The rain began in the dead of night.
At first, it was just a dense, cold mist, coiling around the towering pines that encircled Northam Town. Then, raindrops pierced the thick fog and began to fall, hammering against the rusty tin roof of the train station with a dull, persistent sound, like some ominous countdown.
Isolde Thorne stepped out of the last carriage, her boot sinking into a puddle at the edge of the platform. Mud splashed onto her dusty trousers, but she didn't even flinch. She merely tightened the heavy black overcoat around herself and tugged the brim of her hat lower, obscuring most of her face—leaving only a glimpse of a tightly drawn jawline and a pair of strikingly bright grey eyes blazing from the shadows.
Northam.
The letters on the station sign were blurred in the rainy darkness. She looked up towards the town. Only sporadic lights glimmered there, their dull yellow halos diffusing in the impenetrable murk of fog and rain, like the last breaths of a dying man. The air was thick with the smells of wet wood, moss, and something deeper, more indefinable—a scent of decay peculiar to ancient, sealed places, mingled with secrets from deep within the earth and lingering darkness.
Six years.
She closed her eyes. The raindrops stung her face, icy cold. But no cold could compare to the cold of that night six years ago. Memory was a rusted blade, thrusting unexpectedly into her mind; every breath tasted of blood.
______
That had been a rainy night too. East London, the cheap rented flat. Thunder rumbled outside the window. Her father was mending an old silver crossbow by the fireplace, her mother humming a tune as she prepared bedtime cocoa in the kitchen. Warmth, safety, normalcy.
Then, the window shattered.
Not blown in by the wind, but smashed inward by a brutal, inhuman force from outside. Shards of glass cascaded into the room like a storm. Isolde was only seventeen. Peering through the crack in her bedroom door, the first thing she saw was a tall, dark silhouette standing in the center of the living room.
It was not a man.
Even through the crack, even in the dim light, she could tell. The thing moved with an eerily graceful, unnatural speed, leaving only afterimages. It wore elegant black evening clothes, its skin a bloodless white, a cruel, amused smile playing on its lips. Its eyes were a dark red, glowing faintly in the dark like two gems soaked in blood.
"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne." Its voice was a low, pleasant baritone that instantly froze the air. "A pity. Your blood smells... far too tempting."
Her father roared, snatching up the freshly mended crossbow. The silver arrowhead gleamed coldly in the firelight. Her mother lunged for the holy water skin hanging on the wall. Their movements were trained, the instinctive reactions of a demon-hunting family. But they were too slow.
The vampire—Isolde would later learn his name was Cassius—merely raised a hand. Her father was thrown back as if struck by an invisible battering ram, crashing into the brick fireplace. The sickening crack of breaking bones was unmistakable. The crossbow flew from his grasp, the silver arrow clattering uselessly onto the rug.
Her mother screamed, flinging the holy water. A few drops splashed onto Cassius's sleeve, sizzling softly, emitting wisps of white smoke. Cassius looked down, then smiled. The smile held no anger, only a bone-chilling fascination, as if watching insects struggle.
"An admirable attempt," he said.
The next instant, he was before her mother. His fingers—long, pale, tipped with sharp nails—drew lightly across her throat. No gush of blood, just a thin red line. Her mother's eyes widened, her hands flying to her neck before she crumpled to the floor.
Then came the long, torturous slaughter. Cassius was in no hurry to feed. He toyed with them like a cat with mice, letting her grievously wounded father crawl towards her dying mother. Just as their fingertips were about to touch, he moved again. Tearing, sucking, low sighs of satisfaction. The firelight cast their grotesquely writhing shadows long upon the wall—the final shapes of her parents' lives.
Isolde clamped a hand over her mouth, nails digging into her palm until blood welled between her fingers. Terror coiled around her heart and throat like an icy serpent. She was paralyzed, unable to make a sound, forced to watch everything through that narrow crack: the vampire elegantly licking blood from his lips, her parents' bodies growing cold and withered.
Before leaving, Cassius seemed to glance towards the bedroom door. A flicker of mockery passed through those dark red eyes.
"Goodnight, little hunter," he murmured, the words seeming to drill directly into her mind. "Remember this night well. We shall meet again."
Then, he dissolved into a swirl of black mist and vanished through the shattered window into London's rainy night.
Isolde didn't know how long she remained slumped behind the door. Until dawn's faint light, until neighbors were alerted by the thick smell of blood, until the police broke the door down. She only remembered finally crawling into the living room, kneeling in the wreckage and the pool of blood, clutching her parents' cold, stiff hands. Their blood smeared her palms, her sleeves, her very soul.
From that day on, the rain in London was forever the color of blood.
______
"Miss? The last shuttle coach is leaving. Are you coming or not?"
A raspy voice pulled Isolde back to the present. A stooped old coachman, draped in a tattered oilskin cloak, stood beside a rickety old carriage, his cloudy eyes appraising her. A few silent passengers already sat in the carriage, eyeing the stranger who had arrived in the deep night with a mix of wariness and distance.
Isolde nodded silently and boarded. The compartment smelled of damp wool, tobacco, and sweat. She took the corner seat, placing the heavy, oilcloth-wrapped long case at her feet. Inside were her parents' remains, the last legacy of the Thorne family: a meticulously maintained set of ancient silver weapons, and the family journals recording exorcism knowledge and runes.
The carriage jolted along the muddy road, lurching over potholes, splashing more mud. Rain blurred the windows, the outside world a smear. But Isolde didn't need to see. She could feel it. The town was enveloped by something heavy and ancient. Not mere darkness, but something slumbering, yet pulsing in the silence. The ambient energy field in the air carried a cold, ominous disturbance.
Vampires. Many. And powerful.
This wasn't guesswork; it was instinct honed by the hatred branded into her soul. The blood of the Thorne family screamed silently within her, every cell sounding an alarm. Her parents' despairing eyes in their final moments, Cassius's cruel smirk—they replayed in her dreams every night for six years.
"Northam..." she mouthed silently. The files provided by the European Exorcism Council had been vague, only mentioning a series of bizarre night attacks in this northern town in recent months, victims bearing peculiar wounds suspected to be of unnatural origin. Scrawled in red at the end of the file was: "Suspected presence of high-level vampire(s). Danger rating: Extreme."
High-level vampire.
Isolde's grey eyes turned to ice in the shadows. She undid the top two buttons of her overcoat and reached inside, her fingers brushing against something cold and hard. A silver pendant—a briar entwined around a broken spear, the Thorne family crest. Its edges were smooth from constant handling.
The day her parents were buried, it had rained like this too. She stood before the simple headstones, rain mingling with the tears on her face, salty and bitter. She hadn't wept aloud. Instead, with the silver dagger still stained with her parents' blood, she had sliced her own palm. Letting her blood drip onto the earth before the graves, she had sworn, word by word, to the cold stone and the grey sky:
"In the name of Thorne, by my blood. Henceforth, I shall hunt every vampire in this world. See one, kill one. Until my last breath, or theirs."
It was not an oath; it was a curse seared into her bones, the only fuel that had kept her alive these six years. From that day, Isolde Thorne ceased to be a whole person. She was a weapon, a ghost existing solely for vengeance. The Council's training, the family's arts—all of it served a single purpose.
Now, she was here. In this town shrouded in mist, rain, and darkness. In this rumored nest of vampires.
Cassius, wherever you're hiding. And all your kind in this town.
Get ready.
The carriage stopped before a seemingly sturdy little inn, its sign creaking in the wind: "The Rimewood Inn." Isolde paid the fare, picked up her case, and walked through the doorway without a backward glance. Inside, the light was dim, a weak fire crackling in the hearth. A weary-looking middle-aged woman behind the counter glanced up, looked at her, then at the case in her hand, a flicker of unease in her eyes.
"A room?" The woman's voice was flat.
"One room. Facing the street, upper floor. For an extended stay." Isolde's voice was calm, devoid of inflection, like a stone dropped into a deep pool.
The woman asked no questions, handing over an old brass key. "Last room, third floor. At night... best retire early. No need to wander about."
Isolde took the key, her fingertips cold. "Town's been unsettled lately?"
The woman's face tightened almost imperceptibly, her eyes shifting. "The rain, the fog... roads are bad. Wild beasts... come out at night." She finished vaguely, lowering her head to fuss with the ledger, avoiding her gaze.
Beasts.
Isolde sneered inwardly. Yes. The kind that only come out at night, feeding on blood.
Carrying her case, she walked up the creaking wooden stairs. Her footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell. At the end of the third-floor corridor, behind the door, was a small but clean room. A bed, a table, a chair, a fireplace. The window faced the wet, empty street.
Isolde locked the door and set down the case. She didn't light the lamp, instead going straight to the window, drawing aside a corner of the heavy curtain to peer out.
The rain continued. Thick mist writhed like a living thing over the rooftops and streets. A few scattered lights flickered in the distance, like fireflies trapped in amber. The whole town was deathly quiet, save for the wind and rain. But to Isolde, beneath that silence, something else stirred. Faint, inhuman sounds. The whisper of wings beating the damp, cold air; the rush of something moving swiftly through darkness; and... a trace, faint yet chilling her blood instantly.
The scent of blood. Fresh, yet tinged with an inhuman, cold sweetness.
Coming from the direction of the Blackwood Forest, that deep, dark expanse that seemed even more profound and menacing in the rainy night at the town's edge.
Isolde let the curtain fall and turned. She shed the soaked overcoat, revealing the close-fitting black attire beneath. She opened the case on the floor, unwrapping the layers of oilcloth. Moonlight broke through the clouds and the windowpane, briefly illuminating the contents: rows of cold, gleaming silver throwing knives, daggers, bolts; coils of rope soaked in special concoctions; water skins filled with holy water; leather scrolls inscribed with complex exorcism runes; and a long-barreled rifle in a disassembled state, its parts gleaming with a dull, dark sheen—the chamber loaded with custom rounds laced with powdered silver.
With practiced efficiency, she began inspecting, assembling, cleaning. Her fingers traced the cold metal and sharp edges, bringing an almost painful sense of solidity. Each weapon bore the weight of the Thorne family's centuries of hunting arts, and the hatred she had carved into her bones over six years.
Outside, the rain gradually lessened, but the wind grew stronger, howling through the streets and alleys like the wails of countless lost souls.
Isolde picked up the final silver dagger. The blade reflected her face: pale, gaunt, with deep-set eyes, grey irises burning with a cold, almost fanatical flame. It was no longer the face of a seventeen-year-old girl. It was the face of a hunter, a mask remolded by hatred.
She slid the dagger back into the sheath at her thigh and returned to the window, gazing once more at the Blackwood Forest that seemed to breathe in the gloom.
"I'm here," she whispered soundlessly into the thick darkness.
Blood debts must be paid in blood.
Starting tonight.
(End of Chapter 1)