By the third night, Prague had started feeling wrong in ways Seraphina couldn’t properly explain.

Not dangerous exactly.

Cities were always dangerous.

Especially old ones.

Especially cities built on centuries of buried bones, religious guilt, and enough political bloodshed to haunt the groundwater.

No — this felt different.

Unstable.

Like something underneath the streets had begun breathing in its sleep.

She noticed it first in the crowds.

People moved faster after sunset now. Storefronts closed earlier. Tourists disappeared from the Old Town district before midnight instead of lingering near bars and riverwalks.

Even the police scanners sounded tense.

Animal attacks.

Missing persons.

Unidentified assaults near the river.

The Order officially blamed panic.

Seraphina blamed patterns.

She stood alone on the rooftop of an abandoned apartment block overlooking the eastern quarter, one knee resting against wet concrete while binoculars tracked movement three streets below.

Nothing unusual yet.

A drunk couple arguing near a tram stop.

Two teenagers smoking beside a graffiti-covered pharmacy.

An elderly woman walking a tiny white dog despite the rain.

Normal life continuing stubbornly beneath gathering horror.

People were good at that.

Her earpiece crackled softly.

“Still nothing?” Gregor asked.

“Quiet so far.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Seraphina adjusted focus toward a narrow alley behind Saint Agnes Market.

“You sound nervous.”

“I got grabbed by the First Vampire three days ago,” Gregor replied dryly. “I think I’ve earned nervous.”

That almost made her smile.

Almost.

Wind moved through the rooftops hard enough to tug loose strands of pale hair from her braid. She pushed them back impatiently before checking the time.

1:17 AM.

Too quiet.

The Order had intercepted reports of multiple disappearances concentrated around the eastern district over the last forty-eight hours. Small clusters. Fast attacks. Bodies either drained completely or not recovered at all.

At first glance, it sounded like ordinary vampire feeding escalation.

Except ordinary vampires didn’t leave survivors speaking about “screaming things” crawling on walls.

And ordinary vampires definitely didn’t tear through steel apartment doors with their bare hands.

Something else was happening.

A scream suddenly cut through the rain somewhere below.

Female.

Young.

Seraphina moved before the echo finished.

She vaulted from the rooftop edge onto a lower fire escape, boots slamming wet metal hard enough to rattle the staircase beneath her weight. Another scream followed from deeper inside the alley network behind the market district.

People nearby started shouting.

Running.

A delivery truck nearly crashed trying to turn around too fast.

By the time Seraphina hit street level, her silver pistol was already in her hand.

The alley smelled like blood.

Fresh.

Heavy enough to coat the back of her throat.

Halfway down the narrow corridor between buildings, she spotted movement.

At first her brain tried categorizing it as human.

Wrong height.

Wrong posture.

The creature crouched over something on the pavement, shoulders twitching violently as wet tearing sounds echoed against brick walls.

Feeding.

Except no vampire fed like that.

Seraphina slowed instinctively.

The thing turned toward her.

And for one deeply unpleasant second, she understood why survivors had struggled describing them.

Its jaw looked broken.

Not injured — reshaped.

Teeth extending too far beneath split gums, eyes clouded white like infected milk glass. Veins blackened beneath translucent skin while blood dripped steadily from elongated fingers ending in cracked nails sharp enough to resemble claws.

The creature hissed hard enough to spray saliva across the pavement.

Not language.

Not thought.

Pure starvation.

Seraphina fired immediately.

The silver round struck center mass.

Most vampires would’ve dropped.

This thing barely reacted.

It slammed sideways into the alley wall hard enough to crater brick before launching toward her with horrifying speed.

She ducked beneath the impact by instinct alone.

Claws ripped through the sleeve of her coat as she rolled across wet pavement, drew the silver knife from her thigh harness, and drove it upward toward the creature’s throat.

The blade connected.

Black blood exploded across her hand.

The creature shrieked.

Not in pain.

In rage.

Its movements became worse afterward — faster but unstable, like muscles firing without proper control. It lunged again, slamming her backward into a rusted service door hard enough to knock breath from her lungs.

Seraphina brought the knife up barely in time.

Teeth snapped inches from her face.

The smell nearly made her gag.

Rotting blood.

Decay.

Wrongness.

This wasn’t vampirism.

It looked manufactured.

The creature convulsed violently against the blade pressing into its throat, black veins pulsing harder beneath pale skin as though something inside its body kept trying to overwrite itself.

Then another shriek echoed nearby.

Seraphina’s stomach dropped.

Not one.

Several.

Shapes emerged from the far end of the alley.

Four.

No—

five.

All moving wrong.

Too twitchy.

Too hungry.

Her pulse sharpened immediately.

Even trained hunters struggled handling ferals in groups. These things looked worse than feral.

They looked unfinished.

The first creature suddenly slammed her wrist against the wall hard enough to force the knife loose from her grip.

Pain shot up her arm instantly.

The blade clattered across pavement out of reach.

The creature opened its mouth wider.

Far wider than human anatomy should allow.

Seraphina twisted sideways just before its teeth tore into her shoulder instead of her throat.

White-hot pain exploded through her nerves.

She hissed sharply and jammed her pistol directly beneath its jaw before firing twice.

Silver rounds burst through the back of its skull.

The body collapsed instantly.

But the others kept coming.

Too fast.

One vaulted onto the alley wall before launching downward at her from above.

Seraphina shot it midair.

Another hit her from the side hard enough to send both of them crashing through stacked trash bins.

Her injured shoulder screamed in protest.

Somewhere nearby, civilians were still running.

Screaming.

A car alarm started blaring.

The creature clawed toward her face—

Then suddenly stopped.

Not voluntarily.

Its body jerked violently backward across the alley as though yanked by invisible force.

A hand closed around its throat.

Pale fingers.

Black sleeves.

Lucien.

The creature shrieked wildly in his grip, claws thrashing uselessly against his coat.

Lucien looked almost offended by its existence.

“What,” he said quietly, examining the thing with visible disgust, “did they do to you?”

The creature lunged for him.

Lucien tore its head off before the movement finished.

The alley went silent except for distant sirens and Seraphina’s uneven breathing.

Rain continued dripping steadily from fire escapes overhead.

Lucien let the corpse fall beside his boots with detached irritation before finally looking toward her.

His gaze moved immediately to the blood soaking through her coat sleeve.

The expression in his eyes changed slightly.

Sharper now.

Focused.

Seraphina noticed his attention drop toward the wound.

Toward the scent.

His jaw tightened once.

Very briefly.

Then relaxed again.

Interesting.

Even injured and bleeding, she still found herself cataloging him like a threat assessment report.

“You followed me,” she said, breathing harder than she wanted.

Lucien glanced toward the dead creatures surrounding the alley.

“Yes,” he replied. “Good thing too.”

Another distant shriek echoed several streets away.

Lucien’s attention shifted instantly toward the sound.

Annoyance flickered across his face.

Not fear.

Recognition.

“You know what these things are,” Seraphina said.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he crouched beside one of the corpses and pressed two fingers briefly against the creature’s blackened veins.

When he looked back at her, something dangerous had settled behind his eyes.

“These shouldn’t exist.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“No,” Lucien agreed softly. “It’s a warning.”

Seraphina pushed herself upright despite the pain in her shoulder.

“You’re going to need to start giving me actual answers.”

Rainwater slid slowly down Lucien’s throat beneath the open collar of his black coat as he stood again.

For a moment he simply watched her.

Bleeding.

Armed.

Still trying to argue while barely holding herself together.

And despite everything happening around them—

despite the bodies and blood and distant screams—

something about that seemed to affect him more than it should have.

“You’re injured,” he said finally.

“I noticed.”

“That bite needs treatment.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Lucien’s gaze drifted briefly toward the approaching police lights reflecting faint blue across the far end of the street.

Then back to her.

“Yes,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s becoming a problem.”