Chapter 24: Merciful hand of god

“You’re sooo pretty.”

The voice crawled through the corners of my skull, scraping against memories I couldn’t reach.

I’d heard it before—somewhere. The same rasp. The same words. Even this grotesque figure… it was too familiar to ignore.

But if there was one thing I remembered more than the voice or the face, it was the fear that followed.

Run.

Muscle memory kicked in like an engine. I turned and bolted, clutching the bags tight, ignoring how they dragged me back. I couldn’t let them go—couldn’t let anything go. I could hear my pulse thundering in my ears as I sprinted toward the mouth of the alley.

But the entrance was blocked. The thing was already there. I veered sideways, trying to squeeze out of the corner, desperate to get back to the street—to light, to people, to anywhere but here.

Then it moved.

Like wind.

Like something unbound by flesh or reason.

It darted towards me, leaving the towel to flutter down like a dead leaf. In that split second—while it lunged through the air with that wide, broken grin—I saw everything.

The claws reaching out first.

The eyes leaking tears and spit as if the thought of me excited it.

Its face twisted in a frenzy of hunger and madness. Everything in details. And all of it burned into my mind in that single heartbeat before it hit me.

The world cracked.

Its hands slammed over my face, shoving me back until my head struck the wall with a heavy bang.

Pain flashed white—then black.

My legs gave out, air rushing from my lungs.

All I saw was darkness. My consciousness bleeding into nothing.

\---

Francesca’s body hit the wall with a sickening crack before folding onto the ground.

“Oh no…” The thing whimpered, voice trembling through the alley’s silence. It stared at her crumpled figure like a child caught breaking something it loved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Why did you run? Why? Why??!”

It dragged trembling fingers down its own face, tearing at its skin in frustration. The sound was wet and quiet — flesh peeling from flesh. Then, almost tenderly, it crouched and pulled Francesca’s limp body deeper into the shadow, smearing the blood from her head along the cobblestones like a trail it didn’t notice leaving.

“So pretty…” it rasped again, the words thick with longing. Its eyes glistened — joy and envy warring in their depths. “I too will be pretty.”

It smiled, trembling, and unbuckled her shirt. The cold air met her skin, making her body flinch even in unconsciousness. Its hands hovered for a moment, trembling, before touching her — softly, reverently — sliding up from her stomach to her breasts then to her neck. It turned her head aside, studying the slope of her throat.

“I too will be beautiful.”

The creature’s teeth stretched into long, inhuman fangs. Then, with a desperate sound halfway between a sob and a moan, it sank them into her neck.

Her body jerked — a gasp leaving her lips — as he drank. The blood poured into him like divine light. His moans grew low, shaking, obscene. His skin flushed with color; the gray of death melted from his flesh. Torn patches of flesh sealed. Muscles tensed, grew, reshaped. The withered white of his hair bled into dark strands again. He rose from her slowly, lips wet with blood, breathing steady and deep — as if every breath remade him.

He stared at his hands. At his skin. At himself.

Alive. Awaken. Beautiful.

A smile cracked his face. He tilted his head back, spread his arms, and laughed — the laughter of a man seeing god in his own reflection.

When he looked back at Francesca, he saw perfection laid before him. Her face soft, slightly pale from blood loss, her chest rising faintly. Her face, her skin, her boobs, her curves, every line of her, was an offering to him. Just him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. His naked body stirred — hunger twisting with lust — his manhood rising with every breath. He leaned closer, mouth parting over her chest.

Then —

A shadow moved at the mouth of the alley.

He froze. Slowly turned.

Someone was there.

At first, he felt fear — instinctive, primal. But then, he remembered what he was now. Fear was beneath him. Fear was human. He was a god.

He stood, straightening to his full height. His voice came out smooth, deep, and sure of itself. “Are you lost?”

The man at the alley’s edge didn’t answer. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted. The darkness didn’t swallow him — it seemed to bend around him.

“You’re tempting,” he smirked. “But you’re not a girl. So move on, before I change my mind.”

Still nothing. The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe wrong.

Rage sparked through him. “Fine,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “Your loss.”

With one step, he blurred forward — a streak of movement too fast for human sight — reaching for the man’s throat.

But surprisingly, the man’s eyes followed him.

They followed him through the blur.

Impossible. He thought. No human could ever. Unless...

Fuck!

Unless he wasn't human.

The man's hand clamped around his face mid-strike and slammed him into the ground. The earth cracked beneath the impact, sending pain through his skull. Before he could react, the man lifted him — effortlessly — and hurled him back into the alley. His body smashed into the wall, leaving a crater of broken brick.

“Huh?” he gasped, dazed, tasting his own blood. He looked up — and froze.

The man walked toward him with the calm of someone who knew time itself bowed to him. Each step pressed against the air like gravity. His presence filled the narrow space — thick, heavy, suffocating.

"Please. I just turned" he begged, realizing the difference in strength.

His voice came low and quiet, like a verdict already decided.

“Who turned you?”

The creature’s voice broke. “W-wait… I didn’t know you were a—”

“Who.”

“A— a woman... A lady,” he stammered, shaking. “Her name is Ruxandra. She’s rich. Old. She’ll give you anything, please, don’t kill me—”

He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened in recognition — horror — flooded in.

“Wait. It’s you.” His breath hitched. “You’re the one she’s looking for. You’re Lucian.”

His entire body trembled now. He’d heard the stories. The five hundred years old son of the Impaler. The butcher of his own kind. The firstborn of the damned. It all felt like tales to instil fear on immortals to remind them that they weren't eternal. But here it was, glaring at him like the reaper itself.

Lucian’s expression didn’t change. He simply crouched, the faintest flicker of pity in his eyes.

Then he gripped his arms and, with one motion, ripped them clean from their shoulder. Blood spilling across the alley.

"Ahhhh" The scream tore through the alley. “Please! Please, I beg you— I’ll serve you! I’ll do anything! I'm useful. I swear to God I'm very useful”

Lucian looked at him — not with anger, but something colder. A quiet disdain That was too much for one person. Yes. His entire being hated his own kind. And pity for the humans who wished to be like them.

And then, with a single swipe, the head came clean off. Rolling on the ground like a ball. The body slumped, twitching once before going still.

Lucian stood there — silent. Blood dripped from his hand. Francesca lay nearby, her chest faintly rising. Her shirt torn, skin exposed to the cold night. The wound on her neck glistened with fresh crimson.

And the scent hit him.

The stench of Iron and sweetness.

His pupils dilated. His throat tightened. His fangs slowly pushed through his gums.

The hunger and the devil he'd just pushed in forcing itself out once more.

He stared at her. Her pulse faint beneath her skin. The blood called to him. It called his name with whisper inside him that said,

just one taste.

Just...

One.