Page 35 of Fangs

Oliver Blake Harold Byron

Count of Rochester

My heart shatters against my ribs. My veins instantly flash to ice water, but the gravity pulling me inward is too absolute to resist. I lunge at the iron gate. It slides open with a agonizing, grinding shriek.

The stone bites cold beneath my fingertips. I shove the crypt door wide and stumble inside.

The interior is dark, lit only by thin slivers of light filtering through cracked stained glass. My legs tremble so hard I can’t barely takes another step.

Dust motes dance in the chilled air. An altar stands at the far end. His tomb.. My legs tremble so violently I can barely anchor my weight.

It is a masterpiece of opulence. The sarcophagus is crusted with shiny diamond gems etched into grotesque, mesmerizing symbols and arcane sigils. Gold plates and heavy bullion spill across the base.

Climbing the altar like a living, breathing parasite, a twisted rose plant bleeds in tones of deep crimson, until the blossoms blooming near his resting place curdle into absolute, light-devouring black roses.

He guided me here. The realization drops like a lead weight in my gut. He wanted me to find him.

I force my eyes down to the sarcophagus. He lies within, glowing with an unholy, violet luminescence. It looks less like a corpse and more like a body suspended in a predatory spell—strangely, terrifyingly alive. The black rose vines twist around his stone bier, their thorny roots visibly drinking in the heavy darkness radiating from his skin.

I blink hard, praying this is a hallucination. Wake up. Wake up right now.

My feet carry me forward against my will. My hands shake so badly my fingernails click against the stone.

Uncut gemstones catch the fractured light, spitting back a thousand cruel colors. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires. Riches beyond imagination carpet the floor.

My fingers dive into the pile. I claw at a single gemstone—a deep, blood-red ruby the size of my thumb. It burns my palm. It is warm. Alive.

This is enough. Take it and run.

A scraping sound freezes my blood. The scrape of heavy boots on stone at the crypt entrance. The low, rumbling, predatory growl of hunters who have finally cornered their prey.

Panic detonates. I shove the ruby deep into my pocket. I grab a fistful of heavy gold coins, stuffing them desperately into the fabric of my bodice. I snatch another gemstone, and another, fingers slick with cold sweat.

The crypt doors blow inward with a deafening crash.

Thomas fills the stone frame. His eyes blaze with a terrifying, inner fire, his lips peeling back from his gums to reveal the lethal, elongated white points of his fangs. Behind him, the other three masters loom in the shadows like starving wolves closing the circle.

“Found you,” he purrs, his voice dripping with feral, devouring hunger.

A dense, choking cloud of dark smoke explodes from the altar, swallowing the entrance and blinding the Masters in the dim haze. I pivot away from them, sprinting toward the apse, where a stone spiral staircase carved into the ancient masonry awaits. I tear upward, my lungs burning, feet scrambling against the steps worn hollow by centuries of time. I burst straight into the bell tower, the cramped space dominated by the massive bronze bell suspended between heavy timber beams, with nowhere left to run.

Falling

Iscramble higher across the chapel’s ancient slate roof, my shoes scraping for purchase as the wind whips my hair and skirts. The ridge rises ahead like a knife’s edge. I don’t look back.

“Run, little pet, run.”

Thomas’s taunt cuts through the morning air, carried on the same wind that lashes the roof. My fingers claw at the slick tiles. Below, the cemetery sprawls in crooked rows—headstones leaning at drunken angles, weeping willows drooping like mourners. Pale gold sunlight filters through the mist, painting the world in gold and deep grey. Long shadows stretch from trees and graves, reaching toward the chapel like grasping fingers.

I reach the peak and press my spine hard against the cold stone cross that crowns the ridge. Nowhere left to climb. Nowhere left to run.

A soft thud behind me. The shift of weight on slate. I turn.

Thomas stands at the edge of the roof, silhouette dark against the rising sun. His hair is wild, eyes blazing with something feral and hungry. He is not breathing hard. He did not break a sweat climbing after me. He moves like a predator.

“Trouble,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “Always trouble. From the moment you arrived, you have been nothing but trouble.”

I press harder against the stone, hands gripping the weathered cross. “Stay away from me.”