CHAPTER 109: BATTLE OF BLOOD

I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of myself for stabbing someone in the neck.

Truly, a gold medal moment in my ongoing career of questionable decision-making. The pen slid in like it was crafted for that exact purpose—sharp, merciless, and poetic in its own twisted way. I felt the resistance at first, the give of flesh parting under pressure, then the wet, sucking pop as it pierced through muscle and tendon, embedding deep into the carotid.

For one blissful, suspended instant, as her eyes widened in genuine shock, I thought I might actually live long enough to regret it—to wake up tomorrow with a hangover of guilt and a warrant for my arrest.

Then she clutched at the wound, her elegant fingers splaying wide, blood slick and dark as ink began spilling through the gaps, dripping in thick rivulets down her throat and pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.

She staggered back across the bed, her knees buckling slightly.

I should have run then. I should have bolted like Rodrick after a tavern tab came due, legs pumping furiously, dignity discarded in the dust, life intact and pounding in my veins.

But of course I didn’t.

I sat there, chest heaving with ragged breaths, heart battering against my ribs like a prisoner desperate to escape before the executioner arrived. And I watched—because apparently I’m the kind of idiot who lingers when faced with a literal vampire queen mid-transformation, mesmerized by the horror unfolding like a slow-blooming nightmare.

Her features hardened, sharpened like stone being chiseled by invisible, sadistic hands—cheekbones rising to razor edges, jawline tightening into a predatory angle that screamed danger.

The lush softness of her chest deflated slightly, tightening into something leaner, crueler, the kind of beauty that didn’t invite you closer so much as it dared you to survive it, promising agony in every curve.

And yet her expression—oh, saints preserve me—remained utterly, infuriatingly amused, as if my act of defiance was nothing more than a child’s tantrum.

It wasn’t a complete transformation, only the first mark. However, considering my current situation, it would be safe to consider that a major victory in it’s own right.

"Well," she purred, her voice velvet and razors, smooth as silk but edged with the promise of slicing pain, "someone’s frisky tonight."

"Frisky?" I barked out, hands trembling uncontrollably as I tried to keep my smirk intact, though it felt like a mask cracking under strain. "You were about to bite me! In the neck! That’s not frisky, that’s attempted homicide with dental flair!"

Her eyes flickered, bright with mischief that danced like flames on oil.

She said nothing. Not a denial, not a defense, not even an excuse about bad table manners or eternal hunger. Just silence, heavy and mocking, hanging in the air like a noose tightening around my throat. Which, of course, made my blood boil hotter, rage bubbling up from my gut like acid.

"And don’t pretend I’m imagining things," I snapped, words tumbling faster than my sense of self-preservation could rein them in, my voice rising to a near-shout. "I know how this goes. You get what you want—my blood, my seed or whatever, harvested like some twisted crop—and then, poof! I’m yesterday’s leftovers, tossed aside for the next unlucky fool, discarded in a ditch, or worse, turned into one of your mindless thralls!"

She tilted her head, lips curving into a smirk so sharp it could cut glass, her fangs peeking just enough to glint in the candlelight. "My, my. Smart boy."

Then, with an infuriating lack of urgency, she bent down, scooping her discarded dress from the floor as if nothing at all had just happened—like I hadn’t stabbed her, like she hadn’t almost gutted me, like this was some leisurely after-dinner ritual. She shook it once, fabric rippling with that obscene velvet shimmer, before slipping it back over her shoulders in one graceful motion.

I snarled before I realized I was snarling, my face twisting into something between fury and sheer disbelief, muscles contorting painfully as my adrenaline surged. Because gods above and below, she was mocking me. Always mocking me, as if my life was a jest for her amusement.

My rage must’ve looked pathetic, though, a mortal’s bluster against an immortal’s indifference, because she burst into laughter—rich and rolling, the kind of laugh that made the candle flames gutter and dance erratically, as though even the fire was intimidated by her presence, shrinking back in fear.

"Oh, darling," she cooed, wiping a streak of blood from her chin with dainty fingers, smearing it across her skin like war paint, "if you won’t cooperate, then I’ll simply take what I want...by force."

And that was when my body, in an act of divine instinct I will never adequately thank, made me duck.

Her arm lashed out faster than lightning, carving the air with enough force to cleave a mountain in twain. The room split in two—candles snuffed out in a puff of acrid smoke, the bed’s ornate backboard cracked across the top with a thunderous snap that echoed like breaking bones, velvet curtains torn into ribbons that fluttered like the banners of my impending funeral, drifting lazily to the floor amid the chaos.

My heart nearly broke its way out of my chest, pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples.

The sound of splintering wood and hissing fire filled the room then, debris clattering like hail, and for one terrifying, frozen second, I was sure she’d cleaved me along with the furniture—imagined my torso splitting open, ribs cracking like dry twigs, blood and guts spilling in a warm rush.

But no—there I was, crouched like a startled cat, staring at the devastation with the dawning realization that I had no business still being alive, my limbs trembling from the near-miss.

And then she bolted.

She moved faster than sight, a blur of pale skin and golden eyes that smeared across my vision like a nightmare.

The next thing I knew, she was slamming into me with all the grace and subtlety of a meteor—her shoulder driving into my chest like a battering ram, ribs creaking under the impact, air crushed from my lungs in a whoosh that left me gasping, vision spotting black.

Together we tore through the wall like paper dolls hurled by a drunken god, masonry exploding outward in a shower of dust and fragments that bit into my skin like tiny teeth.

We were airborne, plummeting in a tangle of limbs, blood, and raw panic, the wind whipping past us as we fell, my stomach lurching with the drop.

Then we hit the cobblestones of the street below with bone-rattling force, the impact jarring up through my spine like a lightning bolt, teeth clacking together hard enough to taste blood, the earth itself groaning in complaint.

"Great," I wheezed, dragging myself upright on shaking arms, dust raining down around us like filthy snow, coating my hair and stinging my eyes. "Just what I always wanted—public humiliation and imminent death, all rolled into one convenient package."

She rose like some ghastly angel, her body mending even as I watched—skin sealing over gashes with a wet, slurping sound, bones resetting with audible pops that made my stomach churn, the wound in her neck knitting shut in a grotesque display of regeneration, threads of flesh weaving together like living embroidery.

And then—because fate clearly hated me with a passion—wings erupted from her back, black and glistening with ichor, tearing through her skin in a spray of blood that pattered to the ground like rain.

Each beat stirred the blood-soaked air into a hurricane, whipping debris into whirlwinds that lashed at my face.

"Oh, saints," I muttered, staring up at the monstrous span.

"Run now," she taunted, her voice a sing-song melody that curled around me like smoke, insidious and choking, "or stay. It makes no difference. I’ll enjoy breaking you either way—"

"Oh, you’ll enjoy it?" I snapped, fumbling my grip on the pen, fingers slick with sweat and her blood, slipping treacherously. "Forgive me for not sharing your enthusiasm. I’m more of a tea-and-biscuits-before-bed sort of man, not an entrails-across-the-pavement, guts-steaming-in-the-night-air one."

She laughed, the sound splitting the night like shattering glass, echoing off buildings and sending shivers down my spine.

And then she struck.

She moved like lightning incarnate. One heartbeat she was ten paces away, wings curled with demonic poise, held like a statue of vengeance; the next she was a blur, a storm, a scream of displaced air and furious motion barreling straight into my ribs.

I barely got my arms crossed in time, the impact detonating through my bones like a blacksmith’s hammer.

My back skidded across stone, my lungs flaring with the sour, metallic taste of blood welling up from my bitten tongue. Gods, she hit like a collapsing cathedral, the force radiating out to make my teeth ache and my vision blur.

I staggered upright, pen gripped tight in white-knuckled fingers, mind screaming at me to move, to adapt, to stop gaping at her like a boy caught peeking into a bathhouse.

But she was relentless, a force of nature unbound.

Her arms swiped again, claws extending from her fingertips with a sickening stretch of skin, glistening with freshly-forged blood that dripped and hardened into serrated blades mid-swing, each edge jagged like broken glass.

The sheer force of her strike carved gouges through the cobbles, deep trenches that smoked from the friction, shards of rock pelting me like sling stones, one slicing a hot line across my cheek that burned and bled.

"Creative!" I barked, ducking beneath the swing with a desperate twist that pulled muscles in my side, rolling down to the gravel that ground into my elbows. "Have you considered carpentry? You’d make an excellent demolition crew—very thorough, very dramatic, leaves nothing standing but rubble and regrets!"

She smiled, cruel and radiant, fangs bared in a grin that promised exquisite pain. "Why build," she asked sweetly, wings unfurling wide enough to blot out the lantern light, casting long shadows that danced like demons, "when it is so much more delicious to destroy—to tear down empires, to crush spirits, to watch the light fade from defiant eyes like yours?"

"Because," I panted, darting in close with lungs burning from exertion, pen flashing in the dim light, "I like my bakeries without structural collapse, thank you very much—and my streets without craters that swallow horses whole!"

I slashed upward, the tip of my pen nearly grazing across her side in a shallow arc, yet she twisted around the movement with ease.

She backhanded me before I could retreat, the blow carrying enough force to send me pinwheeling through a cart of cabbages—wood splintering under my weight, the impact jarring my spine anew.

I landed in a heap.

"I’m going to die," I groaned, spitting out cabbage and blood, hauling myself up on arms that screamed in protest, muscles quivering from fatigue. "And my epitaph will read: Here lies Cecil. Killed by hubris and locally sourced produce, buried under a mountain of regrets and wilted greens."

She landed in front of me with a thud that cracked the stone, wings folding inward like retracting blades, her golden eyes gleaming as though I were the punchline to her private, eternal joke.

My limbs trembled as I rose, my pen clutched like the world’s most pathetic sword, slick with sweat and trembling in my grasp.

"Do you truly think you can mark me with that pen of yours?" she asked, tilting her head with predatory grace, her voice dripping with condescension. "Your little toy burns, yes, but I am immortal. Eternal."

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," I shot back, summoning incarnate energy into my veins, skin prickling as my enhancements surged through me like liquid fire. "I’d rather donate my seed to a compost heap than father your nightmare brood."

That got her. Just a flicker—an almost imperceptible flare of irritation crossing her face, her lips twitching downward for a split second before it smoothed into regal amusement again.

But I saw it, that crack in her armor, and saints bless me, it gave me strength, a spark of hope amid the despair.