The first body did not fall quietly.
It hit the cobblestones with a crack that split the winter air in two. Snow burst upward in a spray of red, bright and violent against what had been untouched white only moments before.
Sirens followed.
Church bells answered.
And the festival broke.
People ran in every direction at once, boots sliding in frost, paper lanterns tearing free from their strings. A stuffed bear tumbled into slush. Somewhere near the ring-toss booth, a yellow Walkman skidded across the stones, tinny 90s pop still playing through rattling headphones while its owner disappeared into the crowd.
At the center of the square stood my mothers.
We were close enough to see the stroller.
That was the worst part.
Thirty minutes earlier, Gótica had been alive.
Teenagers in oversized denim jackets laughed under blinking festival lights. A boy near the shooting gallery argued loudly over Pokémon cards.
"Charizard's holographic. You're not getting it for two Blastoise."
The air smelled like roasted corn, cinnamon, and hot chocolate. Snow drifted lazily from a sky that had no idea what it was about to witness.
Our three mothers walked shoulder to shoulder, the stroller between them. Father trailed slightly behind, hands tucked in his coat pockets, pretending not to listen to their debate.
"Guiso de carne," Isabella insisted.
(Beef stew.)
"Arroz con gandules," Marisol countered.
(Rice with pigeon peas.)
"Pan con ajo y sopa," Lili laughed. "Y chocolate caliente para los niños."
(Garlic bread and soup. And hot chocolate for the boys.)
Alucard and I had sprinted ahead to the shooting booth.
We missed every shot.
We laughed about it.
When we turned back, the stroller was rocking gently.
The ribbons tied to its handle fluttered—but not with the wind.
They were pulling toward something.
A draft passed through the square.
Cold.
Wrong.
A shadow folded over the stroller.
There was no scream.
No struggle.
Just absence.
Lili bent forward, brushing aside the blanket.
"Mi estrella…"
(My star…)
The seat was empty.
Her scream shattered every shop window facing the square.
By the time we pushed back toward the center, the world had shifted.
Isabella De León moved first.
Her hand clamped around the nearest man's throat and lifted him from the ground as if he weighed nothing.
"¿Dónde está?"
(Where is she?)
Her voice was cold enough to cut.
"Dime o no vuelves a hablar."
(Tell me, or you will never speak again.)
The man clawed at her wrist, boots scraping helplessly across snow already turning pink.
Beside her, Marisol Vélez's breath fogged in the freezing air as her hands carved sigils through it, sharp and deliberate.
"¡Que su sangre le niegue el cuerpo y su nombre se pudra en la boca!"
(May his blood reject his body and may his name rot in every mouth!)
"¡Que su sombra se rompa y la noche lo devore entero!"
(Let his shadow shatter and let the night devour him whole!)
The torches lining the square hissed and died as if the air itself had smothered them.
And Lili—
Lili did not speak.
A man rushed her from behind, arms locking around her shoulders in a desperate attempt to restrain her.
She moved faster.
Her teeth sank into his throat with a sound that was intimate and violent at once. Blood spilled down her chin, steaming in the winter air before soaking into the snow beneath her boots. When she released him, his body collapsed without ceremony.
Another charged her with a metal pole.
She caught it.
Twisted.
Struck him hard enough to send him sliding across the cobblestones.
People weren't just running anymore.
They were being thrown.
Police vehicles screeched into the square. Officers dragged metal barricades forward while shouting through megaphones.
"This is the Gótica Police Department! Clear the area immediately!"
Snow churned red beneath boots.
Then Father appeared.
One moment he stood near the overturned handcrafted stall he had paused at earlier. The next, he was behind Lili.
His coat sleeve was torn at the shoulder. Blood covered his hands—not his own. His knuckles were split from striking someone hard enough to break bone. His breathing was steady.
His eyes were not.
He wrapped one arm around Lili's shoulders and locked her against him, firm and immovable.
"Mi corazón."
His voice was low—but it carried.
"Mírame."
(Look at me.)
She fought him.
Grief made feral.
He tightened his hold—not to hurt her, but to anchor her.
"Respira."
(Breathe.)
His tone sharpened.
"Aquí conmigo."
(Here. With me.)
She tried to surge forward again.
He stepped closer, pressing his forehead to hers.
"You do not lose yourself. Not here."
The words were not loud.
They were absolute.
"Stay with me."
For a heartbeat, she trembled.
Then she looked at him.
The chaos did not stop—but it steadied around them.
His gaze cut across the square and found us.
"Dracula. Alucard."
Not shouted.
Spoken like a command carved in stone.
"Do not come near us."
We froze.
His jaw flexed once.
"Red Moon Protocol."
Two words.
That was all.
Alucard inhaled sharply beside me.
Father's voice rose now—domineering, unmistakable.
"Old railroad. Now."
Smoke began curling upward from the food stalls. Flames caught fabric and climbed.
"¡Al castillo viejo—bajo la luna roja!"
(To the old castle—under the red moon!)
A bottle exploded against stone.
Lili lunged again toward a figure in the snow.
Father locked her in place.
"Mi amor," he said, firm and dangerous. "Conmigo."
(My love. With me.)
The city caught fire.
"GO!" he thundered.
We ran.
We did not stop until the sirens dulled behind us.
We cut through alleys that smelled of bread and spilled beer. We ducked behind dumpsters as patrol cars fishtailed past.
We were twelve.
Not helpless.
Just trained.
We reached the southern wall and the cracked stair hidden behind the fishmonger's stall. Salt air struck our faces.
The coastal rail stretched ahead in a long black ribbon.
A freight train approached, grinding as it slowed.
Alucard looked back once.
Gótica burned.
Flames devoured vendor tents. Smoke swallowed church towers. Red and blue lights strobed against rising fire.
The city did not look like celebration anymore.
It looked like war.
"They'll be fine," Alucard said, like a promise to himself.
"They gave us instructions," I answered.
That was enough.
We boarded the train.
Days passed.
We stayed off main roads. Paid cash when we could. Used the black card Mother had slipped into my jacket months earlier when we couldn't.
Cheap motels. Bus tickets. Food from gas stations that smelled like burnt coffee and gasoline.
The news shifted from confusion to accusation.
"Authorities continue to investigate the violent disturbance at Gótica's winter festival…"
By the second week, flyers began appearing in towns along the rail lines.
Two boys.
Ages twelve.
Descriptions accurate enough to make my stomach tighten.
By the third week, the tone changed.
In a roadside convenience store, a small box television flickered from static to breaking news.
"…Amber Alert issued in connection with the Gótica Winter Festival incident…"
Our names filled the screen.
Alucard stared up at it.
"They think we're the ones in danger."
Snow began falling again outside the store window.
Somewhere behind us, the world had decided who we were.
It just didn't understand yet.
That night, on the freight train, sleep came hard.
And the lullaby returned in full.
Under the red moon, little ones, find the door of stone—
Follow the rail where the iron bones groan.
Count seven chimes after the bells are done,
We'll meet at the castle when the red moon comes.
I woke with iron on my tongue.
And a word I did not yet understand:
Destiparpe.
Blinkshift.
Morning would find us somewhere that did not know our names.
The rails kept time.
Winter kept breathing.
And far behind us, beneath a sky still glowing faint with smoke, our father's command echoed in memory—
Old railroad.
Old castle.
Red moon.
Under the Red Moon
Under the red moon, little ones, find the door of stone.
Follow the rail where the iron bones groan.
Count seven chimes after the bells are done.
We'll meet at the castle when the red moon comes.