Mary’s choice for the meeting room had been unexpectedly brilliant. With its high windows and a single, easily defensible entrance, it was practically a makeshift cage. Efficient. Clean. Almost elegant — at least in theory. I could have simply blocked the exit and let Arthur feast uninterrupted, but I wanted some fun. A little chaos to scatter the herd before the real hunt began.

  So, I took the stage.

  With a sharp bite into my palm, I sprayed arcs of blood at the maids who tried to flee past me, each drop a curse, a tracking beacon, a death sentence. My blood would cling to them, screaming their location to Arthur’s senses. The guards — foolish, desperate — met sharper resistance. I made quick work of each one who dared step forward, my daggers slipping between ribs and into soft throats with mechanical efficiency.

  Arthur, meanwhile, tore through the center of the room, his pale face already stained red, jaws wide, his snarls echoing over the screaming. He was a blur of motion, springing from one victim to the next, clawing and biting like the rabid monster I had crafted him into. He had trouble when cornered by guards who stood their ground, but even then, his raw power won out. They were humans. He was not.

  But even bloodshed grows dull when it becomes routine.

  I left the door, shut it behind me with a click, and waded into the mess myself. The violence was swift and indulgent — I may have gone a touch overboard, painting even the ceiling red with streaks of blood. When it ended, the room was strewn with motionless bodies, and what remained barely qualified as prey. Pity. I had wanted more to play with.

  “Arthur, gotta catch them all,” I muttered under my breath with a smirk, and just like I hoped, he bolted through the exit like a hound loosed from its chain, painted head to toe in crimson. He would follow my scent, embedded in every drop of blood I had flung. With any luck, I’d never see him again. A bittersweet relief. He’d been useful — loyal in his own toothy way — but exhausting. The feeding, the tracking, the growling. I was ready for my life to belong to me again.

  “I’m sorry you had to see this,” I said quietly to Mary as I walked beside her, leading her away from the carnage.

  Her voice cut through me, sharper than any blade. “Are you?”

  I blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t yelling. There was no accusation in her tone, only disbelief. Her eyes, though — they held nothing short of horror. Not fear. Not sadness. Horror.

  It was as though she were seeing me for the first time — and hating what she saw.

  That stung.

  I tried to explain, tried to justify. “Mary … this had to be done. We talked through the plan, remember? I included you. In the kitchen. Voted on it, even. Two out of three thought it was the best course of action.” I gave her a nervous, almost hopeful smile. “Democracy.”

  She didn’t smile back. Not even a twitch of the lips.

  “Mary, I know this isn’t your world. I’ve tried to respect that. But this — this was the minimum necessary violence. If even one of them escaped, they’d talk. I’d be dead.” I reached out, took her hand gently in mine, looking her in the eye, hoping something human would show through all the blood. “It wasn’t personal.”

  She let me hold her hand for just a second. Then she pulled away.

  “You could have found another way,” she said, and turned from me.

  I didn’t follow. I knew that expression. The stubborn tilt of her head, the distance in her shoulders. I could’ve said more — maybe should’ve — but none of it would matter. And worse: she was right. There were other ways. Riskier, messier, maybe — but possible. I had chosen the most efficient one, the safest one for me.

  “Mum!” I called, the word catching in my throat just as she reached the door.

  She stopped, her hand on the handle. A pause. One second. Two.

  She turned, slowly.

  “What?”

  “I…” The words fled before they fully formed. “Just … give me a chance.”

  It sounded so small, so pitiful, even to my own ears. I shifted from foot to foot, unable to stay still under the weight of her gaze.

  She looked at me — and not through me, but into me. And what she saw made her lips curl with bitter finality.

  “You already had yours.”

  She left quietly, shutting the door with a hollow click.

  The silence left behind was deafening.

  This hadn’t gone the way I planned — not at all.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, already halfway down the hall. The door slammed behind me, echoing through the mansion’s skeleton like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The foyer was a mess — streaks of blood smeared across the tall windows like abstract art, catching the dying light and casting eerie red patterns on the floor. It smelled alive — sharp and coppery and primal. It called to me like a song, coaxing out instincts I had worked so hard to suppress.

  But I ignored it. I didn’t have time for bloodlust. Not now.

  Outside, Arthur was still on the prowl — a mindless, loyal beast following my scent trail like a bloodhound. I spotted him mid-lunge, halfway through tearing into one of the surviving maids who had made it farther than she should have. I didn’t hesitate and ran to him as fast as I could. My fist met his stomach with a heavy thump, and he doubled over, wheezing like a deflated bagpipe.

  It felt good. Not morally, not ethically, but viscerally. Like slamming a door shut on the screaming in my own head.

  Still, even with Arthur coughing blood and twitching at my feet, the bitter taste of my talk with Mary clung to the back of my throat.

  Why couldn’t she just trust me?

  I had done everything right — or at least as right as someone like me could. I’d never threatened her more than strictly necessary. I hadn’t hit her with a baking tray even once, which, frankly, showed a remarkable level of restraint. I baked her cookies. Cookies. How many murderers make cookies for the people they want to get along with?

  Was I really that unlikable?

  With a growl, I grabbed Arthur by the neck and slammed his head into the ground. He groaned — or maybe it was a laugh, it was always hard to tell with him — and so I did it again. And again. Until the dirt was wet beneath his face and my knuckles stung with satisfaction. I gave him one last kick to the ribs and stomped away, cheeks puffed out, rage still humming just below my skin.

  Bashing someone’s face in usually helped. Today, it didn’t fix anything.

  So I pivoted to the next task on my list.

  The mansion was old. Classy. Fire-hazard levels of wooden elegance — lucky for me. I found the family’s stash of oils and other flammable substances tucked neatly beneath a servant’s stairwell, like they were just waiting for someone to misuse them. I spread the materials across the ground floor with practiced ease. By the end, the place reeked of quiet ruin. One spark and it would all go up in flames.

  Clean. Final.

  With everything set, I waited.

  Eventually, Mary came down from the upper floor, her steps cautious, her gaze unreadable. We didn’t say a word. The silence between us stretched out like a tightrope, and I wasn’t sure who would fall first. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I didn’t push her to. Not yet.

  But after a few minutes, the silence started scraping at my nerves. I needed noise — needed anything that wasn’t the weight of her judgment. So I started humming. Softly at first, just a tune Aska used to sing when he was pretending the world was okay. It wasn’t much — just something to fill the air.

  An hour passed. I got through half a dozen tunes before Mary finally snapped.

  “Could you please stop?”

  I stopped immediately, almost startled by how harsh her voice sounded. “Uhm … why?” I asked, blinking. Was I too loud?

  She looked at me, and for the first time in a while, she really looked. “You’re not supposed to like music,” she said flatly. “And you’re definitely not supposed to look … almost normal.”

  That took me aback. Not the words, necessarily — I’d heard worse — but the truth behind them. It was the second time today someone had told me I was wrong for baking or humming or existing in a way that didn’t match their expectations.

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  Funny. They were fine with me doing drugs. Murdering. Burning down mansions. But sing a song? Make a cookie? Suddenly I was the monster.

  “Am I allowed to like knitting?” I asked after a beat, eyebrows raised.

  “No,” she said without hesitation, dead serious. “Definitely not.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, though it was a dry, hollow sound. “Shame. I’m pretty good at it. I made the best socks.”

  “Of course you did.” She crossed her arms.

  “How about cooking?” I pressed on, smiling thinly. I didn’t need food anymore, not really, but I liked the process — the slicing, the timing, the alchemy of flavors. It was control in its purest form.

  “No.”

  A simple rejection. Again.

  “Why?”

  “Because of things like this.” She jabbed a finger toward the window, where I had painted a smiley face in blood. It was a charming little thing — round eyes, a crooked grin, and even a few hairs drawn with dramatic flair. Art, really. Not that she appreciated it.

  “No evil person draws that and then goes off to knit a scarf,” she snapped. “You’re a mass murderer. You are—”

  “Stop.”

  The word cut sharper than a blade, and her mouth clamped shut.

  “You really think I’m that shallow?” I stepped forward. “That I exist only to bathe in blood and chaos? Is that how little you see me?” I let the silence stretch. “I expected more from you.”

  “Tom said you’re pure evil,” she muttered, arms crossed, defiant but unsteady. “And I don’t see a reason to doubt him.”

  I laughed — a hollow, brittle sound. “And so, what? Because some idiot told you I’m evil, I’m not allowed to sing? Or cook?” I leaned in just a little. “You hate the parts of me that make your labels inconvenient. That’s what this is. It’s not about what I’ve done — it’s about the fact that it doesn’t line up with your neat little worldview.”

  She flinched as I stared at her, my voice cold as frost. “You want me to play the part of the monster. Because if I don’t, then you have to think. And gods forbid you feel something complicated.”

  “Is that what you want for me?” I continued, my tone low, biting. “To be shoved into a role I didn’t choose? Just like you were, back when they forced you to marry Arthur? Should I butcher and roar so you can rest easy in your two-dimensional world of black and white?” I tilted my head. “Don’t get me wrong — I am the most evil person you’ve ever met. But even I have hobbies that don’t involve rivers of blood.”

  Her lips parted, maybe to argue, maybe to apologize — but wisely, she stayed silent.

  I turned away and dipped my finger into a fresh smear of red, painting another smiley on the wall beside the others. At least that little ritual still unsettled her. Sometimes simplicity was the most effective tool.

  Several long hours passed in a thick, acrid silence. Then Mary broke it.

  “They’re coming,” she said, her voice hoarse. She pointed to the window.

  Outside, in the moonlit distance, I could see them: villagers, dozens of them, armed with pitchforks and torches. A mob dressed in fear and desperation. They wouldn’t stand a chance against Arthur — not like this — but I had to admit, Tom had done well riling them up and stalling them until just before dawn.

  Arthur stood in the front yard, still, reverent, like a knight waiting for divine judgment. It was almost poetic.

  I took a candle from the wall. “Let’s go,” I said, and touched the flame to a curtain.

  It caught instantly.

  I moved with purpose, lighting fabric after fabric, wood after wood, setting the house ablaze like a conductor leading an orchestra of fire. Smoke curled thick around us. Mary was coughing, eyes watering. I nudged her toward the weapons chamber, and she didn’t argue.

  The fire was climbing fast. As the stairs behind me began to glow orange and hiss with heat, I realized something inconvenient.

  I had no idea where the damned basement stairs were.

  Luckily, Mary found the weapons chamber quickly.

  Soon, the heavy iron door swung shut with a satisfying clunk, sealing us off from the inferno above. I took a few old rags and stuffed them in the cracks around the frame, doing what I could to keep the smoke at bay.

  For a moment, there was quiet. Just the distant roar of the fire. Just the two of us.

  Trapped. But alive.

  “Puff…” I sighed, feeling the tether to Arthur snap with finality. The thread between us, once taut and unbreakable, dissolved into nothing. He was gone for good—killed, most likely, by a mob emboldened by the rising sun. I could only hope it was Tom who struck the final blow before daylight. Otherwise, explaining why Arthur didn’t go up in flames and instead just took a cozy nap in front of his enemies would be… difficult … if that would have happened. But I didn’t know, so I didn’t want to take chances.

  “Arthur is dead,” I said, my voice quieter than expected.

  “I see,” Mary murmured after a pause. Then: “Why did you hug me yesterday?”

  The question caught me off guard. I raised an eyebrow and gave her the cold stare I’d perfected over centuries. Still, I answered.

  “I wanted to see how it feels.”

  She blinked, clearly not expecting honesty. “And?”

  I didn’t respond. Telling her the truth would mean unravelling more than I cared to. Instead, I stood, walked across the chamber, and sat down with my back to the opposite wall. No more answers for questions she didn’t really want answered.

  “I’m sorry, Lucinda,” she said suddenly. “You can bake cookies if you really want to. I’ll even help you… Just don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

  The sincerity in her voice wasn’t forced. She meant every word. It surprised me. Touched me, even, though she likely didn’t expect that. Cookies were tempting, after all.

  My signature smile curled back onto my lips, softening my eyes as I brushed the earlier coldness away like ash off a tablecloth.

  “Where does this change of heart come from?” I asked, amused.

  “You can’t really murder anyone while you’re baking,” she said flatly. “Or at least not as much as you usually do.”

  That made me laugh — truly, loudly, and from the belly. I had to hold my stomach, shaking with amusement. Only Mary would try to reduce a centuries-old bloodlust with baking trays and an apron. And it was… charming.

  “I’ll do anything to stop you from killing, Lucinda,” she added softly.

  I wiped a tear from my eye and rose with theatrical grace. “Lucy,” I corrected as I curtsied elegantly.

  “Lucy?” Mary echoed, confused.

  “Lucinda is… a dangerous name. One that will be connected to an unspeakable amount of bloodshed.” I said with a wink. “Lucy White, however, is just a noble girl from a reputable family who donates to charity and enjoys embroidery, cooking, and—ugh—tea parties. Scratch the tea parties; I’d stab someone halfway through the second spoonful of sugar.”

  Mary smiled in spite of herself.

  “With the right outfit, I might pass for thirteen,” I continued thoughtfully. “I’ll need to hide the fangs, obviously. And I hate wearing pink, but sacrifices must be made.”

  “You don’t have to change your name,” Mary said, frowning slightly.

  I could guess why — her past, the idea of discarding one's identity, even if it was stained with blood. But Lucinda wasn’t just a name for me anymore. It was a legacy I couldn’t drag into this next act, not if I wanted it to succeed. If I really did this — became Lucy White — there would be far worse sacrifices than my name. Like giving up the joy of flinging a pan at Tom in broad daylight.

  “Oh, no,” I replied with a playful grin. “I can’t go tarnishing the good name of the White family by parading around as a known murderer, can I? I made you a promise. And besides, Lucy is an exceptional name. You can even call me Lu…”

  The grin faded. Sadness wrapped around me like a cold shroud, and I sat down again, closing my eyes.

  Lu.

  Her name. Her smile. Her last breath.

  I had avenged her death — burned through blood and fire to do so — but somehow the grief didn’t fade. It only returned in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes like a carriage crashing into my ribs.

  But I didn’t cry. I never did. I held it back with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

  “Lucinda… Lucy…” Mary said softly.

  “You can call me whatever you like,” I told her. “As long as outsiders aren’t around.”

  She nodded slowly. “Lucinda… how was the hug?”

  I smiled despite myself. She was starting to see me — not as a monster to categorize, but as someone complex, someone in mourning. I found myself liking her more with every hour. Not out of a desire to manipulate her, not even out of curiosity. I just wanted to be near her. To watch her unfold on her own terms.

  “Repeatable,” I said.

  A bitter smile touched her lips, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she waited patiently as I scooted across the floor, closing the space between us. I wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and she let me lean against her. Her warmth radiated through me.

  There were no ulterior motives this time. No manipulation. No debt to collect. Just closeness. Just… comfort.

  And it was enough.