The baker's boy found the first body three days later.
Azerin was arranging a display of botanical texts in the shop window when the commotion started. Voices raised in alarm, people running toward the edge of town, the kind of collective panic that spoke of something fundamentally wrong with the ordinary order of things. Marcus looked up from his ledger, frowning at the disruption to their quiet morning.
What do you suppose that's about? the old man asked, already rising from his chair with the curiosity that defined him.
Nothing good. Azerin's instincts were screaming warnings, predatory awareness recognizing the particular quality of human fear that came from confronting violence. Should I go see?
Please do. Marcus was already moving toward the door with surprising speed for his age. And come right back with news. The town's too small for secrets to keep long anyway.
Azerin found Lyra already at the scene, her professional mask firmly in place as she examined what remained of the victim. The body lay in a drainage ditch at the town's western edge, positioned where it would eventually be found but not immediately discovered. Deliberate placement, calculated timing. Magnus was sending a message.
The dead man was middle-aged, unremarkable, probably a farmer or laborer based on his clothes. But it was the manner of his death that confirmed Azerin's worst fears. The body was pale as paper, every drop of blood drained with the methodical efficiency of an experienced vampire. No mess, no struggle, just the clinical removal of life.
Lyra saw him approaching and her expression tightened fractionally. A warning, perhaps, or simple acknowledgment of shared understanding. The town council members gathered around were asking questions she clearly had no desire to answer.
How long? Azerin asked quietly, positioning himself so their conversation appeared casual to observers.
Last night, sometime between midnight and dawn. Her voice was equally low. Professional. Clean. Someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
Magnus.
Who else? She straightened, addressing the growing crowd with authority that brooked no argument. Everyone needs to step back. This is a hunter matter now. The town council will need to meet immediately to discuss security measures.
The crowd dispersed reluctantly, people returning to their homes with the particular tension that came from knowing safety was an illusion. Anna appeared at Azerin's elbow, Emma notably absent, her face pale with controlled fear.
Is it the same one? The vampire from before?
Probably. Azerin chose honesty over comfort. He's wounded, which makes him more dangerous. Wounded predators are unpredictable.
What do we do?
You keep Emma inside after dark. You make sure every door and window can be secured. You don't travel alone. Her eyes searched his face, looking for reassurance he couldn't honestly provide. And you trust that Lyra and I are doing everything possible to stop this before anyone else gets hurt.
After Anna left, Lyra pulled him aside, away from the remaining onlookers. Her expression was grim.
This wasn't feeding, she said bluntly. Magnus doesn't need to kill to survive. This was a demonstration. He's showing us he can strike whenever he wants, that we can't protect everyone.
The victim. Do we know anything about him?
Harold Pemberton. Lived alone on the western farm. No family, kept to himself mostly. Lyra's jaw tightened. Perfect target for someone wanting to make a point without triggering immediate panic. An isolated victim, someone whose death might initially seem natural.
Except for the complete lack of blood.
Except for that. She looked toward the forest beyond the town's edge, her hunter's instincts clearly calculating distances and approach vectors. He's close. Probably watching right now, enjoying the chaos he's created.
The realization that Magnus might be observing their response sent a chill down Azerin's spine. His human eyes couldn't penetrate the forest shadows the way his vampiric vision once had. Every tree could hide a threat, every shadow could conceal a predator. The helplessness of mortality had never felt more acute.
We need to set the trap, he said. Force his hand before he picks off more isolated victims.
Agreed. But first we need to make sure everyone understands the danger without causing mass panic. Lyra's expression shifted into something almost vulnerable. I hate this part. Trying to protect people while simultaneously terrifying them just enough to keep them safe.
They spent the rest of the morning coordinating with the town council, establishing patrol routes and implementing security protocols. Azerin found himself drawing on knowledge he wished he didn't possess, identifying vulnerabilities in the town's layout with the practiced eye of someone who had once exploited exactly these weaknesses.
The afternoon brought an unexpected visitor to the bookshop. Emma appeared in the doorway, Henrietta tucked under one arm, her small face set with determined purpose.
I want to help, she announced to Azerin and Marcus.
Help with what, little one? Marcus asked gently.
With catching the bad vampire. Emma's logic was childishly straightforward. Henrietta is very brave, and I know all the best hiding spots in town. We could be spies.
Despite everything, despite the morning's grim discovery and the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, Azerin felt something in his chest soften. This child, with her fierce chicken and her innocent courage, represented everything worth protecting.
That's very brave, he said, kneeling to her eye level. But the best way you can help is by staying safe. That means staying inside after dark, listening to your mama, and keeping Henrietta close.
But I want to do something. Her lower lip trembled with frustrated tears. Mrs. Patterson was nice to me. She always gave me candy when Mama brought me to the shop.
The mention of Mrs. Patterson hit harder than Azerin expected. He remembered the elderly woman's Tuesday morning visits, her gentle enthusiasm for poetry, the simple pleasure she took in browsing books she couldn't always afford to buy. Magnus had taken that from the world, casually and without regret.
You can remember her, Azerin said quietly. Remember that she was kind, that she loved poetry, that she made people feel welcome. That's something the bad vampire can't take away, no matter what he does.
Emma considered this with the seriousness children brought to philosophical concepts. Okay. But if you need a brave chicken, Henrietta volunteers.
I'll keep that in mind.
After Emma left, Marcus emerged from the back room where he had been tactfully giving them privacy. That was well handled. You're good with children.
The observation stung in ways Marcus couldn't understand. Centuries ago, Azerin had been good at terrifying children, at using their fear as leverage against resistant parents. The fact that he could now comfort them instead felt like redemption and condemnation in equal measure.
Evening brought Lyra to the shop, ostensibly to purchase more reference materials but actually to coordinate their next moves. They stood at the back of the shop, surrounded by shelves that provided both cover and the illusion of privacy.
He'll strike again tonight, she said without preamble. Probably another isolated victim unless we give him a better target.
Us.
Exactly. Lyra's expression was calculating, strategic. We patrol separately, make ourselves visible and vulnerable. When he comes for one of us, the other intervenes.
And if he's smarter than we're giving him credit for? If he doesn't take the bait?
Then we've wasted a night, and someone else dies tomorrow. Her voice was hard, professional, but Azerin caught the edge of frustration underneath. I hate reactive hunting. Always feels like we're one step behind, waiting for the next tragedy instead of preventing it.
They finalized their plan as darkness fell. Marcus insisted on locking himself in the reinforced cellar they had prepared, armed with weapons that wouldn't kill a vampire but might slow one down long enough for help to arrive. The rest of the town battened down similarly, windows shuttered and doors barred against the coming night.
Azerin took the northern route, moving through streets he had come to know over the past weeks. Every doorway was familiar now, every house containing people whose names he knew, whose stories he had begun to learn. Mrs. Hensworth who browsed romance novels and never bought anything. Thomas the baker's boy who whistled while he worked. Sarah Whitmore who had shown him kindness when she had every reason to fear him.
The weight of protecting them felt immense, crushing, entirely different from the responsibility he had once claimed as king. That had been about maintaining power, about ensuring loyalty through fear and force. This was about safeguarding lives that mattered, about being worthy of trust that had been freely given.
The attack came just before midnight.
Azerin was passing the town square when he caught the scent, familiar and wrong in equal measure. Blood, fresh and human, coming from somewhere nearby. His body responded before his mind fully processed the information, heart rate spiking and adrenaline flooding his system with the familiar preparation for violence.
He found the source in the alley behind the general store. Not Magnus, but his work. Another victim, this one a woman Azerin recognized from market days. Still alive but barely, her neck torn with the distinctive marks of vampire feeding. Her eyes were glassy, consciousness fading fast.
Stay with me. Azerin pressed his hand against the worst of the wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding with pressure his mortal strength barely maintained. His mind raced through the limited healing knowledge Marcus's borrowed texts had provided. Someone help!
Footsteps approached, but they were wrong. Too smooth, too measured, carrying the confidence of a predator that had successfully lured prey into position.
Magnus emerged from the shadows at the alley's end, blocking the exit with casual grace. His earlier wounds had healed, his confidence restored, and his smile was the satisfied expression of someone whose plan was proceeding perfectly.
How touching. The fallen king playing hero. His voice carried genuine amusement. Tell me, Azerin, how does it feel to fail at this too? To know that even your attempts at redemption result in nothing but more death?
The woman in Azerin's arms took one final, shuddering breath and went still. Her blood was warm on his hands, her life ended because Magnus wanted to make a point about power and helplessness.
Rage flooded through him, hot and human and entirely inadequate. Without his supernatural strength, without his centuries of combat skill translated into this mortal form, he was simply a man facing a creature that could kill him without effort.
But he was a man who had learned, however imperfectly, what was worth dying for.
Lyra. He called for her with every ounce of strength his human lungs possessed, knowing she was out there somewhere, praying she would hear. Then he did the only thing he could do. He stood up, positioning himself between Magnus and the path back into town, and prepared to buy time with the only currency he had left.
His own fragile, mortal life.