Scene 1: The Warning Bell
Night fell on Valerious like a guillotine blade.
The sky had been bruised purple all afternoon; now it split open without warning. Thunder rolled low and continuous, the kind that lives inside your ribs. Lightning forked across the Carpathians, illuminating the jagged peaks for split seconds before plunging everything back into black.
Inside the keep, the great hall was lit only by the dying fire and a single oil lamp on the long table. Frederick sat sharpening stakes—silver-tipped ash wood, each one etched with faint Latin prayers. Elizabeth paced the length of the hall, boots echoing on flagstones worn smooth by centuries of Valerious feet.
She had changed into lighter fighting gear: a sleeveless leather corset laced tight over a thin linen shirt, dark breeches, and arm bracers studded with small throwing knives. Her long braid swung like a pendulum with each step. She had not spoken to Frederick since their armory confrontation that morning. The silence between them crackled.
A boy—no more than twelve—burst through the side door, soaked and gasping.
"The bell—the outer bell!"
Elizabeth spun. "How many?"
"Three shadows. Coming fast from the east ridge."
Frederick was already on his feet, coat shrugged on, bandolier of stakes and holy-water vials clicking against his chest.
Elizabeth met his eyes across the table. For the first time since he arrived, there was no suspicion in her gaze—only grim recognition.
"Brides," she said.
Frederick nodded once.
They ran.
Scene 2: The Palisade
The village palisade was a rickety thing of sharpened logs and iron bands, never meant to hold against what came now. Torches guttered in iron sconces; rain hissed off them like angry cats. Villagers had already fled to cellars and the chapel crypt. Only a handful of men remained—old hunters mostly—clutching muskets loaded with consecrated shot.
Elizabeth vaulted the low barricade and landed in the mud of the outer lane. Frederick followed a heartbeat later, boots splashing beside hers.
Above them the storm tore wider. Lightning bleached the world white.
And then they came.
Three shapes dropped from the churning clouds—wings of black leather spread wide, bodies pale and entirely bare against the night. Rain sluiced over flawless skin, tracing rivulets between full breasts, down taut stomachs, glistening on the dark curls between their thighs. Their hair—crimson, ebony, silver—whipped like living serpents.
Seraphina landed first, boots sinking into mud. She arched her back, wings folding with a wet snap, nipples peaked from cold and arousal. Lilith touched down to her left, tongue flicking out to catch rain from her own lips. Morgana hovered a moment longer, laughing—a sound like breaking glass—before alighting with predatory grace.
The villagers screamed.
Elizabeth drew both swords in a single motion. "Stay back!" she shouted at the men. "They're not here for you."
Seraphina's red lips curled. "Oh, sweet Valerious. We're here for everything."
Her eyes—crimson as fresh blood—locked on Elizabeth. "Your brother sends his regards. He howls so prettily for us now."
Elizabeth's face went white. Then red.
"You lie."
Lilith laughed, low and throaty. She ran clawed fingers down her own body, cupping her breasts, pinching nipples until they darkened. "Come taste him yourself, darling. He's… changed."
Frederick stepped forward, placing himself half in front of Elizabeth. A silver crossbow was already in his hands, quarrel nocked.
"Enough games," he said. Voice calm. Deadly.
Morgana tilted her head, silver hair plastered to her shoulders. "The Vatican dog. How delightful. You smell of old blood and fresh sin." Her gaze dropped pointedly to his groin. "And something else entirely."
Frederick did not blink.
Scene 3: Descent into Carnage
The brides moved as one—inhumanly fast.
Seraphina lunged at the nearest villager, fangs bared. The man fired his musket; the shot went wide. She slammed him to the ground, straddling his chest, ripping his shirt open. Her mouth descended—not to the throat, but lower, tearing cloth and flesh alike. Blood sprayed; the man's scream turned wet.
Lilith went for Elizabeth.
Wings snapped wide for balance as she leaped. Claws raked downward—aimed to gut.
Elizabeth parried with crossed blades, steel ringing against talon. Sparks flew. She twisted, kicking Lilith in the ribs; the vampire staggered but did not fall.
Morgana circled Frederick, laughing. "Dance with me, hunter."
She lashed out—claws aiming for his face. He ducked, rolled, came up firing the crossbow. The silver quarrel punched through her shoulder; black blood hissed on the rain-soaked ground. Morgana shrieked—pleasure and pain indistinguishable.
Elizabeth fought on, blades a blur. Lilith pressed her relentlessly, forcing her back toward the palisade wall. A claw caught Elizabeth's left forearm—slicing leather and skin. Blood welled instantly.
Lilith licked her lips. "You bleed so sweetly. Like your brother."
Rage gave Elizabeth new strength. She drove forward, slashing high—Lilith blocked—then low. The short sword bit deep into the vampire's thigh. Lilith hissed, staggering.
But the distraction cost her.
Seraphina finished with the villager—his body limp, throat torn—and turned. She launched herself at Elizabeth's unguarded back.
Scene 4: Pinned in the Mud
Frederick saw it first.
He abandoned Morgana mid-lunge, sprinting through the rain. He collided with Elizabeth just as Seraphina's claws descended—knocking her flat into the mud, covering her body with his own.
Seraphina's talons raked across his back instead—tearing coat and shirt, scoring deep furrows from shoulder to ribs. Frederick grunted but did not cry out. His weight pinned Elizabeth beneath him, chest to chest, hips locked together in the slick mud.
Above them, Lilith and Seraphina hovered—wings beating rain into mist.
Frederick's face was inches from Elizabeth's. Rain ran in rivulets down his scarred cheeks, dripping onto her lips. Her eyes were wide—shock, fury, something darker.
He shifted—just enough—to free his right arm. The crossbow had been lost in the fall; instead he drew a silver dagger from his boot.
Seraphina laughed. "Protecting your little virgin? How noble."
Elizabeth's breath hitched at the word. Her thighs parted instinctively under his weight—leather breeches sodden, heat radiating where their bodies met. She felt him—thick, hard, pressing insistently against her mound through layers of wet cloth.
She hated how right it felt.
Frederick twisted, hurling the dagger. It struck Lilith square in the throat. The vampire gagged—black blood bubbling—then exploded into ash that the rain washed away almost instantly.
One down.
Seraphina screamed in fury. Morgana joined her—both diving at once.
Frederick rolled, dragging Elizabeth with him. They came up against the palisade wall—mud-slick, breathless.
He pressed her back to the logs, shielding her with his body again. One hand cupped the back of her head; the other gripped a fresh stake.
Their faces were close—too close.
Blood from his torn back dripped onto her collarbone, mixing with rain. Her lips parted on a gasp.
And then—desperation took them both.
Elizabeth surged up, mouth crashing into his. The kiss was brutal—teeth clashing, tongues warring. She tasted copper—his blood, her own split lip, rain, mud. His free hand fisted in her braid, yanking her head back to deepen the angle. She moaned into his mouth—a raw, broken sound.
Above them the brides shrieked.
Frederick broke the kiss just long enough to snarl against her lips: "Stay down."
He spun, stake raised.
Morgana reached him first—claws slashing. He drove the silver deep into her chest. She convulsed—wings thrashing—then crumbled to ash and bone.
Seraphina alone remained.
The red-haired bride hovered, wings spread, body glistening, eyes blazing with hate and hunger.
"You think this ends with them?" she hissed. "Nicolas will have her. He'll fuck the Valerious line out of her one way or another."
Elizabeth pushed to her feet beside Frederick—swords reclaimed, dripping.
"Then tell him to come himself," she spat. "I'm done with his whores."
Seraphina's smile was all fangs.
"Dawn is coming," Frederick said quietly. "You won't survive it."
Lightning flashed—silhouetting her naked form against the storm.
She looked at Elizabeth one last time—almost pitying.
"Enjoy your hunter while he lasts, little virgin. The wolf inside him will want what's his soon enough."
Then she launched skyward—wings beating once, twice—vanishing into the clouds as the first pale streak of dawn bled along the eastern ridge.
Scene 5: Aftermath in the Mud
Silence fell—broken only by rain and distant thunder retreating.
The surviving villagers crept from hiding, staring at the ash piles, at the blood-soaked mud, at the two figures leaning against the palisade.
Frederick turned to Elizabeth.
She was shaking—not from cold.
Blood still trickled from the claw marks on his back; her own arm bled steadily. But neither moved to bind the wounds.
He reached out—slowly—brushing wet hair from her face.
"You're hurt," he said.
"So are you."
Their eyes locked.
She stepped into him—slow this time, deliberate. Her hands slid up his torn shirt, fingers tracing the fresh gouges. He hissed.
"Good," she whispered. "Pain means we're still alive."
Then she kissed him again—slower, deeper. No desperation now. Just hunger.
His arms came around her—careful of her injured arm—pulling her flush against him. She felt every inch of his arousal pressing into her belly; she rocked subtly, grinding once, earning a low groan from his throat.
When they finally parted—both breathing hard—dawn light touched the square.
Villagers watched in stunned silence.
Elizabeth straightened her spine, chin lifting.
"Let them stare," she said softly, only for him.
Frederick's mouth curved—just a hint.
"Let them."
He offered his hand.
She took it.
Together they walked back toward the keep—bloodied, soaked, alive.
And burning.