The silence on the road felt wrong. Not calm—heavy, choking, the kind that makes you strain to hear something, anything. The only sound was the wagon wheels groaning through rain-soaked mud. My boots were damp from the earlier downpour, the cold breeze clawing under my cloak. The sun was smothered by gray clouds, bleeding out the last of its light. I gripped the reins tighter, scanning the treeline. Nothing moved. No birds. No wind. Just stillness.

I needed a village. Shelter. A fire. Anything to keep the night off my back. Things that walked after dark… weren’t things you faced alone.

An hour later, rooftops emerged from the mist ahead. Relief hit—then faded. The place was wrong. No smoke from chimneys. No voices. Windows barred shut like the houses themselves were hiding. Even the dogs were silent. My gut tightened.

A tavern should’ve been bright by now, spilling warmth into the street. Instead, I found one with its door hanging half open, darkness bleeding out. I stopped the wagon and dismounted, boots sinking into the wet earth. My hand brushed the crossbow slung over my shoulder.

The door moaned when I pushed it. The air inside hit me like a fist—damp, metallic, stinking of rot and old smoke. My steps creaked on warped boards. Then I heard it: a whimper, faint, broken. I struck my lighter. The flame shivered as I lit a candle—then froze.

Bodies. Mangled, twisted, limbs bent wrong. Faces locked in agony. Blood slicked the planks, black and tacky. No beast could do this.

The sound came again. I followed it to the kitchen. A man slumped by the stove, breathing shallow, skin pale as wax. Hovering over him—something shaped like a woman, but wrong. Too thin. Too long. Its head twitched toward me, eyes flaring crimson. Instinct fired before thought—I loosed the bolt. It slammed into her knee. She shrieked, high and sharp enough to split bone, then collapsed on the blood-slick floor.

Iron bit into her wrists where the chains held her. The tavern reeked of copper and death, thick in my throat. My tongue tingled, traitorous, and I bit down hard until I tasted iron. Not now.

The rag around my left hand dripped holy water, soaking the cloth cold against my skin. The sting started almost instantly—a pins-and-needles burn crawling over my palm, deep into the muscle. It would leave a red welt by morning. Her chest rose and fell—pointless breaths, clinging to a habit she no longer needed. Freshly turned. Still pretending to be alive.

I closed the gap, fisting a handful of her hair and wrenching her head back. The soaked rag kissed her cheek. Smoke curled. Flesh hissed. She jerked against the chains, and I slammed my palm across her face. The crack tore through the silence.

“Wake up, leech.” My voice was low, guttural, almost not mine. This wasn’t her work alone. A village like this? There were more.

Her eyes fluttered open—crimson spreading like ink. My grip tightened, yanking harder until she whimpered, raw and thin. Holy water sizzled on her skin, each hiss a curse.

“Where are the others?!” I snarled, dragging her head sideways, jaw clenched so hard it ached. My pulse hammered at my tongue, hunger crawling under my skin. Too close. Too much blood in the air. I bit down harder, pain slicing through the craving.

She only smiled—thin, broken glass. Blood welled at her lip, sliding down her chin. I watched it fall, heard the sound when it hit the floor. And hated the way my mouth burned for the taste.