Chapter 4 The Creature

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Rochelle's vision of the cabin dissolved like mist, broken by Damien's return to the bar. His expression was grim, and it seemed like whatever had transpired with Celeste clearly hadn't gone as planned.

"Are you ready to go, Rochelle?" he asked, voice clipped.

She blinked, pulled from the fog of her vision. Looking up at him now, she felt a sharp awareness of just how fragile humans truly were. That man from her vision, his identity still elusive, had left a lingering chill in her bones. An aura that was far too cold, far too unnatural. Rochelle gave a small shudder, trying to shake off the lingering chill.

"That was quick," she said, mostly to disrupt the sour tension in Damien's energy.

"It was a disaster," Damien replied, shaking his head. "I raised some concerns, really important ones. But none of the other councillors wanted to listen. They don't want change. They fear it."

"I'm sorry it didn't go how you hoped," Rochelle offered gently. "But maybe there's still a way to make the change you want. I'd be glad to help, if I can."

Her words hung in the air for a moment before Damien finally met her gaze, and she saw his eyes clearly for the first time. Not quite hazel, not quite aquamarine. They were pale green with flickers of sea blue, like ocean glass catching the light. Eyes like that could drown someone.

"We should go," he said, clearing his throat.

He helped her into his coat and they exited the bar. Outside, the platform was nearly empty, the hum of the city growing quieter with the late hour.

"I'd like us to walk," Damien said suddenly, as they waited for his chauffeur.

She raised an eyebrow. "It's late. Just in case you hadn't noticed."

"We'll be fine," he assured her. The certainty in his voice was oddly comforting-like she really would be safe, just by staying close to him.

When his car finally arrived, Damien waved it off. "Tonight, we walk, Calvin. Head home."

The chauffeur nodded once before disappearing into the night.

Watching the car vanish, Rochelle turned to him. "So what's the plan?"

"Come on," he said with a half-smile. And they walked.

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Elsewhere, a woman strolled alone through a dark stretch of Central Park. She wore a mauve blouse tucked into a black silk skirt, with a gray trench coat wrapped around her against the night chill. Her phone pressed to her ear, she barely noticed the shift in the air-the sudden silence of nature holding its breath.

She didn't hear the creature leap at her from behind.

In one swift motion, it tackled her to the ground and pinned her with unnerving ease.

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Damien and Rochelle were deep in conversation as they neared the Metropolitan Museum, when a distant scream shattered the calm.

"What in God's name was that?!" Rochelle cried, eyes darting around.

They rushed toward the sound and came upon a horrifying scene: a monstrous thing crouched over a woman, her wrists bloodied, her limbs still flailing weakly.

The creature turned at their approach, letting out a sharp, ear-splitting screech.

"HhhrrrrrrrrKkkkkkkk!"

It stood at least six feet, seven inches tall, with mottled gray skin stretched taut over a humanoid frame. It was bald, fanged, and bore a small, reptilian tail. It moved with an uncanny familiarity human, but broken. Warped. Distorted.

Damien growled low in his throat, a sound that made Rochelle freeze. But the creature didn't freeze, it reacted.

With a roar, it lunged at them.

"Damien, we have to help her!" Rochelle shouted.

"I'll handle it. You get to safety!"

But before she could move, the creature was upon them. It smacked Damien aside like he weighed nothing and loomed over Rochelle.

Its growl was guttural. Its mouth hung open, breath sour like rotting meat.

"Damien!" she screamed, terror clawing at her throat.

In a blur, Damien rose from the ground and tackled the thing, yanking it off her. But now it was enraged. It roared again, "Grrrrrrhhhhhhkkkk!", then grabbed Damien and hurled him into the grass.

"Rochelle, throw me something! Anything!" Damien shouted, hand outstretched.

Heart racing, she scanned the ground and spotted a broken tree branch, thick and jagged. She tossed it to him with all her strength.

Damien caught it midair and without hesitation, struck the creature in the side of the head. Then, in a swift, brutal motion, he plunged the pointed end deep into its chest.

"Die!" he shouted.

The creature staggered, clutching at the branch as if confused, then let out a gurgling hiss. Its skin lost all remaining color, turning an ashen gray, before its body crumbled to the ground, disintegrating into a pile of fine dust.

Damien rushed back to Rochelle and wrapped her in his arms. She could hear his heartbeat, fast but steady.

"You're okay," he murmured. "You're safe now."

Still trembling, Rochelle whispered, "What was that?"

"A Feral," Damien said, voice hoarse. "They're rogue. Clanless. Dangerous."

"Are there more?"

"Not here. Not now. They usually travel in packs. If there were others, we'd be dead already. And you-" He stopped himself, unwilling to say it aloud.

After a pause, he added, "A single bite could turn a normal vampire into one of them."

Her eyes widened. "So... they used to be vampires?"

"Yes. But without a clan. Without a brand, they lose themselves."

"A brand?" she asked, curious despite the adrenaline still coursing through her.

"Before a new vampire is sired, the council must approve it. Once approved, the maker brands them. It keeps their mind intact. Keeps them tethered to who they were. Without it, they turn into... that."

"Do you have a brand?" she asked, her voice softer now.

Damien rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. There, etched in his skin, was an intricate tattoo: delicate and ancient in its design.

"And the murders across the city?" Rochelle ventured. "Are they all connected?"

"Yes."

There was a silence between them. Rochelle looked down at the pile of ash, then back at Damien.

"Tell me more about this branding," she said, voice steadier now.

"A brand is a mark from a maker to their fledglings. It's more than just a symbol, it sorts of anchors our consciousness. But someone's been turning people without the council's knowledge. I have a suspicion who it might be."

"Who?" she asked.

Damien hesitated. "In our world, accusations aren't made lightly. When you shoot the king..."

"...you'd best not miss," Rochelle finished.

He nodded.

Across the field, the injured woman stirred. "Help..." she called weakly.

Rochelle turned to Damien. "We should call an ambulance."

"We should," he agreed, but made no move to take out his phone.

"I think it'd be better if it came from you," Damien said.

Rochelle frowned. "Right. I'll make the call."

They walked toward the woman as Rochelle dialed 911.

"Hi. Yes, there's been an attack in Central Park. A woman is injured. Please send help."

She ended the call, noticing Damien's slight nod. He'd wanted her to leave out the Feral. Protecting their secret.

"Business or personal reasons?" she asked, not hiding the edge in her tone.

"Both."

They knelt beside the woman, who was fading fast. Rochelle leaned close. "Help is on the way."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Rochelle stood and waved the emergency responders over.

"We need to go," Damien said.

"But, shouldn't we wait until they-"

"She'll be fine," he said. "Besides, you have that debriefing to get to."

He smiled faintly.

They resumed walking toward the Metropolitan Museum. It stood gleaming in all the lights; glorious, resplendent in the night.

"This is my favorite museum," Rochelle said. "But shouldn't it be closed?"

"Not to us."

Rochelle raised a brow. "So what are we doing tonight? Resurrecting mummies at 3AM?"

Damien chuckled softly.

It wasn't the monsters that scared her. Not really.

It was what came after; the truth they revealed, and the world she was about to step into.

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