"What coins, Flávius?" Silvo asked, astonished.
The coins were in Maristela's leather pouch, along with the rest. She wasn't going to tell. It was the only thing keeping her and Mother Teresa alive.
Mother Teresa was pale, bleeding, nearly fainting — but still standing. Still resisting. The lights on the Ankh grew weaker by the second. Flávius watched, patient.
Domingos had sent the coins to Father Dan. And also the order: keep Maristela in the convent until he came to get her.
Father Dan tried to kill her so they wouldn't take her alive.
Silvo and Flávius arrived one night early to take the coins from the safe.
Why wouldn't Silvo know about the coins if they came together? Unless… Flávius didn't tell him. Because he didn't want to share.
"You figured it out" — the Orphan whispered in her head.
Maristela lifted her head. Stared at Flávius. The words came out before she could bite them back.
"You want to steal from Domingos." Her voice came out nervous, but firm. "I wonder what will happen when Silvo opens his mouth. That's why you haven't freed him from the chains."
Flávius looked at her differently. The smile disappeared.
"What is the little rat talking about, Flávius?" Silvo sounded nervous, pulling at the chains. "We came because Domingos sent us. We…"
Flávius didn't answer. His eyes shifted from Maristela to Silvo — and there, in that look, Maristela saw the answer.
It worked.
"Flávius?" Silvo's voice trembled. "Get me out of here."
Mother Teresa squeezed Maristela's shoulder and pulled her back. Limping, dragging her destroyed body, the mother still managed to move them a few steps away, toward the balcony.
Flávius sighed. Deep. Like someone already tired of their own lie.
Good. Now they'll kill each other, and you run — the Orphan laughed, low, inside her.
Maristela knew that sound. Disappointment.
"You know, the night would have been quite simple. Don't you agree, Silvo?"
"Flávius, get me out of here. Let's finish what Domingos ordered."
Flávius moved.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't violent. It was courteous — like someone approaching for a hug.
His right hand grabbed Silvo's chin. His left — the nails already grown, already black — touched his companion's throat with an almost intimate gentleness.
"Flávius, I DIDN'T KNOW, I SWEAR! STOP, I WON'T…"
And then he pulled.
The scream died.
The sound was wet. A clean tear — not of flesh being dismembered, but of something being ripped from its place. Silvo's trachea came with Flávius's hand, an irregular piece of cartilage and skin that still vibrated with the last air trying to pass through.
"A damn hunter stabbed me in the chest. The bells rang, the doors closed. We found the priest bloody, the safe empty. And the smell of a child."
Flávius spoke slowly, while his claws slid across Silvo's skin, marking red grooves that didn't bleed. Not immediately.
"I know, Silvo. You didn't know anything. You won't tell anyone."
Silvo tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His eyes widened. The blood began to flow — not gush, flow — down his chin, down his neck, dripping onto the floor where the Ankh glowed faintly.
He was choking on his own blood.
"But look," Flávius continued, his voice sweet, while his eyes shifted from Silvo to Mother Teresa, to Maristela. As if they were the audience. "We need to start damage control. The little rat opened her mouth. Someone needs to be guilty."
Flávius brought the piece of throat to his lips. Bit down. Chewed. Swallowed.
This is how they die. Not fast. Not clean.— The Orphan whispered. Not fast. Not clean.
"But don't worry." Flávius stepped closer. His claws still dripped. "They will know that you came to steal Domingos's shipment. That you killed the priest. That you were killed by a hunter who protected the convent. She died in the process. Coincidentally, the convent burned down the same night."
Silvo tried to speak. Only a jet of blood came through his lips.
His eyes were already glazed.
Flávius tilted his head. His mouth opened — his teeth deforming, growing, twisting outward.
He sealed the open wound on Silvo's throat and began to drink. Without hurry. Without stopping. Like someone drinking wine from a barrel they know is the last.
Maristela held her breath.
She looked at Mother Teresa. The mother could barely walk anymore — each step was a silent agony, her broken arm swinging uselessly, the rib still protruding through the open wound. But her eyes were dry. Focused. She was still planning something.
Maristela looked away. The room. The chains. The chest.
The memory came like a shock: Mother Teresa crouching twice. The nylon thread. The surgical care when removing it before opening.
The trap.
Now or never.
Silvo's body trembled. Once. Twice. His fingers and toes stretched, twisted.
He began to disintegrate.
From the skin inward. From flesh to bone. Not in pieces — into dust. Fine ash, dark ash, that flowed through the chains and accumulated on the floor like sand from a broken hourglass.
Maristela knelt beside the chest. Her trembling fingers traced the lid, the crack — until they found the nylon thread. She remembered the scene: Mother Teresa pulling the same thread before opening, the dry click, the care of someone who knew what they were doing.
She pulled.
The nylon snapped with a crack.
Click.
The sound came from inside the chest. Deep. Metallic. Like a spring being released.
Maristela kicked the chest. It slid across the rough floor, tipping once, twice, until it stopped less than a meter from Flávius.
Silvo's eyes were the last to go. Open. Still. Reflecting the wooden ceiling as they dissolved into grains that mixed with the dried blood.
In a few seconds, nothing remained of the vampire trapped in the chains. Only the empty iron shackles. The silver pendant he wore around his neck had fallen among the clothes piled on the floor. And the smell of sulfur and ash.
Flávius stood up. Licked his lips. Straightened his suit. His voice was still calm.
"A sad end for such a loyal, such a young member." He sighed, looking at the empty clothes. "To die remembered as a corrupt thief. Such humiliation will never be forgotten."
He raised his eyes to Mother Teresa. Then to Maristela.
"Well then. Where were we?"
The chest hissed.
It wasn't an ordinary hiss. It was high-pitched, rising, like a pressure cooker about to explode. A dark green liquid began to seep through the cracks in the wood — thick, shiny, like tree sap.
The symbol on the floor stopped glowing. The air around grew lighter.
"Maristela, go to the balcony," Mother Teresa ordered, with what little strength she had left. Her good arm pointed. "Now."
They moved. Maristela put her shoulder under the mother's arm, supporting the useless weight. The mother limped, dragged her foot, but they advanced — three, four steps to the balcony.
The foam exploded from the chest.
White in the center, green at the edges, expanding like a cloud in slow motion, but much faster than it seemed. In two seconds, it was already licking Flávius's feet.
The smell hit Maristela first: sulfur, rotten eggs, and something worse — burning flesh.
Flávius finally noticed.
The foam continued to grow. In two seconds, his ankles were trapped. In three, his legs were locked.
Half of Flávius's body was already inside the white foam.
He stopped. Looked around with a disgusted face. Then at Mother Teresa.
"This won't be enough, Witch." His voice was calm. Just a tone above a whisper.
"You chose the wrong night to break into my house," Mother Teresa replied, her voice dragged, heavy, but the words still cut.
The foam rose his torso, up his shoulder, to his neck.
Flávius just watched. His eyes didn't change once.
Until his head was swallowed. The foam continued expanding and hardening.
Silence.
The foam stopped. Flávius had disappeared. Only a white and green block remained where he stood.
"Mother, what did I throw at the vamp…"
"Expanding foam," Mother Teresa said, sitting on the windowsill. "Hunter secret."
And then the silence was broken by a sound coming from outside. A sound that would bring relief at any other moment.
Maristela looked out the window.
Sirens. Red and blue lights cut through the dawn mist. One car. Then another. Then three more.
The relief came warm and selfish — someone, finally someone, came to help.
Thank God
And then she saw what the police were doing.
They weren't entering. They were forming a perimeter. Isolating the convent from the rest of the world. They were there to provide help.
Maristela looked at the officers' faces. She didn't see urgency. Or concern.
Their eyes weren't searching. They were waiting. Like people who already knew what they would find.
They're in on it. They're in his pocket.
Maristela felt the floor disappear.
The police weren't allies. They were part of the scheme. Flávius's private guards.
The convent was surrounded. No one was coming to save her.
She stood there, frozen, her blood running cold, as the weight of the night collapsed on her shoulders.
And then she heard it.
A crack.
Behind her, the foam had begun to split.