The morning sun cuts through my bedroom window like a blade, but it brings no warmth. I've been lying here for three hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment from the boathouse. The taste of Thomas's terror still lingers on my tongue—metallic and bitter, like copper pennies left in water.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number: What did you do to me?
Thomas. Of course.
I delete the message without responding. He'll call next, then maybe show up at my apartment. They always do, in the beginning. Desperate for answers, for some way to undo what's been done. But there's no going back from what I am, what I do.
The hunger is quieter now, satiated enough to let me think clearly. Feeding comes with a brief respite from the constant gnawing need that drives me from one victim to the next. But even now, barely twelve hours later, I can feel it stirring again, like a serpent uncoiling in my chest.
I roll out of bed and pad to the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My reflection looks almost normal—pale skin; dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders; eyes that could pass for human if you didn't look too closely. But there's something else now, a subtle change that comes after feeding. My features are sharper and more defined. My skin has a luminous quality, as if lit from within. The transformation is temporary, lasting only a few days, but it's always the same.
Beauty built on suffering.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a call as expected, Thomas's name flashing on the screen. I let it go to voicemail, then immediately listen to the message.
"Please," his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. Everything feels... wrong. What are you? What did you do to me?"
A pause, then, "I looked you up. Helena Blackwood, but there's no record of you before three years ago. Nothing. It's like you didn't exist before then."
Smart boy. Too smart for his own good.
I delete the voicemail and block his number. There's no point in prolonging this. He'll recover, eventually. The hollow feeling will fade and the nightmares will become less frequent. In a few months, he might even convince himself it was all some kind of psychotic break brought on by stress and shame. People are remarkably good at rationalizing away the impossible.
I make coffee and settle into the chair by my window, watching the small town wake up below. From here, I can see the church where our support group meets, the small grocery store, and the diner where I sometimes sit alone and watch the locals live their simple, uncomplicated lives.
They have no idea what walks among them.
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. Three sharp raps, followed by silence. I'm not expecting anyone, and the few people who know where I live wouldn't show up unannounced.
Through the peephole, I see Father Roth standing in the hallway, his hands clasped behind his back. His usually serene expression is troubled, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
"Helena," he says when I open the door. "We need to talk."
I step aside to let him in, noting how his eyes immediately scan the apartment. He's looking for something. Evidence, maybe, or signs of what I am. He won't find anything obvious. I've had decades to perfect the art of hiding in plain sight.
"Coffee?" I offer, gesturing toward the kitchen.
"No, thank you." He remains standing near the door, as if ready to flee at a moment's notice. "Thomas called me this morning. He's... disturbed. Says he can't remember much about last night, but what he does remember..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"I imagine addiction recovery is difficult," I say carefully. "Relapses happen. Sometimes people do things they later regret."
"This isn't about a relapse." His voice is sharp, harder than I've ever heard it. "He's terrified, Hel. Not ashamed or guilty: terrified. There's a difference."
I sit down in my chair, cradling my coffee cup. "And what exactly are you suggesting, Father?"
He finally moves deeper into the room, still keeping his distance from me, though. "I've been a priest for thirty-seven years. I've seen addiction, mental illness, and trauma in all its forms. I know what human suffering looks like." He pauses, his gray eyes boring into mine. "What I saw in Thomas this morning wasn't human suffering. It was something else entirely."
"And you think I'm responsible?"
"I think you're not what you pretend to be." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small leather journal, worn with age. "I've been doing some research since our encounter in the woods. About you. About the things that have been happening in this town since you arrived."
My blood chills, but I keep my expression neutral. "Things?"
"Disappearances. Three people in the last six months, all connected to our support group in some way. First it was Margaret Chen, then David Walsh, then Sarah Morrison. All of them struggling with various addictions, all of them vulnerable." He opens the journal, scanning pages covered in his neat handwriting. "The police think they all just 'moved away' and started fresh somewhere else. It happens often enough with people trying to get clean so naturally."
"But you don't think that's what happened."
"Margaret's sister received a single text message the night she disappeared. 'Starting over. Don't look for me.' But Margaret couldn't text. The arthritis in her hands had made it impossible for months. David's car was found at a bus station three towns over, but the security cameras were mysteriously malfunctioning that week. And Sarah..." He closes the journal. "Sarah was afraid of buses. Panic attacks. She never would have taken one alone."
I set down my coffee cup, my hands perfectly steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "So what, you think I killed them?"
"I have no idea what to think. I think it's very possible that you're something that feeds on like human misery or something. I think you target the broken, because they're less likely to be believed if they survive. And I think Thomas is lucky to be alive."
The silence stretches between us. Outside, I can hear children playing in the street, their laughter a sharp contrast to the weight of Father Roth's accusations.
"Wow, I knew you were taken by me, but equating me to some supernatural being, it's quite flattering to be honest. Nevertheless, it's outrageous, and there's no proof to your absurd theory," I say finally.
"No," he admits. "There isn't, but trust me when I say I can make things very difficult for you here. I can make sure people know to be careful around you. I can—"
"You can what, Father? Tell them you think I'm some kind of monster? A succubus? A demon?" I lean forward, letting a hint of my true nature creep into my voice. "Who do you think they'll believe: the newcomer who's been nothing but helpful and supportive, or the old priest having some kind of religious delusion?"
His face pales, but he stands his ground. "I've dealt with evil before, Helena. True evil, and I know how to fight it."
I laugh, the sound echoing strangely in the small apartment. "Fight it? Father, you have no idea what you're dealing with. I've been what I am for longer than your entire bloodline has existed. I've seen civilizations rise and fall, fed on the fears and desires of countless souls across centuries. You think your faith, your little prayers and holy water, can stop me?"
"I think," he says quietly, "that even monsters can choose to stop being monsters."
The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I'm transported back to another time, another place. A monastery in the French countryside, circa 1847. Brother Augustine, with his kind eyes and steady voice, told me the same thing. Even the damned can seek redemption, child. It's never too late to choose a different path.
I'd killed him three days later, draining him completely in his own chapel. The hunger had been so strong then, and his faith had made him particularly... nourishing.
"You're wrong," I say.
Father Roth steps closer, and I catch the scent of something metallic hanging around his neck. Probably some anointed cross of whatever. Not that it would do him any good, but the intent behind it creates a small barrier between us, a slight resistance to my influence.
"Thomas is getting help," he says. "I'm sending him to a facility upstate, somewhere he can recover properly. As for the others in our group, I'll be watching them more closely, and I'll be watching you even closer."
"You can't protect them all, Father," I whisper. "Not forever anyway."
"Maybe no, but I can try." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "There's something else you should know. I've contacted other priests in neighboring towns and shared my concerns about you. They're checking their own records, their own missing persons reports. If there's a pattern, we'll find it."
I remain in my chair for a long time after he leaves, staring out at the street below. The children have gone inside for lunch, and the street is quiet now, almost peaceful, if I had to guess what peaceful felt or sounded like. Yet I feel the walls closing in and the careful life I've built here starting to crumble.
I've stayed in Millbrook longer than I usually stay anywhere—eight months, long enough to establish routines and to become familiar. Usually, I move every few months, never lingering long enough for patterns to emerge or questions to be asked, but something about this place, about the steady supply of broken souls seeking redemption, had made me complacent.
That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was underestimating Father Roth. I'd seen him as just another small-town priest, worn down by years of listening to confessions and delivering empty platitudes about forgiveness. I hadn't recognized the steel beneath his gentle demeanor, the intelligence behind his compassionate eyes.
Now I have a choice to make: run, as I've always done when things get complicated, or stay and fight. Running would be easier. I could be in the next state by nightfall, starting over in a new town with a new identity, but the thought of leaving now, of abandoning this place where I've been more comfortable than anywhere in recent memory, fills me with an unfamiliar emotion. Not quite sadness but something close to it. A sense of loss, perhaps?
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. For a moment, I think it might be Thomas again, having gotten a new phone, but when I open the message, it's from someone else entirely:
I know what you are. We need to meet. Tonight. The old cemetery, midnight. Come alone.
No signature, no identifying information. And yet somehow, I know exactly who sent it.
The hunger stirs in my chest, responding to the thrill of a new challenge. Someone else knows my secret, someone brave or foolish enough to confront me directly. Part of me is annoyed by the complication, but a larger part is intrigued.
It's been so long since I've had a worthy opponent.
I spend the rest of the day making preparations. If tonight goes badly, if this mysterious contact proves more dangerous than I anticipate, I'll need to be ready to run. I pack a small bag with essentials and destroy anything that might connect me to my time in Millbrook, burning papers and photos in the fireplace until nothing remains.
As evening approaches, I feel the familiar pre-hunt excitement building in my veins. There's something else mixed in with it now: uncertainty. For the first time in longer than I care to remember, I don't know what's waiting for me in the darkness. I moan slightly as my tongue instinctively curls over my teeth in hunger.
The cemetery is older than the town itself, dating back to the early 1800s when this area was still frontier territory. Ancient oaks tower over weathered headstones, their branches creating a canopy so thick that even moonlight struggles to penetrate. I arrive early, wanting to scout the area and ensure I'm not walking into a trap.
The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, but underneath it, I detect something else. The metallic tang of spilled blood; recent blood.
I find her near the center of the cemetery, standing beside a large granite monument dedicated to some long-dead town founder. She's young, maybe mid-twenties, with short auburn hair and pale skin marked by intricate tattoos that spiral up her arms. But it's her eyes that give her away—ancient eyes in a young face, eyes that have seen far too much and remember everything.
She's like me. Not human. Not anymore.
"Helena," she says as I approach. "Or do you prefer Hel? It's so hard to keep track of all the names we use."
"Who are you?" I ask, keeping my distance. The blood scent is stronger now, and I notice dark stains on her clothing and hands.
"Someone who's been looking for you for a very long time." She tilts her head, studying me with those too-old eyes. "My name is Vera. Vera Constantine. Though I suspect you might know me by another name—Constance Blackthorne."
The name hits me like ice water. Constance Blackthorne. My sister. My creator. The one who cursed me with this existence over a century ago, then disappeared without a trace.
"You're supposed to be dead," I whisper.
She laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. "Death is such a human concept, don't you think? We're beyond such limitations now." She gestures to the fresh blood on her clothes. "I've been cleaning up some loose ends tonight. A certain priest who asked too many questions. A young man who couldn't keep his mouth shut about supernatural encounters."
My blood turns to ice. "Thomas?"
"Oh, don't look so stricken, sister. I was merciful. They died quickly." Her smile is cold and predatory. "Unlike some of the others. The three from your support group, for instance. They provided... entertainment before I disposed of them."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Margaret, David, and Sarah—she killed them. Not even to feed, but to frame me. To force me into a corner where I'd have no choice but to flee or fight.
"Why?" I ask. "After all these years, why now?"
"Because it's time to come home, Helena. Time to stop playing at being human and remember what we really are." She steps closer, and I can feel the dark energy radiating from her like heat from a forge. "I'm building something. An empire, if you will. But I need my sister by my side to make it work."
"I want no part of whatever you're planning."
"You don't have a choice." Her eyes begin to glow with an inner fire. "You've been hiding for too long, Helena. Feeding on scraps, pretending to care about these worthless humans. You've forgotten your true nature."
"Maybe I have," I admit. "And maybe that's not such a bad thing."
Her expression hardens. "The Helena I created wouldn't dare utter such weak words. The Helena I knew reveled in the hunt, in the power we wielded over lesser beings."
"The Helena you knew was young and angry and broken. I've learned things since then."
"Such as?"
I think of Thomas, collapsed and terrified in the boathouse. Of Father Roth, risking his own safety to protect his flock. Of the genuine connections I've made in this small town, fragile as they might be.
"Such as the difference between existing and living, between taking what I need and destroying everything I touch."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "I see. You've gone soft. How... disappointing."
The attack comes without warning. One moment she's standing ten feet away; the next she's in front of me, her hand wrapped around my throat with inhuman strength. The world blurs as she lifts me off the ground, her grip like iron.
"Then I'll have to remind you what you are," she hisses.
I grab her wrist, calling on my own strength to break her hold. For a moment we're evenly matched, two creatures of darkness locked in combat among the graves of the long dead. But she's stronger than I remember, empowered by decades of unrestrained feeding while I've been limiting myself to what I need to survive.
She throws me backward into a headstone, the impact sending spiderweb cracks through the granite. Pain explodes across my back, but I roll aside just as her foot crashes down where my head had been, pulverizing stone.
"You could have been a queen," she snarls, stalking toward me. "We could have ruled together, as I always planned. Instead, you chose to become a pale imitation of the humans you once hunted."
I struggle to my feet, tasting blood in my mouth. "I chose to stop being a monster."
"Then you chose to die!"
She lunges again, but this time I'm ready. I sidestep her attack and grab a broken piece of headstone, swinging it with all my strength at her temple. It connects with a sickening crack, staggering her long enough for me to put distance between us.
"You can't run forever, sister," she calls, wiping blood from her forehead. "I'll find you wherever you go."
I don't wait to hear more. I turn and run, crashing through the underbrush toward the cemetery's edge. Behind me, I hear her laughter echoing among the tombstones—cold, cruel, and absolutely certain.
She's right, of course. I can't run forever. Eventually, she'll find me again, and when she does, I'll have to make a choice.
As I reach my car and speed away from Millbrook for the last time, I think about Father Roth and Thomas, about the life I'm leaving behind. They'll find the priest's body in the morning, along with whatever remains of Thomas. The official story will probably involve a random break-in, violence without motive or meaning.
A strange trickling sensation crosses my cheeks. Tears? It's been centuries since I've felt this. Maybe that's what separates me from Constance now; not strength or power, but the capacity to feel guilt. To mourn the innocent. To care about the collateral damage of my existence.
It's not much of a distinction, but it's something, right?
The road stretches ahead into darkness, leading away from everything I've come to know and toward an uncertain future.