Bloodbound

He could feel her—even now. Even after centuries, her spirit had returned.

What once was had begun to manifest again, taking root in the realm of possibility. It was possible now to have her once more, even if only for a single lifetime.

He wondered what she would look like this time—how she would reveal herself to him. She had always been astonishing. Unpredictable. That was what thrilled him most: how his love for her evolved with time. He loved her in every form. Some were more complicated than others, but still—his body vibrated with it—the intensity of a soul forever intertwined with hers, growing stronger with every passing year. Yet, with that growth, the vine of love began to constrict. He needed her with every fiber of his scarce, undead being. The wait was always torture—decades of waiting, decades of longing.

But she was back. He knew it.

Lord Drake’s castle loomed high above the sleepy town of Normany—a town so orderly, so confined, nothing ever happened out of place. A stark contrast to the cold, gothic spires and jagged silhouette of his fortress. The townspeople never bothered him—too content in their cookie-cutter lives to concern themselves with his existence. Some whispered of a spell, an enchantment he had cast over Normany. Like a sedative for rats—rats who carried on without question, lulled by the illusion of peace. Nothing disturbed them. Not the disappearance of the town’s vagabonds. Not the occasional missing courtesan. Not even the cloud of screeching bats that swarmed each full moon when the church bell tolled midnight. Nor the onyx shadow that followed it.

Normany was perfect in its ignorance. Its people were too naïve, too entranced, to care. They marched through their days in starched pastel clothes, lived their nine-to-five, Monday-to-Saturday lives, then filed into pews for Sunday service.

Lord Drake watched as they prayed—prayed to a God who could not reach them here. A God who, in their interpretation, watched over them. But it was never that God. The only being who truly watched was him. He was the only god who had ever taken interest in such hollow, colorless people as the citizens of Normany.

And it was that very truth that had brought his only weakness back to him. Yes, she lived again. But to the Lorde’s unknowing and cruel misfortune, she returned in the form of his greatest obstacle.

The great window in his study howled as the wind made its magnificent entrance. The shutters clattered with the force of it, but his cold, towering figure remained unmoved by its strength.

A rhythmic knock echoed through the darkness of the room. He needed no permission for the intruder to enter—privacy had long ceased to exist within the ancient walls of this fortress.

“Your Lordship, tonight boasts a full moon. Shall we prepare the dining room?”

A skeletal man, all wide, frozen grin and empty, black eyes, emerged from the shadows. Pale and frail, he did not flinch at the cold seeping through the open window. Still, he smiled—that same unnatural, permanent smile etched across his face.

Lord Drake did not turn. The fabric of his tailored suit still danced in the fading gusts of wind.

“She’s back,” he said.

The grinning servant did not move, but beads of sweat began to form on his brow. There was little humanity left in the creature, and sweat was the only sign of distress he could manage.

“Shall I prepare the carriage, then?” he asked, voice trembling beneath its practiced stillness.

Lorde Drake drew in a deep breath, as if trying to taste her presence in the wind once more.

“No. I shall go in person. I fear this lifetime may become my greatest regret yet.”

The corpse-like man gave a stiff nod, unable to shed the grin permanently etched into his face. The Lorde hadn’t spoken the full command—but after a century under his power, the servant knew exactly what he intended.

“Very well,” came the muffled and insincere reply, slipping between the servant’s ever-smiling lips.

The servant withdrew into the shadows once more, leaving Lorde Drake alone with the wind that still carried traces of her. She was faint—present, yet just beyond his grasp.

Had he misjudged her return? Was she not as near as he believed?

The small van hissed as it came to a slow and gurgling stop. “Ah, good ol’ girl. She’s given it all she’s got.” The driver fondly tapped the dashboard of the broken-down and overheated van.

“Not enough, I fear. Why, we’re in the middle of nowhere!” Reverend Mother Muriel looked out into the darkness of the woods through the fogging windows. She was always poised and collected, but as the Mother Superior of such a small and naïve group, she had much to worry about in their current situation.

“Nonsense! It is God’s will that we find ourselves just outside this quaint little town. Walking distance, nonetheless.”

Father Henry adjusted his robes to shield himself from the brisk air and dismounted the old van, prompting the Sisters to do the same. Father Henry was a faulted optimist—always looking forward with a glimmer of hope and the wind of God at his back. He was old enough to be wise, yet young enough to carry a spring in his step. It wasn’t a secret that he was excited to introduce himself as the ascending priest of the town’s humble church.

Mother Muriel cautiously followed, secretly gripping her rosary just a bit tighter as she stepped into the night of the forest. Sister Ethel did the same. She was a stout, younger woman of great discipline—Mother Muriel’s favorite by far, though she preached no such existence of favoritism within the convent.

Ethel took in the sights, unimpressed by the overwhelming stillness of the forest. She showed little emotion, but there was a familiar look of speculation on her face. Then again, Sister Ethel always wore that look. It was her calling to sniff out improprieties wherever they might lie.

“Are we to leave the van abandoned here? Shall we take our belongings, so they may not disappear by morning? Perhaps just a hairbrush or a change of smocks?”

A small figure of a woman with bright eyes stepped nervously out of the van.

“Do not elevate worldly things, Sister Sara,” Ethel snapped at the mousy sister behind her, who flinched slightly at Ethel’s sharp words.

“No worries, Sisters. We shall have assistance by morning,” said Father Henry, beckoning them to begin the journey toward the town. “We do as we always have, and leave it in the hands of God. Come now.”

Father Henry set off at a steady, peppy pace toward the softly glowing lights in the distance. Mother Muriel did not protest and followed as he asked. Ethel took her usual determined steps, and Sister Sara scurried behind, only stopping to call out to the quiet postulant still lingering inside the van.

“Selene! Hurry!”

The young woman emerged slowly, as if waking from a long sleep. Her wide, pale eyes scanned the towering trees and the shadows that clung between them. The moon bathed her delicate face in its silver light, and her trembling hands clutched the doorframe before she stepped onto the damp forest floor.

She swallowed hard as the brisk air encircled her.

The cold wrapped around her like a shroud. She swallowed, the air thick and heavy in her lungs.

Did the others not feel it?

Did they not sense it creeping along their skin, coiling beneath their habits like smoke?

The forest was quiet—eerily quiet. No howling owls, no chirping birds. Not even the soft rustling of wind through the trees. As if the forest itself were afraid. As if it feared to awaken something older and deeper than its roots.

Worse still was the uncanny familiarity—the chill of returning to a place once known in dreams. A forgotten memory. A home that had never been hers.

Selene looked around once more, then steadied her gaze on the darkness behind them. Her eyes locked onto the onyx black void that stretched beyond the road.

Then, a lightning strike split the sky in the far distance, jolting her from her thoughts—a warning of the storm to come.

A chill ran up her spine as she swore she saw a figure standing there, alone in the pitch black. Her heart began to pound, the sound thundering in her ears.

“And now, a storm,” came Mother Muriel’s exasperated voice. “This is madness. We must move quickly!”

Selene took one last, lingering look into the darkness.

Nothing.

She repeated it to herself as she turned and followed the rest of the convent, leaving behind the hush of the forest—and the quiet dread that something unseen had been watching all along.

The tall, dark figure at the head of the table cast a long shadow upon the elongated, dust-covered dining table. The only other two occupants sat several seats away, staring at each other with deadened eyes, too afraid to move. Their glistening, pinned-on smiles were unwavering—and painful.

For all its extravagant adornments, the room—so heavy with rich indulgence—failed to shimmer or exude even a hint of warmth. The table lay bare. Before the stoic figure rested only a crystal glass, filled with a heavy red substance, and a stark white napkin, folded with eerie precision. He seemed uninterested, though the darkness veiled the furrow in his brow.

The other two guests had nothing but white porcelain plates, upon which lay thick syringes brimming with that same crimson liquid. This was how they kept up the performance of normalcy—as the Lord had commanded. And though they salivated for the strange offering, they dared not move before their solemn Lord with the distant stare.

“Shall I pass you the salt, dear?” the female asked through her strained grin.

The male did not move. Though his smile remained intact, his lifeless eyes twitched—a subtle warning.

Lord Drake let out a long, low sigh before slamming his fist onto the table. The force sent a tremor through the dishware and even the ground beneath them. His voice slithered through the echoing, near-empty room like a serpent:

“Betrothed to God…”

His teeth clenched, and a muscle in his jaw twitched with rage. In one swift movement, he seized the crystal glass and drained it in a single gulp. A single drop escaped the corner of his mouth, streaking down his pale skin like blood on snow.

The two guests, stunned but well-trained, immediately grasped their syringes and injected the contents into the stiff flesh of their necks without flinching. A wave of ecstasy swept through them, reviving their withered veins. Their bodies relaxed visibly. Though the smiles had always remained, now they seemed less tortured.

A dead silence fell.

Lord Drake leaned back in his high-backed gothic chair, absently twirling the last drop of liquid within the crystal. It clung to the sides, viscous and slow to fall.

“My Lord, if I may?” the male said, placing his spent syringe onto the plate. “You mentioned a postulant… a novice on her own path. And plenty of time, still, to stray.”

“Oh yes. Plenty,” the female added, lifting her empty syringe to the candlelight, eyes gleaming with gluttonous longing. “Besides, a frock is still a frock. A title… just a title.”

“Silence, Victoria,” the male said through his painted grin.

“I speak truth,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “Judas was once a holy man, Amos. It’s in their own scripture.”

“Not one they’re very fond of.”

Lord Drake, wearied by their prattle, rose from his chair. The motion alone silenced them. Slowly, he walked toward the long service trolley at the edge of the room. Upon it lay a motionless figure, shrouded in white linen. A single blot of red had seeped through, a stain marking the still cavity beneath.

He looked upon it with something like recognition. It was a heartless thing now, a vessel with no purpose but to decay. No purpose for its very own heart.

“The final vow will complete the union,” he said, the curse dragging through the hollow of his chest. “And then… she will be out of my reach forevermore. Never again to return in flesh.”

The words echoed through him like a whisper from the grave. The inevitability of it all filled him with a quiet fury. His lips quivered, not from fear, but from the restrained anguish of longing and anger.

He had to see her once more. The eyes that had found him—even through the shroud of shadow—had held longing in them. If it was her will to turn away from him, to deny what they once shared, then he needed to hear it from her own lips.

“Rid yourselves of this vessel,” he said, voice low with venom. “Or it shall reek of death by morning.”

The Lord disappeared into the stillness of his castle without another word.

Amos nodded, though Lord Drake was already gone.

“Does that... does that mean my own burden will, too, come to an end? Shall I be free of this curse?” whispered Victoria, her brow furrowing with dawning realization.

Amos looked at her in silence, but no other words escaped his frozen grin.