Chapter 15: Regrouping
Sanctuary
Margaret's black house stood as a dark island in the chaos that Cedar Lane had become. Through the windows, an unnatural purple glow illuminated the night sky. Fires that shouldn't burn that color spread from house to house across the once-perfect neighborhood. The distant sounds of screams punctuated the eerie silence inside.
Claire slumped against the wall in Margaret's living room, her hands still trembling from firing a gun for the first time in her life. Four people dead. Neighbors. People who'd welcomed them with casseroles and recommendations for local dentists just weeks ago. The weight of it pressed against her chest, making each breath a conscious effort.
Lila lay on the couch, her skin still pale despite the saline drip Margaret had rigged up. She was more alert now, but still stared vacantly at the ceiling, occasionally murmuring something to the empty air beside her. To Beatrice, the ghost only she seemed able to see.
"Mom?" Ethan's voice pulled Claire from her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, looking younger than his sixteen years. Blood that wasn't his had dried on his t-shirt, and his eyes held a haunted look. "Is Lila going to be okay?"
"She's stable," Claire said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "The fluids are helping."
He nodded, moving to sit beside Lila on the couch. She stirred at his presence, her hand finding his with surprising strength given her condition. The connection between them was palpable; forged in trauma, cemented in survival.
"I'm so sorry," David's voice came from the kitchen doorway, where he stood clutching a mug of whatever Margaret had brewed to help them stay alert. "I was such an idiot. I should have listened to you from the beginning. I should have seen what was happening." His voice cracked. "I almost got our son killed."
Claire looked at her husband. Her flawed, broken husband who'd been manipulated by forces neither of them fully understood. In the harsh light of Margaret's living room, he looked like he'd aged a decade in the past week. The confidence Evelyn had stripped from him hadn't returned; instead, there was just raw pain and regret.
"You weren't yourself," Claire said, more generously than she felt. "Evelyn has been doing this for... apparently generations."
"That's no excuse," David insisted, setting down his mug and moving to kneel in front of Ethan. “I failed you. I'm so sorry."
Ethan looked at his father, and something shifted in his expression. Not forgiveness, exactly, but understanding. "She got in your head, Dad. She did that to a lot of people."
"Still..."
"Not now," Claire interrupted, her voice sharper than intended. "We're all exhausted and traumatized. Blame and apologies can wait until we're out of immediate danger."
From the basement, Margaret and Thomas could be heard speaking in low, urgent tones. Their conversation carried fragments upstairs. Words like "containment," "ritual reversal," and "vampire lord." Each snippet reminded them all how far they'd fallen from normal life.
Margaret emerged first, her sacrificial shift replaced with practical black clothes. She had armed herself again: knives at her belt, a crossbow slung across her back. Ready for war.
Her eyes met Claire's briefly, then slid away, respecting the distance between them. Even now, with everything that had happened, the pull between them was palpable. Complicated, messy, but undeniable.
"Thomas bought us some time," Margaret announced. "He temporarily contained Alaric's physical form, but it won't hold for long."
Thomas followed her up the stairs, his leather jacket singed, silver-streaked hair wild. Despite his supernatural abilities, he looked surprisingly human in the artificial light. Tired, worried, but determined.
"What about Evelyn?" Claire asked.
"In the wind," Thomas said grimly. "She's got a knack for slithering away just when you think you've cornered her. Been doing it for longer than any of you have been alive."
"But she'll be back," Margaret added, moving to check Lila's IV. "She's invested too much in this ritual to abandon it now."
Lila stirred at Margaret's touch, eyes focusing briefly. "She's talking about... blood resonance," she mumbled. "Says they're going to use... my blood as a key."
"Who's talking, honey?" Thomas asked gently.
"Beatrice." Lila pointed vaguely to the empty air beside Thomas. "She's upset with you. Says you..." She frowned, concentrating. "Says you 'always were a sentimental fool.'"
Thomas's eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. It was a genuine sound that seemed out of place given their circumstances. "The afterlife hasn’t worn the judgment out of you, yet, Bea?" he said to the empty space.
A cold spot suddenly appeared in the room, and several books tumbled from Margaret's shelves.
"They know each other?" Claire asked Margaret, who was smirking despite the gravity of their situation.
"Apparently," she said. "Though Thomas neglected to mention that particular detail when he gave me the haunted broach."
"It wasn't relevant at the time," Thomas shrugged. "But yes, Beatrice and I have... history."
Another book flew off the shelf, narrowly missing his head.
"Focus, people," Claire said, surprised by the authority in her voice. "We need a plan. My novel-writing experience suggests that summoning an eldritch horror into our dimension probably isn't something we can just walk away from."
"You're right," Margaret said, their eyes meeting again, longer this time. "We need to stop Alaric before he stabilizes further. And we need to find Evelyn before she can complete whatever she's planning next."
The room fell silent except for Lila's labored breathing. Outside, Cedar Lane burned with unnatural fire as a vampire elder god fed on their neighbors. Inside this black house, six unlikely allies prepared for a battle none of them had ever imagined fighting.
Claire moved to check the weapons Margaret had left on the table: knives, crossbow bolts, something that looked disturbingly like holy water. Her hands no longer trembled. "Whatever we're going to do," Claire said, meeting each person's eyes in turn, "we do it together. No more secrets, no more going off alone."
Margaret nodded, a ghost of her usual wolfish grin appearing. "Team Suburban Apocalypse it is, then."
Thomas's Revelation
The purple glow of unnatural fires cast shifting shadows across Margaret's living room as Thomas took a deep breath and positioned himself in the center of their makeshift circle.
"I suppose I owe you all an explanation," he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who rarely needed to raise it to be heard. The silver streaks in his long hair caught the light as he removed his leather jacket, revealing tattoos of ancient symbols along his forearms.
"You're a vampire," Ethan stated bluntly.
Thomas smiled slightly. "Yes. I'm approximately 900 years old, give or take a few decades. The years blur together after the first few centuries."
"But you're not..." Claire hesitated, gesturing vaguely at the destruction visible through the windows.
"Like Alaric? No." Thomas's expression turned contemplative. "After a few centuries, blood and power lose their appeal. I got bored of being the monster in the dark. When you've lived long enough to see empires rise and fall, to watch humans make the same mistakes generation after generation, conventional evil becomes..." he searched for the word, "tedious."
David shook his head in disbelief. "So you what? Decided to become a good vampire?"
"I wander," Thomas explained simply. "I've seen enough destruction to last dozens of lifetimes. Now I try to maintain balance. I step in when things get too chaotic. When creatures like Alaric threaten to upset the natural order."
"Or when blood witches get too ambitious," Margaret added, her eyes meeting his.
"Yes." Thomas nodded. "I've fought Evelyn before. She's been trying to summon Alaric for generations. It's become something of a recurring appointment on my calendar."
"Evelyn," Claire interjected, "or is it Karen?"
"Karen was her name last time, though she's had many identities over the years. She extends her life through blood magic, needing to 'reset' every twenty-five years or so." He looked at Margaret. "The last time we confronted each other was in 2000, right here in Cedar Lane."
"What happened?" Lila asked weakly from the couch.
Thomas's expression darkened. "We each thought we’d killed the other, I guess. She had completed most of the summoning ritual. Similar to tonight but less sophisticated. I managed to close the portal before Alaric could fully manifest, then confronted Karen in her ritual chamber." His fingers traced one of the symbols on his arm. "She'd prepared a trap for me, a spell designed to bind and destroy vampires. We fought. The house burned around us. I left her impaled on her own ritual blade, the flames consuming everything."
"Clearly, it didn't take," David muttered.
"No. She must have found a way to escape at the last moment. A contingency I hadn't anticipated. When I learned she had resurfaced in Cedar Lane, I knew something had changed. She'd grown more powerful, more dangerous. I thought it was better if she continued to believe I was dead. So I kept my distance."
His eyes settled on Margaret, and something unspoken passed between them.
"You two know each other," Claire said. It wasn't a question.
“I.. hunted Thomas, early in my new life. Tracked him down and laid, what I now know was an amateur and foolish, trap for him. He laughed it off and I thought he’d kill me right there. But he didn’t. He took me under his wing, taught me. We became friends and developed an occasional working collaboration.”
“Ghost hunting friends with benefits? Haunted booty calls?” Claire said, sarcastically.
“I still don’t apologize for being who I am.” Margaret said, pointedly. She shook her head and her voice softened. “Thomas told me about Cedar Lane. He filled me in on the history. He thought a mortal hunter might succeed where he'd failed."
Thomas cleared his throat. "I had hoped Margaret could stop Evelyn without my direct involvement. My presence tends to escalate situations. Her hatred for me runs deep. But when she accelerated her timeline, I realized my error. I should have intervened sooner."
"So what now?" Ethan asked, his arm protectively around Lila.
"First, we need to know exactly what we're dealing with," Thomas said, moving toward Edgar's perch. The taxidermied raven sat motionless, its glass eyes reflecting the purple light from outside.
Thomas rolled up his sleeve and drew a small silver blade from his boot. "Forgive the dramatics," he said, making a quick cut across his palm. Dark blood welled up, thicker than human blood and with an almost metallic sheen.
"What are you doing?" David asked, taking an instinctive step back.
"Reconnaissance," Thomas replied, letting several drops of blood fall onto Edgar's feathered head. He began murmuring in a language none of them recognized. Something ancient and guttural that seemed to vibrate the air itself.
Edgar's glass eyes suddenly reflected red light. His feathers ruffled, and a shudder ran through the previously inanimate form. With a small, croaking sound, the raven moved its head, blinking as if awakening from a long sleep.
"Jesus," Claire whispered, backing up until she hit the wall.
"Temporary animation.” Thomas said. “Edgar will be our eyes outside."
The raven hopped forward on its perch, its movements jerky but unmistakably alive. It cocked its head toward Thomas, who whispered something else in that ancient tongue. Edgar's wings spread – no longer stiff and dusty but supple and functional.
"That’s fucking crazy" Ethan said, fascination overriding his fear.
"Blood magic," Margaret said, matter of factly. She turned to Thomas, “So everything you’ve ever given me is haunted?” Thomas smiled.
"Not much in my life isn’t haunted. He'll gather information about what's happening out there," Thomas said as Edgar fluttered to the windowsill. "We need to know Alaric's movements, Evelyn’s whereabouts, and the state of the neighborhood."
Margaret opened the window, and Edgar launched himself into the night, his dark form quickly swallowed by the purple-tinged darkness.
"While we wait," Thomas continued, turning back to face them, "you need to understand what we're up against. Alaric isn't at full strength. The summoning was incomplete, the ritual interrupted."
"That's good, right?" David asked hopefully.
"Yes and no." Thomas leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "He's powerful, make no mistake. The deaths you can see from here are evidence of that. But he's also unfocused. Too much bloodlust, not enough strategy."
"What does that mean for us?" Claire asked.
"It means he's vulnerable in ways he wouldn't normally be. He's feeding indiscriminately, gorging himself on the residents of Cedar Lane without thought for the future. A more stable manifestation would be methodical, calculating. It would build power slowly but surely." Thomas's expression grew thoughtful. "In his current state, he's more like a rabid animal than the elder god Karen intended to summon. Dangerous, but potentially predictable."
"So we have a chance," Ethan said, gripping Lila's hand tighter.
"A small one," Thomas acknowledged. "If we move quickly, while he's still distracted by his hunger. Once he's fed enough to stabilize his form completely..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear.
"How do we stop something like that?" Claire asked, her hand unconsciously moving to the weapons Margaret had provided.
Thomas's eyes met hers, ancient wisdom and grim determination reflected in their depths. "That's what Edgar is going to help us figure out. For now, we prepare as best we can. And we hope that Karen hasn't already found a way to give him what he needs most."
"Which is?" David asked.
"Focus," Thomas replied simply. "Purpose beyond mere consumption. If she manages to bind him to her will completely..." He shook his head. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen."
Bird's Eye View
I fucking hate suburbia. I was made for the city. Flying after decades of being stuffed and mounted is, as you might imagine, an enormous pain in the ass. My wings are stiff, my vision has an annoying red tint, and there's a persistent pins-and-needles sensation in my talons that would make any self-respecting corvid contemplate retirement.
But no. Here I am. Edgar the Wonder Raven, brought back from the great beyond by vampire blood magic to play scout in the apocalypse.
I'm not even a pure raven. That hack taxidermist who assembled me couldn't afford a whole specimen, so he cobbled me together using whatever feathered parts he had lying around. My left wing? Purebred raven, very dignified. My right? Pigeon spray-painted black. And not just any pigeon: a New York City subway pigeon who spent his life terrorizing tourists in Grand Central Station. The attitude comes with the feathers.
"Check for supernatural activity," the vampire had said. As if the purple flames consuming perfectly manicured lawns weren't obvious enough. Amateur. Centuries old and still giving unnecessary instructions.
I bank left over what used to be the community center, now a smoking crater adorned with what I can only describe as modern art made of human remains. The cultists really picked the wrong day to have their potluck. There's a casserole dish half-melted into the asphalt, still containing what looks like tuna surprise. The surprise, apparently, was death.
Cedar Lane is unrecognizable. The weird pyramid structures where houses used to be are pulsing with sickly light, creating a triangular pattern that focuses power toward the central grove. It's basic arcane geometry. Even a pigeon could figure it out. Well, maybe not my right wing's previous owner. He once flew directly into a closed subway door. Repeatedly. I turn to follow the lights to the grove.
I coast past what remains of the neighborhood watch patrol. Their perfectly pressed khakis are now accessorized with various states of dismemberment and gore. The HOA will definitely need to update their dress code guidelines. "Appendages: Recommended but no longer required."
The automatic sprinklers are still running on some lawns, though they're now spraying what appears to be blood. The dedication to lawn maintenance in this neighborhood is truly impressive, if misguided. Their property values are probably taking a hit, what with the interdimensional horror and all. Suburban assholes run every which direction, mostly in states of panic.
Speaking of the grove, that's where our guest of honor is currently holding court.
Even my raven’s eyes, elevated by vampiric blood magic, have trouble focusing on his form. One moment he looks like a middle-aged accountant on a bender, the next like something with too many limbs and not nearly enough skin. The effect is disorienting, like trying to watch three horror movies simultaneously while drunk on fermented berries. Don't judge, we all have our vices.
I perch on a nearby telephone pole, which is melting in a way telephone poles shouldn't. Alaric is surrounded by bodies. Some whole, some in pieces, all arranged in a pattern that would make my leather-loving owner's goth bedroom decor seem tasteful by comparison. Occasionally, members of the community driven out of their minds with fear accidentally run into the grove and get a little too close, then the big evil bastard pounces on them like a hungry cat. He's feeding, but there's something odd about it. Each time he consumes a victim, his form seems to stabilize momentarily before shifting again, like a radio losing signal. He's struggling to maintain coherence in this dimension. It's like watching a tourist trying to fit in with the locals: painful, awkward, and ultimately unsuccessful.
Interesting.
Even more interesting is what happens when he approaches one of the amplification nodes. He recoils, his form distorting violently. Those structures; they're not just for channeling power, they're creating boundaries. Containment.
So oldy moldy Thomas wasn't kidding. The summoning was incomplete, and he’s contained within a specific area of Cedar Lane. He can't cross the boundaries of the amplification triangle. Not yet, anyway. It's like watching a cat encounter an invisible fence; all hissing indignation and wounded pride.
I swoop lower, my mismatched wings making navigation a challenge. (Thanks for nothing, subway pigeon.) The right wing keeps wanting to dive-bomb little scraps of food and pieces of disemboweled suburban assholes off the ground like some kind of avian muscle memory. The indignity is almost too much to bear.
Alaric pauses in his all-you-can-eat suburbanite buffet, tilting his head back to sniff the air. Can he sense me? Probably. Do I care? Not particularly. Being dead once already tends to put things in perspective. What's he going to do, kill me again? I've been perched next to a stuffed mongoose in an awkward mating pose for the last fifteen years. Nothing could be worse than that.
That's when I see it: the weakness the vampire was hoping for. As Alaric moves toward his next victim, his form becomes more unstable the further he gets from the central stone in the grove. The connection to whatever hell dimension he crawled out of is tethered to that spot. Move him away from it, and he begins to unravel like a cheap sweater.
I watch as he stumbles, his human form briefly revealing something underneath that resembles origami made from nightmares. He quickly retreats back toward the stone, his form stabilizing again.
Oh, and here's something juicy: the blonde queen of suburbia is nowhere to be seen. Not among the dead, not directing the chaos. She's gone to ground, the smart little parasite. Probably holed up somewhere planning how to salvage her ritual. I'd bet my remaining eye that she's got a Plan B. Hot, evil bitches always do.
I've seen enough. Time to report back to the Scooby Gang.
As I bank toward the black house that stands out like a middle finger, I catch sight of something else: a small clay figure slipping between shadows, moving with deliberate purpose. The witch’s little messenger boy. That can't be good.
I could follow it, but the vampire's blood magic is already wearing thin. My right wing is starting to stiffen. Death, it seems, is reclaiming its property piece by piece. I make it back just as the vampire opens the window, and collapse onto the sill in a heap of mismatched feathers and sardonic commentary.
"Report," he demands in Aramaic, as if I'm some common messenger pigeon instead of a sophisticated corvid consciousness with a master's degree in post-mortem observation.
I relay what I've discovered through the blood bond. Alaric’s containment within the triangle, his tether to the central stone, his instability away from it. The little clay fucker wandering around.
I also throw in some colorful commentary about the absurdity of suburban apocalypse fashion. Most of these assholes are way too fat for their khaki pants. Someone needed to say it.
"Good work, Edgar," the vampire says, almost respectfully. Almost. My owner with the impressive arsenal looks at me with newfound appreciation. The strawberry blonde is staring with her mouth open, clearly recognizing raw talent when she sees it. The teenage lovebirds look appropriately impressed, though the girl is already fading back to sleep. The suit-wearing guy who smells like regret and expensive therapy is backing away slowly, as if a talking taxidermied bird is somehow the weirdest thing he's seen tonight.
As the magic fades and my borrowed consciousness begins to slip away, I can't help but think that being stuffed on a perch wasn't so bad after all. No apocalypse to worry about. No elder gods eating the neighbors.
Just dust, silence, and occasionally having to witness my owners really questionable and very frequent sexual liaisons.
Sometimes a bird's afterlife is simpler that way.
The subway pigeon part of me gets in one last thought: "Hey, at least we went out flying, not crapping on tourists. That's what I call moving up in the world."
Reconciliations
The house fell quiet as everyone dispersed to rest before whatever the dawn would bring. Edgar's intelligence had given them a plan. It was flawed and desperate, but a plan nonetheless. Thomas had retreated to the basement to prepare what he called "countermeasures." Margaret was checking weapons in her study. The teenagers were settled in the guest room, Lila still weak but stable.
Claire found herself alone in the kitchen, staring out at the unnatural purple glow that had consumed Cedar Lane. She didn't hear David approach until he cleared his throat softly behind her.
"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice strained with exhaustion and guilt. "Just for a minute."
Claire turned, really looking at her husband for the first time since they'd escaped the ritual. He looked hollowed out, the confident marketing executive she'd married replaced by someone haunted and uncertain.
"I know this isn't the time," David began, "but in case... in case things don't go well tomorrow, I need to say this." His hands fidgeted at his sides. "I don't expect forgiveness, Claire. I wouldn't even ask for it. I just want to help fix what I helped break."
She studied him. The man who'd moved them to this nightmare suburb, who'd fallen under Evelyn's spell, who'd nearly gotten their son killed. The anger was still there, but dulled by exhaustion and the perspective that facing actual monsters provides.
"We both made mistakes," Claire said finally. "I wasn't honest about my writing. I kept things from you. And then with Margaret..." She trailed off, not wanting to reopen that wound.
David nodded, acceptance in his eyes. "Let's focus on surviving first. The rest, if there is a rest, we can figure out later."
"Yeah," Claire agreed softly. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be... challenging."
They separated awkwardly, David heading for the living room couch while Claire retreated to the small office Margaret had converted into a makeshift bedroom for her. As she sat on the edge of the futon, staring at the wall covered in Margaret's research notes and occult diagrams, she heard a light knock at the open door.
Margaret stood in the doorway, fully dressed but somehow looking vulnerable. "Can I come in?"
Claire nodded, suddenly too tired for anger.
Margaret entered but kept her distance, leaning against the wall rather than sitting beside Claire. "I should have been clearer about who I was. About my past. Thomas. About... a lot of things."
"Yes, you should have," Claire agreed.
"I'm not good at this. At letting people in." Margaret's fingers traced a pattern on the back of her other hand, a nervous tick. "But whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that what we had was real for me. Not just another case, not just trauma bonding. Real."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with all the complications of their brief but intense connection.
"I believe you," Claire said finally. "But I can't… we can't figure this out now. Not with everything else happening."
"I know." Margaret pushed off from the wall. "We'll talk about us after we deal with the vampire apocalypse." A hint of her usual smirk returned. "Assuming we survive."
"That's the spirit," Claire said, finding a small smile despite everything.
Margaret paused at the door. "Get some rest. I'll be down the hall if you need anything."
As she left, Claire lay back on the futon, staring at the ceiling. The room felt emptier without Margaret's presence.
In the guest bedroom, Lila lay staring at the ceiling, the blood loss still had her feeling a bit dizzy, though she had improved significantly from earlier. She was starting to doze off when she startled awake to find Ethan climbing carefully onto the bed beside her, fully clothed.
"Hey," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Hey yourself," he replied, stretching out beside her gently. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got drained by vampires." She tried to laugh but winced instead. "Pretty on-brand for me though, right? Always wanted to be in a horror movie."
"This is more than I bargained for," Ethan admitted, reaching for her hand. "I just wanted to raise a little hell, not fight actual elder gods."
"Go big or go home, Parker." Her fingers curled weakly around his. "Speaking of... got any plans for after? You know, if we survive?"
"I was thinking college somewhere far away from any planned communities," Ethan said. "Maybe become a supernatural detective. I've got experience now."
"Cute," Lila murmured, her eyelids growing heavy again. "I'm thinking tattoo artist. Specializing in protective sigils. Make sure this never happens again."
"We could open a shop," Ethan continued, noticing her fading but wanting to keep the conversation going, to pretend for a moment that they had a future worth planning. "You do the ink, I'll handle the research. 'Parker and Roberts: Supernatural Solutions.'"
"Sounds nice," Lila whispered, her eyes closed now. "Roberts and Parker, though. Alphabetical.”
“That’s not alphabetical.”
“Don’t argue with me, I almost died.”
"Whatever you want," Ethan said softly, watching her drift back to sleep. He carefully adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, then settled in beside her, keeping watch as the night deepened.
Throughout the black house, these fragile moments of connection played out against the backdrop of impending catastrophe. Tomorrow would bring confrontation. With Alaric, with Evelyn, with forces beyond human comprehension. But for tonight, at least, they had these small reconciliations to hold onto in the darkness.
In the stillness before dawn, when even the unnatural purple fires burning through Cedar Lane seemed to have dimmed, a small figure moved through the shadows surrounding Margaret's black house. The homunculus that had once been James Chen slipped between the building's defenses with practiced efficiency, its clay form compressing to squeeze through a narrow gap in the foundation that no human eyes had noticed.
Inside, it paused, listening. The house was quiet. Thomas and Margaret had finally succumbed to exhaustion. David slept fitfully on the couch, caught in nightmares of rituals and blood. Claire had fallen asleep mid-research, surrounded by Margaret's notes.
The homunculus moved silently up the stairs, its clay feet leaving no impression on the floorboards. It knew its purpose with absolute clarity. Evelyn's blood magic animating it left no room for doubt or hesitation. It carried a vial in both hands, stamped with the HOA logo.
It reached the guest bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. Through the gap, it could see two figures on the bed: Lila, pale but breathing steadily, and beside her, Ethan, who had fallen asleep watching over her.
The homunculus slipped into the room, moving to Lila's side of the bed. From within its clay body, it produced a ceremonial dagger. Small but ancient, its blade inscribed with symbols that matched those on the Codex. The weapon seemed to drink in what little light filtered through the curtains, hungry for what was to come.
It studied Lila's sleeping form with the detached calculation that had made James Chen such an effective accountant. The optimal point for extraction was clear. A swift strike to the heart would yield the purest catalyst blood. Evelyn's instructions had been precise.
With mechanical precision, the homunculus raised the dagger. In that moment, Lila's eyes fluttered open, perhaps sensing the unnatural presence beside her. Recognition and terror flashed across her face, but before she could make a sound, the clay figure plunged the blade into her heart with brutal efficiency.
Lila's body arched once, her mouth opening in a silent scream. The homunculus placed the vial against the wound, collecting the blood that pulsed from her failing heart. The vial filled with dark liquid that seemed to glow with an inner light, the culmination of weeks of preparation, the perfect catalyst for Evelyn's final ritual.
Beside her, Ethan slept on, exhaustion keeping him under even as Lila's hand clutched his in her final moments, her fingers gradually loosening as life left her body.
The homunculus capped the vial, securing it within its clay form. Then, with methodical care, it placed a cream-colored envelope on Lila's chest, directly over the wound. Inside was a note written in Evelyn's elegant hand:
"Thank you for preparing my catalyst so perfectly. A shame you won't be here to see what Alaric will become once empowered by such pure blood. Do try to enjoy the dawn—it will be the last normal sunrise this world ever sees. —E"
Its mission complete, the homunculus retreated from the room and back through the house, leaving no trace of its presence except for the cooling body on the bed and the mocking note. It slipped out the same way it had entered, vanishing into the pre-dawn shadows of Cedar Lane.
As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, painting the burning neighborhood in sickly orange light, Ethan finally stirred. He reached for Lila instinctively, his hand finding hers, cold and still. Something felt wrong. His eyes opened to see the envelope, the dark stain spreading across the sheets, and Lila's face: peaceful but lifeless.
Understanding crashed over him with horrifying clarity. His scream tore through the quiet house, echoing down hallways and stairwells, jolting everyone from their brief respite of sleep.
Dawn had broken over Cedar Lane, but for those in the black house, darkness had never been more complete.