A stench of charcoal and brimstone enveloped the courtyard mere moments after the fulgurous shot from Mayme’s gun. It was the only sense the girl could comprehend, besides just how heavy the smoke from the gunpowder was in her lungs. It made her feel as if they were filled with solid lead, dragging themselves and her heart into her churning stomach. The world around her was still, not even a breeze dared caress her morbid form, as if the universe itself was forcing her to bathe in her sin— her sin of murder.

It had to be murder. If it weren’t she surely would have felt the pain of a burning bullet rip through her flesh by now.

The buzzing and crackling that took her ears after the thunderous clap of the gunshot slowly faded, it sounded like fire. Fire and brimstone felt appropriate, however the night’s chill made itself known by just how cold her bloody clothes felt against her skin. Another reason she knew it was murder. She hadn’t died, nor had she been sent anywhere more hellish than the town she found herself stuck in. Part of her was disappointed, part of her was relieved.

Drip… drip… drip.

Mayme’s eyes fluttered open, the sulfurous smoke irritated them to tears, but she felt only tingled numbness. She could only see blobs moving and morphing in the darkness. The strawberry blonde of the church woman’s hair and the paleness of her face stood out against the swirling grays and navies that breathed around her like ever expanding balloons. The woman was stumbling back, her shoulders hunched as she curled in on herself. She must have been clutching her stomach. Mayme blinked a couple times, the woman became clearer. Her mouth was moving, her eyes were wide and crazed; she was yelling something as she retreated backwards on clumsy feet. Her gun was clutched in one of her hands even as she held onto her gut. The red that dripped down its silver body told Mayme the shot was true, while the hasty escape made it known it was devastating. The black of the church woman’s outfit hid the wetness well, more so the farther she got into the whirling sea-like shadows. It was a blessing and a curse. Mayme needn’t see the damage she caused, but it left her imagination to run rampant. One’s guts was a messy place, it might not have caused a misty explosion like a headshot would, but it was hard to imagine just how ravaged her organs must have been.  Was she holding her stomach out of pain, or to keep herself together? Maybe it wasn’t murder yet, but clearly the clock was ticking. Finally, the church woman gracelessly threw herself into the open door of the cathedral. She didn’t even attempt to close it after herself.

Drip… drip… drip.

Mayme’s gaze lowered as she watched tears drop off her chin and onto her pistol. The little droplets looked like dew on a rose.

Elisabeth.

It started the night so pristine, now it was stained with gore. One of Mayme’s very own hairs melted onto the tip of the barrel— coiled and scorched black. The engravings were scuffed so badly buffering couldn't save it. Despite it all, it still reflected her face back at her. She had never felt so seen as she did staring into her own eyes. However, the night was not over, nor was its horrors.

Percival stood in her peripherals, his lame arm limned by the moonlight catching and glinting off his blood. His heaving exhales and muttered curses, which were only a thin fog at first, slowly broke through the noise in Mayme’s ears. Percival took an unsteady step forward, a bulging vein throbbed in the hollow of his temple. His eyes were wild, fury burned white hot behind them— a fury Mayme had seen before, but this time it was different. Firstly, it wasn’t directed at her, secondly it just looked… off. Mayme wasn't even sure it was entirely authentic— his working hand shook the fabric clenched within it. His knees wobbled under his weight even as he only moved them in stiff, lumbering motions. His breathing sounded unnatural as if he was doing it manually. The swift paling of his face spoke the loudest: none of this was sustainable.

Drip… drip… drip.

She hated him. He was a monster. Yet, even as she was still suffering from all he had put her through, she felt pity. He truly deserved this, he deserved worse. So why didn’t this sight bring her joy? Just as she hadn't wanted to kill the church woman, she didn't want to watch Percival die. Her gnawing humanity sickened her, but she couldn't dismiss it. She wondered if her past gnathonic display did more than just fool him, as if her innocent desire to not watch people die was a fault. It wasn’t, was it? Whatever the answer, she knew she did not have the time to ponder it.

She finally lowered her gun, her legs moved cautiously towards her abuser. Her muscles ached and tensed in protest with her thoughts, yet she was unable to stop herself. She rasped, “Percy—” that poisoned nickname was cut off as her jaw snapped shut. She had no need for fawning and endearing herself to him anymore. “Percival?”

His bloodshot eyes left the church and fell onto her. He said nothing, his pride was caught in his throat, however his maw was snarling and his back hunched as if he had hackles to raise. Once a vicious bull dog seemed little more than a cornered toy terrier.

Any dog could cause damage, Mayme recognised, but some were easier to make heel than others. She swallowed her fear and continued, “Percival, there’s medical supplies in there,” she said pointing to the church with her pistol, her arm stiff and outstretched straight from her side, “You nor her are in any place to fight anymore. We can make her share, I’ll patch you up, but I need some answers from you.”

He still said nothing, realizing just as much as Mayme did who was on the back foot now. Even with her relatively mild tone and expression it was impossible to ignore that pale eye staring at him while her darker, human one vanished into the shadows and gore that darkened her face. Only that one awful eye and stark white fangs stood out in the night. It took him back to his youthful twenties on Sangmont’s grounds— she really did look just like them. She lacked the knight uniform, but the viscera that clung to her outfit made it shine like metal. How she held the gun out reminded him of how the knights held their swords in a broad ward stance, the openness painted their overconfidence and perceived superiority. In the past they didn’t scare him, in fact he scoffed and mocked the vampiric menace for their formality and dramatically beautiful displays to his comrades, but now? Now? The most pathetic leech he ever laid eyes upon seemed to stand so straight and tall. No matter how beaten and battered she got, she kept getting up, and she somehow kept convincing him to let her. He knew all along she was a seductress, but she had gone about it in such a way he let his guard down. She didn’t lure him in with a slightly exposed bosom and sultry words, but with big doe eyes and a sweet innocence ripe to corrupt. An act, to be sure. He saw her game at last. Worst yet: there was nothing he could do about it now.

”Will you answer my questions, Percival?”

Her voice, though it hadn’t really changed all that much from any other time she spoke, sounded like a threat. Each utterance of his full first name felt like a dagger of betrayal. Each time she opened her mouth those fangs made themselves known. Each step towards him made him feel like he was on the gallows. He knew her knees knocked and each movement was a strain on her muscles, yet his eyes played tricks on him. He truly saw her as straight, steady, proper, and dangerous as the ghosts of his past. There was a black hole in his stomach, a void that whispered of his doom. Blood streamed from his wound quicker, he swore it started squirting out with each hammer of his heart. His already laboured breathing harshened to a state of hyperventilation. Sweat beaded on his forehead and glued strands of hair to his clammy skin. As sickening as it felt to admit: he feared her.

As she grew ever closer he finally hung his head and said, “Yes.” A single word beyond waterlogged with shame.

Mayme finally made it to him. She touched the barrel of her gun with three quick taps, making sure it had cooled enough before she shoved it into the back of her corset. Her arm snaked around him, but as soon as he put any weight on her her knees locked. No matter the situation she was still so dainty, perhaps Percival should have found power in that, but instead he felt more indignified. The feeling only got worse as she took a deep breath, steeled herself, and urged him towards the looming cathedral. She helped him without a word, her expression hidden behind her curtain of bangs and the only angle he could look at her from. His stomach twisted with anxiety, he needed to see her face and he couldn’t. He was left with nothing to figure out what was going on in her mind.

Could she smell his blood? Did it tempt her at all? It must have, he couldn’t even imagine it not. Was she just leading him away to feed off him? Worst yet, was just whisking him away to turn him into a thrall?

A black and red static ate at the edges of his vision.

No… He couldn't faint. He couldn't let her have unfettered access to his body. He had to stay awake and aware.

She ushered him into the building before she dared enter. Without her support he slumped uselessly against the door opposite the slightly ajar one. Luckily too, since it did not budge under his weight. The main hall was eerily quiet and utterly devoid of life. A slug trail of red weaved its way from the entrance to the small door at the back of the room. The left most door, to the medical supplies, was wide open. A few lit candles littered the premises, valiantly fighting off the deep abyss of blackness that crept from each corner. The room smelt of incense, in stark contrast to everything else. The sweet aroma of sage and lemongrass would usually put him at ease, but the sound of Mayme entering the room behind him dashed any hope of reprieve. She held her nose, but unlike thrall she was willing to brave cleansing smells meant to keep her and her kin at bay. She took her post at his side again, bringing her awful stench of gore, sweat, and a pinch of vomit back to his nostrils.

They barely made it into the medical bay when Percival's legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the cold sterile white floor with a loud, meaty thump. His lame arm had hit the ground and jabbed into his shoulder, it winded him and shot a reverberating pain throughout his entire body. He tried to yelp in pain, but the air had already evacuated his lungs, so he was left wheezing and reeling breathlessly on the floor. He nearly took Mayme down with him, he probably would have if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with grasping his pounding wounded shoulder.

She stood over the bloody heap of a man. Tears obscured his already fading sight, though even then that damned starkly pale eye nearly glowed in the starlight that seeped through the window at the far side of the room. The candles from the main hall behind her licked light at her edges, but the rest of her remained a silhouette… until her lips parted. Those damned fangs again. Smaller, more pathetic than a true leech’s, and somehow that did not quell the building panic within him. Percival finally let his hand slip from his wound and held it out straight— or as straight as he could manage— as if that would keep the vampiric monster staring down at him at bay. She started to speak, but it was too garbled by his brain. His arm flopped back down onto him and the world blinked out of existence. The last he heard was the rustling of her clothes as she knelt down beside him.