Vampyre Bride ✔️

XLII⎮Death's Swift Wings

Into the fray came the unexpected shouts and cries of the brave and forgotten nuns, sister Mary leading the holy charge, her features marred by terror. All the while the two combatants fought on, snapping at each other with long teeth, one of whom was grunting, convulsing awkwardly, his shoulders snapping and popping, as he tried to fend the vampyre off.

Emma's concern, however, was not for his difficulty but for the danger to her cousin. If Emma had had the strength to sit up and cry out, she'd have somehow forestalled the nuns' valiant endeavor, vain as it was; albeit, her warnings would still have come too late. With the speed of a hawk, Victoria dove from the perch she'd made of Hawksmoor's shoulders—his jacket ripping as his torso bulged with brawn and hair—and soared through the air like a daemon. She struck Mary's head clear from her neck in one powerful sweep of her talons. The poor nun's face, frozen forever in shock, flew to the ground and, with a dreadful thump, her head lumbered into the pond. The churchyard filled with screams as the nuns, and Milli, watched Mary's body crumple limply to the ground.

Whatever Hawksmoor had been before, he no longer filled the constraints of human form—in his place stood a creature with long ears and a sharp snout, its torso overspread with a silver pelt. Only his britches still clung to the hairy thews of his transfigured legs, the rest of his clothing in tatters on the ground. If he were not so terrible to behold, she might have found some little humor in the notion of a bipedal wolf in britches.

The battle of beast and vampyre waged on, fierce and deadly. He latched his fist into Victoria's hair and swung her away from the other nuns who were kneeling beside their fallen sister, heedless that their panicked screaming was only whetting Victoria's bloodlust anew. Milli's fingers on Emma's throat tightened as she watched the bizarre melee, frozen, her grip in danger of choking her sister outright. Although, perhaps it was not the pressure of little Milli's hands that threatened to stifle the air from Emma's lungs but her dying heart, too weary to beat, that no longer roused itself enough to nudge her brain awake.

She could no longer distinguish the beast's snarling from the vampyre's, nor could she see which of the two was the stronger. Every rending of flesh inflicted by wolfish teeth, the vampyre returned full force. Every swipe of his back talons, she sidestepped, feinting easily, before attacking with equal fury.

Emma felt her conscience slipping, felt the air turn frigid, felt the world grow quiet, and felt her agonizing breaths rasping ever louder as her sister's face blurred with vignetted shadows. She was sinking into oblivion. But a rough jolt instantly stirred her eyes open again, pulling her back to earth with its force. She struggled to see past the gathering webs, and when, finally, she did it was only to find that Milli had disappeared.

Emma tried to call out to her sister, but there was no answer. She flailed weakly, clutching at her throat. Finding the soaked linen still stuck to her wound, she pressed her palm against the trickling rill as firmly as her waning strength allowed. At length, however, her hand dropped with exhaustion, falling, white and limp, to the ground. It did not, in those final moments, escape her that this was the second time this week she had found herself wavering at Death's gate. But this time Markus was not here to save her. This time she could not break from the spreading maw of paralysis—that awful void whelming up through her brain like an opium fog.

Strangely, there was no more sound—just the beckoning dirge of total silence. All was deathly still as Emma stared, inert and helpless, her vision seething with spidery shadows, as Milli struggled against Victoria's vice-like hold. She thrashed and clawed at her captor, her mouth as wide as a Bow Bell, her tongue lashing with fury. On the ground, at Milli's feet lay Hawksmoor, naked but for his britches. His eyes stared from a human visage once more but were wide and unseeing, his neck all but torn to sinew and bone. Dead.

No! How could he be dead? How had the world turned on its head? She tried to reach for Milli, but her arms bore no more life than Hawksmoor's corpse. Poor useless Hawksmoor! The nuns too were all murdered—her fading vision had not spared her that—and all heaped like unwanted carrion atop their headless sister.

No! Though her voice was long since drained of power, she felt her ebbing blood writhe and boil with the agony of wasted life. Her depleted wellspring foamed and frothed with the last dregs of life, sputtering with hatred as she watched Victoria drag her sister away. When Emma blinked again they were gone. No! Every cell cried out and reached for Milli again and again. All in vain. It was with hopeless tears that she shut her eyes, the blood and tears coating her tongue. The darkness was now swift upon her, its wings outstretched, gathering quicker and quicker around her. Numb and defeated, she welcomed Death; she willed her spirit to cast its anchor from this ruined and earthly flesh.

Yet the narrowing beam of light above her seemed to flicker suddenly as a large shadow moved above her. Hades himself was come to fetch her away. She smiled at the darkness and sighed as her heart sputtered its last feeble beats.

The End

Just kidding ;)