They say time heals all wounds. That eternity is a blessing because it lets you forget.
Lies.
Eternity is nothing more than an endless hall of mirrors, where every reflection shows you what you lost. I used to love silence. I used to hide inside it — in dusty libraries, in the shadows of gardens — believing that if I stayed quiet enough, the world wouldn't notice me. I was a spectator in the play of life, watching humans blaze and fade like fireflies.
But then, one firefly landed in my hand.
And she burned so bright, so intensely, that she made me forget I was made of ice.
Kara.
They erased her. Snuffed out her light because they thought darkness needed order. They thought they could teach me a lesson about hierarchy. About the place of the monster and the place of the meal.
Poor ancient gods.
They forgot the most important lesson of all: you should never take everything from someone who has eternity to take revenge.
Now, silence is no longer my refuge.
It is my scream, trapped in my throat.
The blood running through me is no longer only mine. It is His. The Original's. It sings in my veins, a lullaby made of fire and hatred. It tells me that grief is not the end…
…it is fuel.
I am no longer the girl in the red coat. That coat was a promise of protection I failed to keep.
Now, I am the storm from the North.
They are sitting on their thrones, drinking wine from crystal goblets, thinking the game is over. They think they've won because the weakest piece was removed from the board.
They didn't see that the Queen changed color.
I will turn their castles into tombs. I will turn their fear into art.
And when the last of them falls, when the final heart stops beating…
maybe — just maybe — silence will become peace again.
My name is Alice.
And I am the end of their story.
(...)
The music in the underground club known as The Void, in Berlin, was an industrial hammering that made the floor vibrate — but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of bones being pulverized.
Alice wasn't there to dance.
She was a blur of violence in the middle of the floor.
The Council's vampires guarding the place tried to surround her, drawing blades and firearms, but they were too slow.
Too weak.
Alice seized one guard's arm and tore it free with a dry, brutal yank, using the severed limb to smash another attacker across the face.
Blood sprayed, mixing with the strobe lights.
She felt neither disgust nor pleasure.
Only the cold efficiency granted by Dracula's blood.
She surged toward the VIP section, where a Council informant was attempting to flee through an emergency exit. Alice vaulted over a table and landed in front of him.
"Going somewhere?" she asked, her voice calm amid the chaos.
The vampire trembled, cornered.
"You're her… the Traitor. The Heiress."
Alice grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the floor, slamming him against the concrete wall.
"Where is James Butcher?"
"I don't know! The Council scattered! They're hiding!"
Her fingers tightened. His neck cracked, but didn't break. Not yet.
"Try again. James likes brutality. Likes games. Where would he hide?"
"London!" the vampire shrieked, weeping tears of blood. "He's regrouping the War Dogs in London! That's all I know!"
"Thank you."
With a quick twist of her wrist, Alice snapped his neck and let the body drop like a puppet with cut strings.
She looked around.
The club had gone silent.
It was filled with corpses.
Alice wiped a drop of blood from her cheek.
London.
The game had begun.
Meanwhile, in New York, the storm outside mirrored the chaos inside Natalie.
She arrived at Ruby's isolated house drenched, shaking — not from cold, but from despair. She pounded on the door with the strength of someone who had nothing left to lose.
When it opened, Rose was standing there.
The blonde vampire wore a silk robe, a wineglass in hand. When she saw Natalie's state — soaked clothes, swollen eyes, a posture of absolute defeat — Rose's mask of irony slipped away.
"Natalie?"
Natalie didn't answer.
She collapsed into Rose's arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
Rose froze in surprise, then wrapped her tightly, pulling her into the warmth of the house.
Ruby, who had been reading in the living room, stood at once, alarmed — but kept her distance, sensing that the moment belonged to the two of them.
Rose guided Natalie to the sofa, brushing wet hair from her face.
"What happened? Did someone hurt you?"
"Everything…" Natalie sobbed. "I lost everything, Rose. College. Money. My home. My family threw me away like trash. I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have anyone."
She looked into Rose's eyes, searching for the only solid thing left in her shattered world.
"I want to accept. Your offer. I want to be turned. Now. Please, Rose… kill the part of me that feels pain."
Rose studied her.
She saw the fragility — but also the suicidal determination beneath it.
And for the first time in centuries, Rose felt something other than hunger or the urge to manipulate.
She felt guilt.
And affection.
"Natalie…" Rose touched her face with unexpected tenderness. "That night, at Alice's mansion… I'm sorry. I was blinded by rage over my sister. I used you. You didn't deserve that fear."
Natalie blinked, stunned.
Rose — the proud predator — was apologizing.
"You came back to save me," Natalie whispered. "That's what matters."
The tension between them shifted.
Gratitude and desperation turned into something magnetic.
Natalie leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't shy.
It was a plea for rescue.
And a surrender.
Rose kissed her back, the taste of Natalie's tears mingling with desire.
"Are you sure?" Rose murmured against her lips. "There's no going back."
"I don't want to go back. I want one last time… as a human. And then I want eternity with you."
Rose nodded.
She scooped Natalie into her arms and carried her to the guest room.
Ruby stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching.
She didn't intervene.
She knew that ritual.
She herself had gone through it with Alice decades earlier.
On the bed, Natalie's farewell to humanity was fierce and fevered.
They made love with the urgency of people who know time is running out.
Rose traced every inch of Natalie's warm skin, memorizing the heat that would soon vanish.
At the peak — when Natalie arched, crying Rose's name — Rose knew it was time.
She held Natalie tightly against her chest. The girl was panting, sweaty, alive.
"Close your eyes, kitten," she whispered. "It'll be quick."
Rose bit into her own wrist and pressed it to Natalie's mouth.
"Drink."
Natalie swallowed the cold, metallic blood —ingesting immortality.
Then Rose bent to her neck.
Natalie bared her throat, trusting.
The bite was deep.
Rose drained her human blood, feeling Natalie's life pour into her, binding them forever.
When Natalie's heart began to falter — weak, uneven — Rose cupped her face in both hands, looking into the girl's glazing eyes one last time.
"Sleep now.
And wake a Queen."
With one swift, merciful motion, Rose snapped Natalie's neck.
The dry crack echoed through the room.
Natalie's body went limp in Rose's arms.
In the doorway, Ruby wiped away a silent tear, remembering her own death — and rebirth.
Rose laid the body gently on the pillows, smoothing her lover's hair.
"I'll be here when you open your eyes."
Hours later, when the moon was high, Natalie's eyelids fluttered.
She opened them.
The brown was gone.
In its place burned a vivid, hungry red.
The transformation was complete.
(...)
Six Months Later.
The border town, a few miles from London, was a place forgotten by God — made of damp concrete, industrial warehouses, and constant fog.
Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found.
In a makeshift underground hideout, Alice finished wrapping her own abdomen.
Wounds from a recent battle with hunters were slow to heal, even with Dracula's blood.
She was strong, yes.
But she was tired.
Her bare hands and claws had killed dozens, but James Butcher was different.
Ancient.
Armed with magic.
Alice needed more than brute force.
She needed firepower.
She shrugged into her leather jacket and headed into the night, toward an address she'd obtained in the underworld.
A crumbling antique shop.
Alice entered.
The bell above the door chimed.
Behind the counter — polishing a Magnum revolver with a silk cloth — stood Tracy.
She was a blaze of color in that gray world.
A stunning Black woman with a massive crown of wild, fiery-red curls that defied gravity.
She wore cut-off denim shorts, combat boots, and a top that revealed skin inked with protective runes and drawings of ancient weapons.
Tracy looked up, chewing gum, her gaze dragging over Alice with open interest.
"Well, well… if it isn't the infamous Alice," she said with a crooked, provocative smile. "Heard you're doing some spring cleaning across Europe."
"I need gear," Alice replied flatly. "Heavy stuff."
Tracy set the revolver aside and leaned across the counter.
"You came to the right place, sweetheart. I've got toys that'd make the Vatican cry."
She led Alice into the back room, where a false wall slid open to reveal an impressive arsenal.
Tracy lifted two customized silver pistols engraved with sacred symbols.
"These beauties?" She spun one on her finger. "Hollow silver rounds filled with concentrated holy water and aconite extract. Explode on impact. Perfect for puncturing Elder arrogance."
Alice took one.
The weight was perfect.
"Exactly what I need for him."
"I figured." Tracy leaned against the weapons table, crossing her legs and biting her lower lip as she looked Alice over. "But there's a problem, darling. This is art. And art costs money. And I hear you're… let's say… cash-flow challenged, seeing as you're public enemy number one."
Alice placed the gun back on the table.
"I can get money."
"Money's boring," Tracy interrupted, stepping closer. The scent of gunpowder and sweet perfume clung to her. "Money's paper. I prefer… experiences."
She brushed the collar of Alice's jacket, fingers grazing her throat.
"You've got an aura, Alice. Dangerous. Sad. Sexy as hell," she whispered, her face inches away. "I give you the guns. All the ammo you can carry. In return… you spend the night here. With me."
Alice studied her.
Tracy was beautiful — alive, electric.
In another life, she might have refused.
But the human part of her was dead, and the monster inside needed release — touch —anything to make the hollow ache in her chest disappear for a few hours.
And she needed those weapons.
Alice grabbed Tracy by the waist and pulled her close.
"Deal."
The next morning, Alice left the antique shop.
The sun rose pale on the horizon.
She adjusted the holsters beneath her coat, feeling the comforting weight of Tracy's pistols.
She looked south — toward London.
James Butcher was there, thinking himself safe behind guards and magic.
He had no idea death was coming for him —armed to the teeth, and with nothing left to lose.
Alice walked toward the road.
The final hunt had begun.