When Anthony had taken his fill, he finally pulled away, a faint trace of her blood lingering at the corner of his lips. He wiped it away with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, savoring the last taste before releasing her wrist.
Without a word, he reached for the glass tube and turned, carrying it over to Bathsheba.
On the table before her lay two small corpses—a rat and a frog—both stiff and lifeless, their glassy eyes reflecting the dim light of the room.
Bathsheba accepted the tube with quiet eagerness. Pouring its contents into a shallow bowl, she began to mutter under her breath, her voice low and rhythmic, each word curling into the next like a dark incantation. One by one, she added strange components—powders, crushed herbs, and viscous drops from unmarked vials.
The mixture responded.
What had once been deep crimson slowly shifted, thickening, its color paling until it became a strange, translucent substance—almost pure, almost unnatural.
With careful precision, she lifted the bowl and poured the liquid over the two carcasses.
It coated them completely.
Then, as her chanting grew more insistent, something began to change.
The liquid seeped into their skin.
Absorbed.
Every last drop vanished into their bodies as though it had never been there at all.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The rat twitched.
Its body began to swell grotesquely, its tiny frame expanding beyond what flesh should allow. At the same time, the frog's body began to wither, shrinking in on itself as though something unseen was draining it dry.
The contrast was horrifying.
One grew.
The other diminished.
Swelling and shrinking. Expanding and collapsing.
Until the frog was nothing more than a fragile skeleton, its flesh entirely gone—
—and the rat—
Burst.
A sickening sound split the air as its body ruptured, spraying fragments across the table… and onto Anthony.
Silence followed.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face—not at the gore staining him, but at something far deeper. Something that had clearly gone wrong.
Bathsheba turned toward him, her lips parting, perhaps to explain, perhaps to defend herself—
She never got the chance.
In a single, fluid motion, Anthony reached out. His hand closed around her neck. A sharp crack echoed through the room.
Her body went limp instantly.
He released her without a second glance, and she crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
For a heartbeat, the world stood still.
Then Christiana screamed.
The sound tore from her throat, raw and uncontrollable, her eyes wide with unfiltered horror as she stared at the woman's corpse—at the brutality of it, at the ease with which life had been taken.
And at the monster standing before her.
The laboratory door creaked open, its sound slicing through the lingering echo of Christiana's scream.
Robert stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with mild curiosity rather than concern.
"What's with all the screaming?" he asked casually.
His eyes landed briefly on Anthony's retreating figure, then shifted to the crumpled body of Bathsheba on the floor. Understanding flickered across his face almost instantly.
"She didn't know the resurrection spell," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Then his gaze moved again—and settled on Christiana.
Her face was frozen in raw horror, her eyes wide and unfocused, as though her mind had yet to catch up with what she had just witnessed. Robert sighed softly, shaking his head.
"Typical Anthony."
He approached her quietly, his footsteps barely making a sound against the cold floor.
Christiana didn't notice him at first. Her attention remained fixed on the corpse, her body trembling, her breathing shallow and uneven. It wasn't until she felt the restraints around her ankles loosen that she flinched, her head snapping toward him.
Disoriented, she could barely make out his face.
All she knew was that he was another one of them.
Her leg lashed out instinctively, striking him.
Robert didn't so much as flinch.
"I wouldn't hurt you," he said calmly, glancing up at her as he worked on the bindings around her wrists.
His voice was steady, almost gentle—but it did nothing to ease the storm raging inside her.
The moment her hands were free, Christiana didn't hesitate.
She ran.
Bare feet pounded against the floor as she bolted toward the door, desperation lending speed to her movements. Freedom was only a few steps away—
Then—
He was there.
Right in front of her.
She stopped so abruptly it nearly sent her stumbling. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, her heart slamming violently against her ribs.
No footsteps.
No warning.
Just… there.
Slowly, almost fearfully, she turned her head to glance behind her.
No one.
Her gaze snapped forward again—and there he stood, exactly where he had been.
"It's okay," Robert said, his tone still infuriatingly calm. "I'm just taking you to your room."
"Your room?" Her voice rose, shaking with anger and fear. "What room?! I want to go home!" Her hands curled into fists, though she quickly loosened one with a sharp wince, the pain from her wound flaring. "Why would you bring me here? If you're going to kill me, then just do it!"
Robert said nothing at first.
He simply took a step toward her.
Then another.
His eyes locked onto hers, steady and unblinking, holding her in place far more effectively than any chains ever could.
"Stay quiet," he said softly, his voice lowering into something almost hypnotic. "And let me take you to your room."
For a fleeting moment, something shifted.
A faint glimmer.
A hint of red flickered within his gaze.
Christiana's breath hitched.
Her fear sharpened into realization, her eyes widening as the truth settled over her like a cold shadow.
"You're… a vampire."
A frown slowly formed on Robert's face.
That wasn't what she was supposed to say.
His gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly as he studied her, as though trying to see beyond her words—beyond her mind itself. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression.
Then, without warning, he raised his hand.
A swift, precise motion—
And everything went dark.
Christiana's body went limp, her consciousness slipping away before she even had the chance to react. But she never hit the ground. Robert caught her effortlessly, as though he had done it a thousand times before, and hoisted her over his shoulder with practiced ease.
Without another glance at the chaos left behind in the laboratory, he turned and walked out.
The corridors were silent as he carried her through them, his footsteps measured, unhurried. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching and shifting as he passed, until at last he reached a room tucked away from the rest.
Her room.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Gently—far more gently than one would expect—he laid her down on the bed. Her body sank into the soft sheets, her breathing steady despite everything she had endured.
Robert didn't leave.
Instead, he stood there, watching her.
Something wasn't right.
A faint crease appeared between his brows as his thoughts turned inward, replaying the moment again and again.
Stay quiet…
The command had been clear. It should have worked. It always worked.
So why hadn't it?
His jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of unease settling in his chest.
Why couldn't she be compelled?