Chapter 1- part 2
Mara’s free hand was already moving, years of training kicking in. She yanked the knife from its sheath and drove it into his side, silver biting deep. He hissed, a sound more animal than man, dark blood spilling over her fingers, thick and sluggish. His hold faltered, just enough, and she twisted, slamming her knee into his gut. He staggered, and she broke free, rolling across the concrete for her gun. He was faster, kicking it into the shadows with a clatter, and they faced off, circling like wolves, her panting, him bleeding but unbowed.
“You’re a stubborn one,” he said, pressing a hand to his side, blood seeping through his fingers. His smirk was gone, replaced by a flicker of respect—or maybe curiosity. “Most would’ve run.”
“Most don’t know what you are.” She wiped her blade on her jeans, keeping it between them, her arm throbbing where his grip had bruised her. “I do.”
“Do you?” He stepped closer, and she mirrored him, the dance tightening. “Then you know silver won’t kill me. Not quick, anyway.”
“Doesn’t have to.” She lunged, feinting left, then slashing right, aiming for his throat. He caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting her arm behind her, and she grunted, dropping the knife to elbow him in the jaw. He released her, and they sprang apart, breathing hard, the air electric with violence.
She saw it then—the weariness in him, a shadow deeper than the garage’s gloom. He wasn’t just a predator; he was hunted too, carrying centuries of ghosts she couldn’t name. It didn’t matter. Her brother’s face flashed in her mind—Jake, laughing over a beer, gone five years now to a “random attack” she’d never solved. She’d sworn to bury every monster she found, and Silas Varkis was next.
Suddenly the window exploded.
Glass sprayed like shrapnel, glittering in the bulb’s weak light, and three figures in black robes burst through, faces hidden under hoods. Mara ducked as a blade whistled past her head, embedding in the wall with a thunk. Silas snarled—actually snarled, a sound that rattled her bones—and tackled one, ripping its throat out with his bare hands. Blood sprayed, dark and arterial, painting the floor, and Mara didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a wrench from a nearby bench and swung, cracking it against another’s skull. The cultist dropped, hood falling back to reveal a gaunt face, eyes wide with fanatic zeal.
The third came for her, a dagger flashing, and she dodged, but not fast enough—pain seared her arm as the blade sliced through her jacket, drawing a hot line of blood. She stumbled, cursing, and then Silas was there, yanking the attacker back by the neck. A sickening crunch, and the body went limp, crumpling to the floor. Silence fell, sudden and heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing and the drip of blood—his, hers, theirs.
Mara pressed a hand to her arm, blood soaking her sleeve, and leveled her knife at him, chest heaving. “What the hell was that?”
Silas wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locked on hers, stormy and
unyielding. “Cultists. Been hunting me for weeks. Looks like they found you instead.”
“Cultists?” She laughed, sharp and bitter, though her head spun from the fight—or maybe the blood loss. “You expect me to buy that?”
“Believe what you want.” He stepped closer, and she tensed, but he only tore a strip from his ruined shirt and pressed it to her wound, his fingers cool against her fevered skin. “You’re bleeding. They’ll smell it.”
She jerked away, ignoring the jolt that shot through her at his touch—anger, adrenaline, something she refused to name. “I don’t need your help, fang-face.” she spat.
“You do if you want to live.” He nodded at the bodies, their robes pooling like ink on the floor. “These are scouts. More are coming.”
Mara glared, her mind racing. He was the target, the monster she’d come to kill, the payout she needed to keep running from her past. But those attackers hadn’t cared about her—they’d aimed for him first, and he’d fought them off when he could’ve let her die. Her brother’s ghost whispered in her ear—justice, Mara—but survival screamed louder. She lowered the knife, just an inch.
“Fine,” she spat, the word tasting like ash. “Truce. For now. But you try anything, and I’ll finish what I started.”
Silas smirked, fangs glinting in the flickering light, a predator sizing her up. “Deal. Let’s move, hunter.”
They stepped into the night, the desert wind howling around them, carrying the faint scent of smoke and death. Mara’s boots crunched beside his, her arm throbbing, her mind a tangle of distrust and grudging respect. She’d come to bury a monster, but now she was running with one—and the worst part was, she wasn’t sure she minded.