The path behind St. Benedict's Church was barely visible beneath layers of wet leaves and mist. The trees loomed overhead like watching sentinels. The air was thick with moisture and silence—unnatural silence.
Thomas led the way, flashlight in hand, dressed in black from head to toe. Christopher followed, quieter than usual, his sneakers crunching against the underbrush.
"You sure this is the spot?" Christopher asked, glancing around nervously.
Thomas nodded. "Sheriff's report said the third victim was found here. Mrs. Lancaster. Throat torn, body completely drained. But no blood anywhere on the ground."
Chris swallowed. "You're way too calm about this."
"I've seen worse," Thomas muttered, scanning the ground. "And I've read things… things I didn't believe until recently."
They pushed further into the woods until Thomas stopped.
"There," he said, pointing at a small clearing.
Christopher stepped into it slowly. "This is where she was found?"
Thomas crouched, shining the flashlight at the ground. The leaves had been disturbed. But something else caught his eye—burn marks. In the shape of a strange circular symbol, etched deep into the forest floor.
Christopher stepped closer. "Is that a symbol?"
Thomas nodded slowly. "It's old. Very old. I've seen drawings of this in our grandfather's books. He called it a mark of awakening."
Chris looked at him. "Awakening?"
Thomas stood, brushing his hands off. "Some creatures... they sleep. For centuries. Buried or sealed away. But with the right ritual, the right offering..."
Chris took a shaky step back. "You think someone's trying to wake something up?"
"I think they already have."
Suddenly—
A twig snapped behind them.
Christopher spun around. "Did you hear that?"
Thomas raised his flashlight. The beam cut through the fog. Nothing.
"I don't like this," Chris muttered.
"Stay close."
They took a few cautious steps back toward the path—until the light flickered. Then died.
"Great," Thomas muttered. "Battery's gone."
Another sound. This time—a low whisper. Not in the wind. Not natural.
Christopher grabbed Thomas's arm. "Tell me that was you."
"It wasn't."
Then—a shadow moved just beyond the trees. Fast. Silent. Human-shaped.
Thomas reached into his coat and pulled out something sharp. A silver dagger.
Chris stared. "Where the hell did you get that?"
"San Francisco. You'd be amazed what you find when you start looking."
The whispering grew louder, surrounding them.
Christopher spun around, voice trembling. "What do they want?"
Thomas's voice dropped. "Blood."
The shadow stepped forward.
It looked like a man—tall, pale, dressed in a long coat. But his eyes… glowed faintly red.
Thomas stepped in front of Chris. "Don't move."
The figure grinned, revealing sharp, elongated fangs.
"Well, well," it said. "The Deleon brothers. I've heard whispers."
Chris's voice shook. "You know who we are?"
"I know what you are," the creature said, its smile widening. "And soon, so will you."
It vanished.
One blink—and it was gone.
Back at the house
They slammed the front door and locked it.
Christopher dropped into a chair, pale. "What the hell was that?"
Thomas didn't speak right away. He went to the bookshelf and pulled down one of their grandfather's dusty journals. Flipping through pages, he stopped at a section labeled "The Blood-Touched".
"I was afraid of this," he muttered.
Christopher stood slowly. "Afraid of what?"
Thomas looked at him.
"Chris… I think whatever's behind these killings is not just a vampire. I think it's part of something bigger. Something connected to our family."
Christopher's voice was a whisper. "What are you saying?"
Thomas shut the book.
"I think… we're not just hunting monsters."
He looked at his brother, dead serious.
"I think we're part of the bloodline that created them."