Jaenor stood in the middle of the highway with four vampire corpses around him, his borrowed shirt torn and splattered with blood that wasn’t his, his dark eyes sweeping across the assembled predators with calm assessnt.
One figure stepped forward from the pack.
Taller than the others, moving with authority that suggested leadership. He wore better clothing—black but tailored, expensive. His face was fully visible now, no longer hidden in shadow. Handso in a severe way, with sharp features and eyes that held centuries of experience.
He looked at Jaenor.
Then at the bodies.
Then back at Jaenor.
"Interesting," it said. His voice was cultured and educated, carrying an accent that Martha couldn’t place.
He pulled a phone from his jacket and dialed a number on his phone and then put it to his ear.
"We have a complication," he said into the phone.
"Yes, on Highway Seven. He seems—"
Jaenor moved.
One mont he was standing twenty feet away. Then the next minute, his fist was buried in the vampire leader’s chest.
The phone clattered to the pavent. The vampire’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a soundless expression of shock. He looked down at the arm embedded in its torso, then up at Jaenor’s face.
Jaenor’s expression was completely neutral.
He pulled his hand free and ca along with his heart in his palm.
The vampire leader collapsed, his expensive clothing soaking with blood that was darker than human blood and thicker.
Jaenor dropped the heart and looked at the assembled vampire.
They all stared at him, confused and scared, and then they moved.
With inhuman speed they fled, abandoning their captured victims, disappearing into the darkness beyond the highway barrier. Within seconds, the only vampires remaining were the corpses.
Silence fell across the highway.
Shocked, traumatized silence. People were climbing back into their vehicles or standing frozen beside them, trying to process what they’d just witnessed. So were injured. So were helping others who were injured. The particular organized chaos of a crisis where nobody was quite sure if the danger had passed.
Jaenor walked back to Martha’s car.
Dane was pulling himself to his feet, leaning against the vehicle for support. Sofia stood with her knife still in her hand, staring at Jaenor with an expression that contained too many emotions to parse individually.
Martha sat in the driver’s seat with both hands gripped on the steering wheel, her face pale but composed.
Jaenor opened the back door and slid into his seat as if nothing had happened.
"We should leave," he said quietly.
"Before authorities arrive."
"Ah! Yes, we should leave."
Martha was startled but managed to talk.
Her hands moved on the wheel.
The car started. She navigated around the abandoned vehicles, found an opening in the chaos, and continued toward the Silverwood exit.
The car was damaged, but it still worked.
Nobody spoke.
The highway fell away behind them.
The city rose ahead.
Normal lights, normal streets, normal evening activity.
Dane’s hands were shaking as he stared at Jaenor. Sofia kept touching the knife at her belt, reassuring herself it was still there. Martha drove with straight face, glancing at Jaenor once in a while.
They all had a single thought in their mind: just who was Jaenor and how was he able to kill those n without even getting injured?
anwhile, Jaenor watched the city through the window as if he hadn’t killed anyone.
They reached Silverwood Heights twenty minutes later. The pristine streets, the manicured lawns, the houses that spoke of wealth and stability, and a world that functioned according to established rules.
Martha pulled into their driveway and turned off the engine.
Still nobody spoke.
Finally, Martha turned in her seat and looked at Jaenor.
"You killed them," she said. Her voice was even, stating facts rather than making accusations.
"Yes."
"To protect us."
"Yes."
Martha held his gaze for a long mont.
Then she nodded once and opened her door.
*
Jaenor went directly to his room.
He could hear the others in the living room below. Hushed, urgent conversation.
Kate’s voice joined in with concern. She had co ho, seen the state of the car, and rushed to see Martha. Questions about what happened.
He just let them be and let them deal with their thoughts, and he would be ready to talk when they wanted to talk.
He stripped off the torn shirt and examined the damage. Splattered blood across the fabric, so tears from vampire claws that had gotten closer than he’d have preferred. Nothing on his skin, though, not a scratch.
He showered. Long and hot, washing away the blood and the highway gri and the particular feeling that killing always left, even when it was necessary. Even when they’d been predators hunting humans like livestock.
Especially then.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to the balcony, leaving wet footprints across the carpet.
The cigarettes were still there, tucked behind the outdoor chair where he’d hidden them after Martha’s earlier confiscation. He lit one and stood at the railing, looking out at the silver birch trees with their leaves moving in the evening breeze.
Three hundred years.
The vampires, he had t one of them in the shore city back then; he couldn’t recall her na, but she said they would et again, but he hadn’t seen her again. It was a brief eting, but he still rembered talking to her. He wondered if she was alive.
Vampires were out in the open, hunting humans like this during his ti, but now they operated openly enough to attack people on a major highway during evening commutes. That suggested either a dramatic change in vampire population or a dramatic change in Council control.
Either way, it was one more thing wrong with this world.
One more crack in the foundation.
He was still standing there when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Martha.
Her particular pattern, slightly distracted, carrying sothing.
The door opened without knocking. She entered with a plate in her hands, saw him on the balcony, and stopped.
"You didn’t co down for dinner."
"Wasn’t hungry."
"I don’t care. You’re eating anyway."
She walked to the balcony and set the plate on the small side table.
Then she saw the cigarette, and her expression shifted.
"Really? After everything I said?"
"It helps think."
"Thinking doesn’t require slowly killing your lungs."
"It doesn’t affect ," he said.
"I won’t just die from a few leaves."
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