WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Twelve: The Eternal Cycle
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CONTENT WARNING: This series contains explicit sexual violence, human sacrifice, psychological torture, murder of innocent characters (including children and family members), ritualistic killing, and extreme horror. No character is safe. Read at your own risk.
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Chapter Two Hundred Eighty-Two: The Vampire's Thirst
Year 291 – Two Hundred Eighty Years After the Curse
The vampire in the south had fed for two hundred eighty years.
Not literally—he was only sixty-seven. But he had fed as if he had been consuming blood for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every victim of every kind.
He believed he could challenge the queen.
He believed he could win.
He believed he could kill her.
His name was Vlad—another echo, another coincidence. He was young, ancient, and hungry. He had an army of thralls. A castle of shadows. A purpose.
He had heard the stories.
The legends.
The fear.
He did not believe them.
He could not believe them.
No one was that powerful.
No one was that evil.
No one was that alone.
He was wrong.
But he had found something.
A bloodline.
An ancient bloodline, descended from the first vampire, the one who had cursed his kind with immortality, with hunger, with eternal thirst.
He believed that if he consumed the queen's blood, he would become more powerful than any vampire in history.
He believed he could surpass her.
He believed he could destroy her.
This is it, he thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I consume her.
He did not see the shadows gathering.
He did not hear the whispers growing louder.
He did not feel the darkness closing in.
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The Southern Castle – Morning
Vlad stood on the battlements of his castle, as he always did.
The sun was rising. The shadows were fading. The day was coming.
He hated the day.
It burned his skin.
It weakened his power.
It reminded him of what he had lost.
Life is hard, he thought.
Life is cruel.
Life is short.
But I am not short.
I am eternal.
Or I will be.
Once I consume the queen.
He did not see the shadows gathering at the base of the castle.
He did not hear the whispers creeping through the walls.
He did not feel the darkness seeping into his soul.
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The Ruins – Morning
Liora sat on the throne, listening to the whispers.
Three million and forty-six souls now served her. They flitted through the shadows, invisible to all but her, reporting on everything they saw and heard.
They told her about the vampire.
He is ancient, they said. He is hungry. He is dangerous.
He has found a bloodline. An ancient bloodline. Descended from the first vampire.
He believes that if he consumes your blood, he will become more powerful than any vampire in history.
He believes he can surpass you.
He believes he can destroy you.
Liora's smile widened.
A vampire, she thought.
Ancient. Hungry. Dangerous.
He believes my blood will make him stronger.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But my blood is not a gift.
It is a curse.
It would consume him.
It would destroy him.
It would end him.
And no vampire—
No bloodline—
No thirst—
Can consume eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Southern Castle – Night
Vlad prepared for his journey.
He gathered his thralls.
He sharpened his fangs.
He waited.
Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow I go to the ruins.
Tomorrow I face the queen.
Tomorrow I consume her blood.
He did not see the shadows gathering in his throne room.
He did not hear the whispers echoing through his halls.
He did not feel the darkness touching his skin.
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The Throne Room
Liora appeared in the shadows.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
"You're here," she said.
Vlad looked up.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
Vlad bared his fangs.
Liora moved.
Faster than he could follow. Faster than he could react.
Her hand closed around his throat.
"You are strong," she said.
"But I am stronger."
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The Feeding – Vlad
Liora reached into the vampire's mind.
He tried to resist.
He was ancient. Hungry. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past his defenses.
She found his memories.
...the centuries...
...the blood...
...the hope ...
...that he could be the one...
...that he could stop her...
...that he could consume her...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The hunger.
The power.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
He gasped.
His body convulsed.
His eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
He went limp.
She withdrew from his mind.
She looked down at him.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The vampire was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Bloodline
Liora looked at the vampire's blood.
It was dark.
It was ancient.
It was hungry.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
This bloodline could make anyone a vampire.
It could grant immortality.
It could grant thirst.
But I have no need for bloodlines.
I have no need for vampirism.
I have no need for thirst.
I am the bloodline.
I am the vampire.
I am the thirst.
She burned the bloodline in the castle's brazier.
The blood sizzled.
The power faded.
The thirst ended.
No one will ever use it now, she thought.
No one will ever try again.
I am safe.
I am eternal.
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The Thralls
The thralls watched in horror.
"She killed him."
"She drained him."
"We have to run."
"We have to fight."
Liora turned to face them.
"Who's next?"
They screamed.
They ran.
They fled.
She let them go.
They were not worth her time.
Not worth her hunger.
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The Three Million Forty-Seventh Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the throne room, surrounded by shadows and silence.
The whispers watched.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness roared.
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The Power – Three Million Forty-Seven
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and forty-seven sacrifices. Three million and forty-seven souls. Three million and forty-seven streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million forty-seven, she thought.
The hunger is quieter now.
But it will return.
It always returns.
She released the spell.
The shadows retreated.
She looked at the body.
A vampire. Ancient. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the ancient.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Vlad's body in his own throne room.
The fire was hot. The smoke was thick. She worked quickly, efficiently, scattering the ashes before dawn.
No one saw her.
No one ever saw her.
She walked back to the ruins as the sun rose, smelling of smoke and blood and darkness.
She washed her face in a broken fountain.
She braided her hair with her fingers.
She wore a white dress she had found in a forgotten wardrobe.
She practiced her smile.
Eyes wide. Innocence.
Mouth soft. Gentleness.
Head tilted. Curiosity.
Perfect, she thought.
She sat on the throne.
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The Empty Throne
The throne room was open to the sky.
No walls. No roof. No protection.
Just Liora.
And the whispers.
You are alone, they said.
Yes, she thought.
But I am not lonely.
I have you.
I have all of you.
Forever.
She closed her eyes.
She listened to the whispers.
They told her about the world.
The new kings. The new heroes. The new legends.
They told her about a young woman in the west. A werewolf. Fierce. She had been leading her pack for years, fighting for territory, for survival, for dominance.
She believed she could challenge the queen.
She believed she could win.
She believed she could kill her.
Liora smiled.
Let her fight, she thought.
Let her lead.
Let her believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when she comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Eighty-Two