen face. The younger woman stirred faintly again, a soft breath escaping her lips as if trying to fight her way to consciousness. “She’s strong,” Aster murmured, almost to herself. “She’s the only one who can defeat it. But she can’t do it alone.”
The silence deepened as if the very air held its breath in anticipation. Whatever had been unleashed in that house was far from gone. It had only just begun.
And when it returned, they would need to be ready.
Harkin frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned his gaze to Delilah, who lay motionless on the altar, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
The shadows of the night seemed to gather outside the chapel, pressing against the cracked windows like a living thing. Whatever had been unleashed in that house wasn’t gone—it was waiting.