Angels And Demons

While Francine, Hunter, and Deb were at the library, Jessie and Carl stopped by the diner. Sandra had come to Francine’s apartment, and they left Heidi with her. Between the protective charms Francine had placed around the apartment and Mrs. Roberts’ extra spell, Robbie had been driven away. For now.

The parking lot was nearly empty. Mid-afternoon sun spilled across the cracked pavement, too bright, too ordinary.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Jessie said as she unlocked the door. “I can’t afford not to open the diner.”

The bell above the door gave a thin jingle as they stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and disinfectant. Everything looked untouched.

“I’m not sure this is the best idea,” Carl said, scanning the room. “Whatever that thing is wearing your husband’s face might be back. But I wasn’t about to let you come here alone.”

“He doesn’t seem to come around during the day,” Jessie said. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty space. “It’s usually at night. Or close to night.”

As if in answer, one of the ceiling lights flickered.

Just once.

Carl’s gaze lifted.

Daylight streamed through the windows, warm and steady. But the shadows between the booths seemed deeper than they should have been.

And the bell above the door gave a soft, metallic sway.

Though no one had touched it.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Carl said uneasily.

“He’s never come during the day like this,” Jessie said.

The lights flickered again.

Twice.

Not dimming.

Brightening.

The hum of electricity sharpened, then steadied.

“Well,” Carl said slowly, something changing in his expression, “something is here.”

The air shifted.

Not colder.

Heavier.

Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

The bell above the door did not jingle this time.

It rang.

Clear.

Pure.

The diner door opened.

Sunlight flooded inward, brighter than it had any right to be.

A man stepped inside.

Not Robbie.

Not wearing Robbie’s face.

He looked ordinary at first glance. Early twenties. Dark hair. Simple clothes. But the light seemed reluctant to leave him. It clung to his shoulders. Gathered at the edges of his form.

Carl’s breath caught.

“Joseph,” he said quietly.

The man’s eyes found his.

Ancient. Steady. Knowing.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to call me,” Joseph replied.

The lights stopped flickering.

The shadows between the booths retreated.

And for the first time since they had stepped inside, Carl did not feel hunted.

***

Francine stepped into her apartment and immediately knew something was wrong. Sandra was there, as well as Heidi, but Carl and Jessie were gone.

“I can’t believe they left,” Francine fumed. “There are protection charms here. There’s nothing at her diner.”

Sandra sat at the kitchen table, her face set and determined. “They made the decision to leave.”

“That thing may go after them there.”

“They are safe,” Heidi said quietly.

Francine turned to her. “Safe?”

“It isn’t Mommy he wants,” Heidi continued, her small hands twisting in her lap. “It’s me. He goes wherever I am.”

A chill slid through the room.

“Well, that’s not reassuring,” Francine muttered.

Just then, a scratching sound traced lightly across the front door.

Slow.

Deliberate.

As if something on the other side already knew exactly where Heidi was sitting.

“He’s back,” Deb said. “What do we do now? We don’t have Mrs. Roberts here to chase him away.”

“The wards are holding,” Francine said, though she could feel the strain humming beneath her skin. “He can’t come in. If he could, he would have already. We wait him out.”

Another slow scrape drifted across the door.

Sandra’s eyes did not leave it. Hunter took a step towards it, showing a willingness to fight, if need be and then stopped.

“And if he figures out how to break them?” she asked quietly. “I should have known better than to come here. I never should have agreed to watch the child. I only came to try and talk some sense into you. Or at least into Hunter. Messing with this demon, getting involved in something that is not ours, is a mistake.”

The scratching stopped.

Silence pressed in.

“A deadly one,” Sandra finished.

Francine stared at her. “What is your problem, Sandra? This isn’t like you. You don’t turn your back on someone in need. You have never put your own safety above someone else. Ever.”

Sandra’s jaw tightened.

“You assume this is about my safety,” she said.

Another soft turn of the handle.

Careful.

Testing.

Heidi flinched.

Francine stepped closer to Sandra, lowering her voice. “Then what is it about?”

For the first time, something flickered in Sandra’s expression.

Not fear.

Recognition.

As if she knew exactly what was outside that door.

And exactly what it was capable of.

“You know what this is,” Francine said.

Sandra’s gaze remained fixed on the door. “I think so.”

She shuddered once, then spoke a single name. A name Francine had already heard today.

“Azravael.”

Hunter’s head snapped toward her. “How do you know about Azravael?”

Sandra did not hesitate.

“Because I summoned him,” she said. “After Kira was killed. I was desperate. I thought…” Her voice faltered only slightly. “I thought there had to be a way to bring her back. But when he told me the cost, I sent him away.”

Francine felt the pieces sliding into place.

“He didn’t go,” she guessed.

“I believed he had,” Sandra said. “At first. But I had already released him into this world. He was never bound properly. He simply… stayed. And when I would not give him what he wanted, he found someone else.”

Another slow scrape dragged across the door.

Hunter’s voice dropped. “When did you realize he was still here?”

“When Francine began having her dreams,” Sandra said. “I recognized him in her descriptions. Not the way he looked,” she clarified. “He had taken Robbie’s body.”

Her eyes darkened.

“It was his behavior. The patience. The manipulation. The obsession with blood and resurrection. That is Azravael.”

The handle turned again.

Slow.

Deliberate.

As if amused that his name had finally been spoken aloud.

A Wrong Turn Home

A Wrong Turn Home

by Lisa McCourt Hollar

Jessie and Larry had been driving around for some time, arguing. It had not started out that way. It was just supposed to be a nice Sunday drive. That was all. A nice drive, a couple of hours away from the city, and a picnic.

But the paved road had thinned into gravel, and the gravel into dirt, and the dirt into something that barely qualified as a road at all. Trees crowded closer on either side, their branches knitting together overhead until the sunlight filtered down in weak, dusty shafts. The air through the open windows smelled green and damp, like leaves rotting under still water.

Somehow, they had gotten lost. Deep in the sticks.

Jessie honestly did not mind it. To her, it felt like the beginning of a story.

Larry, on the other hand, was gripping the door so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“I don’t understand what your problem is,” Jessie said, for what was probably the hundredth time. “It’s not like we’ll never find our way back to civilization. The GPS will pick us back up somewhere, or we’ll come across a gas station.”

“Unless we drive off the road and die,” Larry muttered.

She took a sharp curve, tires crunching loose gravel. On Larry’s side, the land dropped away abruptly into a ravine thick with trees. For a moment the car tilted slightly, and Larry sucked in a breath, imagining the metal screaming as it rolled, glass exploding, the long tumble down into green darkness where no one would hear them.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird let out a long, wavering call that did not sound quite right.

“We both have our IDs on us. Mystery solved.” Jessie chuckled.

Larry did not.

She checked her phone again. No signal. The GPS map showed a pale grid and a blinking blue dot suspended in nothing. The last instruction it had given, turn left, had led them onto a stone road. Then dirt. Then ruts. Now the path ahead looked like something carved by livestock and rainwater.

Maybe they should turn back.

But the trees behind them looked identical to the trees ahead.

Putting her phone down, she continued forward.

They had plenty of gas.

Eventually, they would find their way back.

She rounded another bend and stopped.

The road split in two.

Both forks looked equally used. Or equally abandoned. The left dipped downward into thicker trees. The right curved uphill, disappearing behind a wall of brush.

Left or right?

“You know,” Jessie said lightly, “I’ve seen this movie before.”

“That’s not funny,” Larry said, jaw tight.

“Yes, it is.” She turned left.

The car rolled downhill, suspension groaning. The woods grew quieter the farther they went. No birds now. No insects. Even the wind seemed reluctant to move.

“Seriously,” she said. “You don’t think this is fun? Not even a little? Look at it. Fresh air. No pollution. You can hear yourself think.”

“That’s the problem,” Larry said. “It’s too quiet. And the roads are not right.”

Not right.

Jessie glanced at him. “I grew up around here, somewhere. Well, until I was seven anyway. My mom and I moved away. I’m not even sure where exactly. We never came back. Her family was…”

“Banjo-playing inbreds?”

“Something like that.” She smiled faintly. “I have good memories though. My cousins and I used to go hunting. They showed me how to clean what we caught.” She paused. “My mom didn’t like that.”

The road widened slightly, but deep potholes pocked the dirt, filled with opaque brown water that reflected nothing.

“Look,” Larry said.

Ahead, metal glinted through the trees.

A junkyard.

Jessie pulled into the lot.

The cars did not just sit. They sagged. Doors hung open like broken jaws. Wind pushed lazily through the maze of rusted frames, and somewhere a loose sheet of metal clanged at uneven intervals. The sound echoed longer than it should have.

The smell hit her as she stepped out.

Not just oil and old rubber.

Something sweet underneath it. Thick. Rotting.

Larry stood beside her, turning slowly. “Most of these have been here for years.”

Rust bloomed across hoods and doors in deep orange scabs. Tires had collapsed into themselves. Weeds forced their way through cracked windshields and engine blocks.

Off to one side sat a newer truck with Bradley Electric painted on the door. Its white paint was dulled with dust, but it looked recent. Tires were stacked neatly beside it.

Jessie’s gaze shifted to a faded red tow truck. The lettering on the side had mostly peeled away, but Luke Brothers Towing was still barely readable. Hitched to it was a brown station wagon.

The wagon’s driver-side door stood open.

“Looks like someone’s here,” Jessie said.

The office door creaked when she pushed it open.

Inside, the air was heavier. Warmer.

Dust lay thick across the counter, but something had disturbed it recently. A handprint smeared through the gray film. The floor felt tacky under her shoes.

The smell wrapped around her throat.

Sweet. Metallic. Damp.

Music drifted from somewhere deeper in the building. An old tune, tinny and distorted, warbling through weak speakers.

“Is there a bell?” Larry asked quietly.

“I don’t see one.”

Jessie sifted through papers. Bills. Envelopes. One from Bradley Electric stamped in red: FINAL NOTICE.

A fly buzzed past her ear and landed on the wall.

She followed it with her eyes.

Something dark streaked the paint beside the doorway. At first it looked like spilled oil.

Then she saw the drag marks.

Five thin lines curved downward through the drying brown-red smear, as though someone had been pulled and had tried desperately to hold on.

Near the floor, the baseboard was gouged. Small crescent shapes clustered in one spot.

Fingernails.

“Jessie…” Larry’s voice was tight. “Maybe we should go.”

“You aren’t scared, are you?”

He did not answer.

She moved into the hallway.

The smell thickened immediately.

It was blood, sharp and coppery, layered over something older and sweeter, like meat left too long in heat. The air felt wrong against her skin. Humid. Close.

The music grew louder.

Underneath it, she heard it.

Sobbing.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Thin. Exhausted. Wet.

Jessie glanced back.

Larry had stopped at an open doorway, peering inside.

“Larry,” she hissed, nodding toward the end of the hall.

He gestured into the room instead and stepped inside.

Idiot.

Everyone knew you stuck together in a horror movie.

But this was not a movie.

This was real.

All she had were a few drops of blood. Some claw marks. A smell she could not quite place but that stirred something faint and old inside her memory.

And Larry was a big man.

He could handle himself.

She reached the final door and pushed it open.

The room was too bright.

A single industrial lamp hung low over a metal table, humming faintly. Its light pooled harsh and white over the figure lying there.

The woman was not just covered in blood.

She was opened.

Leather belts strapped her wrists and ankles to the table. One wrist had twisted half-free, skin torn raw where she had fought against the restraint. Blood slicked the metal surface and dripped steadily to the concrete floor below, each drop landing with a soft, patient tap.

Her abdomen had been cut with careful precision. Not wild. Not chaotic.

Deliberate.

Her chest rose in shallow, shuddering breaths that rattled wetly in her throat. Her lips moved, trying to form words, but only a thin, airless rasp escaped.

Her eyes locked onto Jessie.

Wide.

White.

Not pleading.

Warning.

The man stood with his back to her, sleeves of his work shirt rolled neatly to the elbow. His hands were steady. Clean across the palms. Dark in the creases of his knuckles. He held a scalpel between his fingers like someone accustomed to delicate work.

He had not noticed Jessie yet.

The woman had.

Something about the smell, the blood, the heat, the iron in the air, felt strangely familiar. Jessie waited for nausea.

It did not come.

That surprised her more than anything.

She stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.

“Well,” she said softly, “that’s interesting.”

The man turned.

He did not startle.

He did not frown.

He smiled.

Slowly.

Not surprised. Not alarmed.

Just pleased.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on a stained rag, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the way home.”

Jessie smiled.

“I did,” she said. “For a while.”

Another wet rattle escaped the woman on the table. The lamp hummed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, the music skipped and crackled.

Jessie inhaled slowly.

The smell no longer felt foreign. It felt familiar. Like summer heat. Like iron. Like childhood.

“But sometimes,” she continued softly, stepping closer to the table, “you have to get a little lost before you can remember who you are.”

A scream tore down the hallway.

Larry.

It was not a long scream. It cut off abruptly, swallowed by a heavy thud that shook dust loose from the ceiling.

Jessie tilted her head toward the sound, listening. Measuring.

Then she looked back at the man.

“By the way,” she said lightly, smoothing her hair back with one hand, “I brought you a gift.”

She did not look towards the hallway again. 

 A dragging sound echoed briefly across the concrete.

Then silence.

The Book of Veiled Souls

Francine carried the book to one of the ornate tables in the occult room. The wood was dark and worn smooth by decades of study. Hunter and Deb followed, taking seats on either side of Francine.

She placed the book carefully in the center of the table.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The cover felt warm beneath Francine’s fingertips, as though it retained a memory of every hand that had ever turned its pages.

She opened the book.

The pages whispered as they parted.

Inside, the words were written in elegant calligraphy, each letter carefully inked in dark strokes that seemed almost too deliberate to be merely decorative. The script curved and intertwined, ornate but precise, as though the language itself demanded reverence.

Francine traced the first line with her eyes and began to read aloud.

“Let no spirit be summoned without cost, for every return demands a sacrifice.”

Silence settled over the table.

“That sounds ominous,” Deb said quietly.

Francine turned the page.

More calligraphy flowed across the parchment, darker here, the strokes heavier.

She read aloud.

“Blood taken by force strengthens the vessel but not the summoning.”

Hunter frowned. “What does that mean?”

Mrs. Roberts did not answer immediately. Her eyes had gone distant, calculating.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that stolen blood can make a host stronger. More durable. Easier to control.” She looked at Francine. “But it cannot complete a resurrection.”

Deb leaned forward. “So if someone is trying to bring Thomas Blake back ...”

“They would need blood given willingly,” Mrs. Roberts finished.

Silence fell again.

Francine’s thoughts raced.

William had taken the dampyre blood. Forced it.

That explained why Thomas’s spirit had been freed but never fully restored.

But if someone were trying again…

“They would need someone to agree,” Francine whispered.

"Back up a minute,” Hunter said. “We’re just assuming at this point that this is William or Thomas again. But something feels different this time.”

Mrs. Roberts looked at him thoughtfully. “Different how?”

Hunter ran a hand through his hair. “Last time, it was brute force. Possession. Stolen blood. Desperation. This…” He gestured vaguely at the book. “This feels deliberate. Calculated.”

Francine felt it too.

Thomas had been rage and hunger. Her father had been obsession.

But what was happening now felt patient.

Planned.

"Okay,” Deb said slowly. “We know Robbie was estranged from his father. We know he tried to mend things more than once, but his father was irrational. Obsessed with vampire blood.”

She looked around the table.

“Robbie was nothing like him. Not until after his father died. And then suddenly he’s the same. Obsessing. Ranting about blood bringing someone back from the dead. Attacking Heidi.” Her voice dropped. “Could he be trying to bring his father back?”

“Or someone else,” Francine said.

The thought settled heavily between them.

“It started as his father’s obsession,” she continued, her fingers resting on the open page. “But who was his father trying to bring back?”

Francine’s eyes dropped to the text again. The ink seemed darker now, the script more deliberate. As if it were waiting.

“That,” she said quietly, “is the better question.”

“You’re onto something,” Mrs. Roberts said softly. “Keep going.”

Francine turned the page.

The script shifted slightly, the lettering more elaborate, as though marking the beginning of a recorded history.

It told of Thomas Blake.

Of his mother, accused of witchcraft and burned before the village as an example. Of a boy forced to stand in the crowd and watch the flames consume her. Of the way his screams had gone unanswered.

Of the cellar where he was later confined. Dark. Windowless. Air thick with damp and rot.

It was there, in the suffocating blackness, that he reached outward in his grief and fury.

And something answered.

The account described how Thomas had vowed revenge. How he had grown in power, feeding on bitterness and rage. How, years later, the Seven Witches had united to confront him.

And how they had banished him from flesh into spirit.

“We already know all that about Thomas,” Hunter said. “Tell us something new.”

“I’m getting there,” Francine said, irritation edging her voice.

She turned the page.

The script shifted again. The ink was darker here, the strokes heavier, less decorative and more precise. At the top of the page, written in careful calligraphy:

An Accounting of the Demon Azravael.

Francine felt the name before she fully read it.

Azravael.

The letters seemed to pull at one another, sharp angles intertwined with sweeping curves, as though the word resisted being spoken.

“Azravael,” she read aloud, “is a demon of covenant and reclamation. It does not grant resurrection. It negotiates return.”

Deb frowned. “What’s the difference?”

Francine’s eyes moved down the page.

“It cannot restore life,” she said slowly. “It can only loosen what has been bound and anchor it to willing flesh.”

The room felt smaller.

Hunter leaned forward. “So it doesn’t bring someone back. It gives them a body.”

“Yes,” Francine whispered.

She kept reading.

“Azravael answers grief. It answers obsession. It answers those who seek to undo death not for power, but for love.”

Silence settled heavily over the table.

Mrs. Roberts’ voice was very quiet when she spoke.

“Thomas reached out in anger,” she said. “But someone else may be reaching out in sorrow.”

"We need to know more about Robbie and his father," Francine said. 

Hunter blinked. “We already know his father was obsessed. Vampire blood. Resurrection. He died before he could finish whatever ritual he was planning.”

“Yes,” Francine said. “But obsession doesn’t begin in a vacuum.”

She looked down at the page again.

"Azravael answers grief. Who was his father grieving?"

The Seven Witches

The library had a parking garage, which meant Francine did not have to step into full daylight, but she kept the cape wrapped tight around her anyway. Sunlight slipped through the concrete slats in narrow beams that seemed to search the floor. She avoided them instinctively.

Deb and Hunter stayed close. Hunter was covered as well. Francine wondered how strange they must look to anyone passing by. Then again, before she knew about the supernatural world around her, she had ignored every impossible thing in plain sight. She had worked beside a crew of supernatural creatures at the Corner Shop and never once questioned it, not until her grandmother’s charm wore off.

The charm had been meant to hide her from her father. Instead, it left her blind. When her grandmother died and the protection failed, Francine was exposed and unprepared.

Now she was walking toward another monster, this one a demon, and she still felt unprepared. Hopefully the Occult section of the library held something that could help.

Stepping into the library felt like crossing into another world. The ceilings arched high overhead like a cathedral, lifting the air with them. Artwork lined the walls in careful rows, and tall windows of colored glass filtered the light into muted blues and reds that pooled across the floor. Francine felt at home here. She felt safe. 

The three of them made their way to the occult section. Francine slowed as they approached the far wall, where seven framed photographs were displayed prominently beneath a brass plaque. The Seven Witches.

She paused in front of them.

One of the women was her grandmother, barely in her early 20s, her expression bright and fearless. Another was a young Mrs. Roberts, long before the silver in her hair and the careful reserve she wore now.

Francine studied the photographs of her grandmother and Delphine, who had gone by Stephanie back then. She wondered if Stephanie had been her first name or her middle name. Delphine suited her now, but she could imagine a younger woman choosing something that sounded lighter.

A faint pressure built behind her eyes.

It was not that anything in the pictures looked wrong. It was that something looked familiar. Too familiar.

Her gaze drifted across the seven witches, lingering on the way they stood, on the angle of her grandmother’s chin, on the faint, knowing smiles they all seemed to share.

She had seen this before.

Not the photograph itself, though she knew it well, but this arrangement. This moment. This feeling.

It had something to do with the witches. With Thomas Blake, the spirit they had once banished. The same one her father had tried to bring back.

The memory pressed closer, just out of reach.

And then it came.

They had banished Thomas Blake. But he had tried to return. Her father, William Blake, had possessed Joseph and used him to obtain dampyre blood. The blood had given him strength. It had given him control.

And blood was the key to bringing Thomas back.

It had not worked. Not completely.

Thomas’s spirit had been released, but his body had been destroyed. He was out there somewhere.

Francine’s pulse quickened. Was he involved in what was happening to Jessie and her daughter? Had he influenced Robbie’s sudden change in behavior?

Robbie had insisted vampire blood could bring someone back from the dead. Sandra had dismissed it as nonsense. An old wives’ tale. Once the heart stopped, nothing could restore the body.

“But the spirit…” Francine whispered. “Could vampire blood release a spirit and allow it to possess a body?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

Francine started. Mrs. Roberts stood a few feet behind them, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Short answer, yes,” Mrs. Roberts continued. “Under the right circumstances, blood that powerful could loosen a spirit from its bindings. The better question is why. And who, or rather what, would require blood of that potency?”

“What?” Hunter frowned. “Obviously a demon. That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Roberts asked calmly. “Yes, a demon attached itself to Francine. But demons have entered our world before without the assistance of blood. They rarely act independently. They are invited. Summoned. Directed.”

A chill crept up Francine’s spine.

“So the real question,” Mrs. Roberts said softly, “is not what the demon is. It is who the demon is serving.”

“And I suppose you have the answer to that?” Deb asked.

“No.” Mrs. Roberts’ lips curved faintly. “But I have a book that might.”

Mrs. Roberts led them to a shelf lined with ominous-looking books. The air seemed heavier here, as though the shelves carried more than paper and ink.

One volume stood out from the rest.

Its binding was gold, inlaid with delicate silver filigree that caught the colored light from the windows and fractured it into cold glints. The symbols etched into the spine shimmered faintly, as though aware of her presence.

When Mrs. Roberts reached out her hand, the book slid free of the shelf.

It did not fall.

It rose.

And then it settled neatly into her palm.

The title read, The Book of Veiled Souls.

They Belong To Me

 Carl was in the kitchen making bacon and eggs for Jessie and Heidi. The little girl giggled at one of his jokes, and Francine heard Jessie tell him it was the first laugh she’d heard from her daughter in months.

Francine felt a familiar flicker of worry. Carl was older than she was, but ever since she’d discovered he was her brother, she’d felt protective of him. In many ways, he had been more sheltered. True, he’d grown up knowing about the supernatural world, while their grandmother had tried to shield her from it. But Francine had adapted. Carl had grown up wanting a normal life. With who their father was, that had never been possible. And then there was the fact that he could see ghosts.

It had tormented him for years, so badly that he’d once sought relief in a bottle. She was proud of him. Ever since his near-death experience, he hadn’t touched a drop.

Francine stood in the hallway and listened to them talk, relieved that it was the only sound in the apartment. The lights no longer flickered. There was no scratching at the walls. No sense of something pressing in from the outside.

It was quiet.

For now.

She felt eyes on her.

Looking up, she found Hunter watching her from across the room. A small flutter stirred low in her stomach. She wondered how long he’d been there. If he had been watching her the entire time she slept.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning. What time is it?”

“Seven thirteen.” His voice was steady, but he looked tired. Even without sleep, the daylight drained him.

Hunter was a creature of the night. Francine should have been too. She couldn’t risk direct sunlight, but she had discovered she preferred being awake during the day. The world felt less lonely then. Less empty. Night was for isolation, when everyone she cared about was asleep.

That was why they had bought the van. If she stayed in the back, wrapped in a cloak and protected with sunscreen, she could move about during daylight hours. She could dash into vampire-friendly places like the library, whose windows were permanently shaded. She had a feeling Mrs. Roberts was responsible for that.

Hungry, Francine stepped into the kitchen. Eggs and bacon were not for her. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a glass jar filled with dark red liquid. Blood. A donation from a bank that catered to the gentler kind of vampire. The kind that did not want to hunt.

She tried to drink discreetly, turning slightly away from the table, but she felt Jessie’s gaze on her.

“Can you eat normal food?” Jessie asked, curiosity outweighing caution.

Francine lowered the jar. “No. Before I was fully turned, I could manage raw meat. Now any food I eat makes me violently sick.”

“Oh.”

Jessie looked down at her plate, thoughtful rather than frightened.

Francine turned away again, pretending not to notice that Hunter was still watching her.

“Is Deb still asleep?” she asked, trying to ease the quiet tension that lingered in the room.

“I was,” Deb said, walking into the kitchen and reaching for a strip of bacon. “Then I smelled breakfast.”

A faint smile tugged at Francine’s lips. “Do you want to go with me to the library this morning?”

“Try and stop me,” Deb said around a bite. “I’m still mad you didn’t let me go with you to the diner.”

“I don’t need a guard dog,” Francine said. “Just the company.”

“I will come too,” Hunter said.

Francine glanced at him.

“I don’t think the demon will be able to access the library,” he continued. “I’m certain Mrs. Roberts has the building protected against anything evil. But I don’t believe we should take any chances.”

His eyes held hers again, and this time she did not look away.

Her phone rang.

She jumped, heart slamming against her ribs. A nervous laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“I’m so jumpy,” she muttered. “It’s probably Mrs. Roberts. Or Sandra. Maybe she’s less grumpy now that she’s had a night in her own bed.”

Even as she said it, her stomach tightened.

She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

Static answered her.

Not the faint hiss of a weak connection. This was thick. Grinding. It crackled in her ear like something alive.

“Hello?” she repeated.

For a moment, there was nothing but that sound.

Then a voice pushed through.

Gravelly. Low. Wrong.

“They belong to me.”

The words slithered through the speaker.

“Stay out of my way, or I will make sure you are permanently out of everyone’s way.”

The line went dead.

Francine lowered the phone slowly.

The kitchen had gone silent.

Even the bacon had stopped sizzling.

Hope Is For Mortals

Francine let Heidi and Jessie take her bed. She could sleep on the couch just fine. If she could sleep at all with everything going on. Carl claimed the recliner, and Sandra said she would camp on the floor. Hunter did not sleep. Not often, anyway. He said that after hundreds of years of living, insomnia became permanent.

The lights flickered at uneven intervals, brief pulses of brightness that made the shadows jump. The scraping along the walls and door never fully stopped. Robbie was still searching for a way in. Francine kept telling herself he, or it, would eventually get bored and leave.

The scratching stopped.

The sudden silence felt wrong. Heavy. Waiting.

Then her phone rang.

Francine flinched. She glanced at the clock.

2:57 a.m.

The phone vibrated against the table, its glow bright in the dark. She stared at it. Could that thing be calling? The thought was ridiculous.

Still, at this point, she wouldn’t put anything past it.

“Are you going to answer it?” Carl asked quietly.

“What if it’s him?” Deb whispered. She had stepped out of her room and now stood beside Francine, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Then I guess we talk,” Francine said. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Francine, honey, are you okay?”

Relief flooded her.

“Oh. Mrs. Roberts. Hi.”

“Francine,” Delphine Roberts said calmly, “I was walking past your apartment, and I couldn’t help but notice your building seems to have a bit of a possession problem.”

“Yeah. Just a little bit. I’m hoping he gets bored and goes away.”

“Francine, I know you aren’t as advanced in the supernatural world as some of us, but you’ve been here long enough to know that isn’t how this works. Once a demon latches onto you, he doesn’t give up.”

“A girl can hope,” Francine said weakly.

“Hope is for mortals and the foolishly in love. You are neither.” Mrs. Roberts paused. “I’ve sent a small spell your way. He’s gone for now. But he’ll be back. Come by the library in the morning. I believe I have a book that may help.”

“I was planning to,” Francine said.

“Good. I’ll expect you. Now try to get some sleep. It’s after three.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, no one moved.

The air felt different. Lighter. The oppressive weight pressing against the walls had lifted, but the quiet did not feel safe. It felt temporary.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Roberts did,” Francine said, her voice thin with relief, “but she did something to send it away. It will be back eventually, but at least now we might be able to sleep.”

“If that thing is gone,” Sandra said, already reaching for her purse, “I’m going home.”

She grabbed her keys and headed for the door. Her hand paused on the knob. She glanced back at Francine.

“A word of advice, Francine. You can’t save everyone.” Her gaze sharpened. “And if you keep trying, one day there won’t be anyone left to save you.”

The door shut behind her with a quiet, final click.

“She’s not wrong,” Hunter said.

Francine didn’t look at him.

“You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months,” he continued. “Not since the dreams started. You’re running on stubbornness and guilt.” His voice lowered. “This demon is stronger than anything you’ve faced before.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” His eyes searched her face. “Because I’ve seen what happens when you push yourself too far. You don’t heal like you used to.”

Silence settled between them.

“If we don’t help them, that little girl will be hurt. She may even be killed.” Francine lifted her chin, defiance hardening her expression. “She reached out to me. Asking for help. I can’t turn my back on her.” Her voice softened slightly. “But no one else has to put themselves in danger. If any of you want out, I’m fine with that.”

“Not a chance,” Deb said immediately. She stepped closer to Francine. “You’re my bestie. Nothing, not even a raging demon from whatever nightmare pit it crawled out of, is going to stop me from helping you.”

“You know I’m in,” Carl added.

Hunter did not speak right away.

When he finally did, his voice was quieter.

“I’m not saying don’t help,” he said. “I’m saying be careful.” His gaze held hers now, steady and unguarded. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Something in his expression made her chest tighten.

She looked away first.

She didn’t know what this was between them, this thread that had existed ever since the night he turned her. It was more than obligation. More than gratitude. Sometimes it felt like gravity.

And he was leaning toward it.

She wasn’t sure she was ready to fall.

Daddy's Here

“We need to come up with a plan,” Sandra said. “If we’re going to protect the woman and her child from this devil. We can’t hide her here forever. It will find her.”

No one spoke. We looked at one another, waiting for someone else to have the answer.

The lights flickered once.

Just once.

“We don’t even know what we’re dealing with,” Deb said at last, her voice lower now. “How are we supposed to plan any kind of defense?”

“We can’t defend against this thing,” Sandra said. Her jaw tightened. “We have to go on the offensive. We strike first.”

A faint thud sounded somewhere in the walls. Not pipes. Not settling wood. Something heavier. Something deliberate.

“And how exactly do you propose we do that?” Hunter asked. Irritation edged his voice, but Francine could feel what lay beneath it. Fear. Not for himself. For her.

“I can talk to Grandmother,” Carl offered. “She may have heard something. A rumor about a demon that requires vampire blood.”

The air shifted. Colder.

Francine rubbed her arms, though she knew she did not truly feel cold anymore.

Grandmother had raised her. Carl had been raised by Aunt Penny, hidden away while everyone believed him dead. He had only known Grandmother for six months before she passed, yet somehow he still felt closer to her. Closer than Francine had ever managed to be.

And now he could speak to her.

Francine could not.

Ironic, since she was the one who was technically dead.

The overhead light buzzed softly, then steadied.

“I’ll start at the library,” Francine said, keeping her voice steady. “There has to be something in the occult section. Mrs. Roberts might be able to help.”

Sandra gave a single nod.

“It’s a start.”

As if in answer, something scratched lightly across the ceiling above them.

Slow.

Patient.

Listening.

“Daddy’s here,” Heidi said, shuddering.

The front door rattled.

Not violently.

Almost playfully.

Then there was a light scraping on the door. Slow. Deliberate.

“He’s taunting us,” Francine said. “But he can’t get in. I’ve put wards up around the apartment. They should hold. At least for now.”

The handle turned.

Once.

Carefully.

As if testing the truth of her words.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Another scrape dragged down the length of the door.

Patient.

Unhurried.

Confident.

Francine held her ground, though something cold and ancient pressed against the barrier she had woven. The wards hummed faintly in her senses, like a wire pulled too tight.

For now, they were holding.

For now.

"He might not be able to get inside,” Deb said, her voice thin. “But we can’t leave either. We’re trapped.”

The words settled over the room like dust.

Outside, something dragged slowly across the length of the door again. Not trying to break it down. Just reminding them it was there.