The Cabin Is Always Hungry (A Dungeon Core Horror Slasher)

LAST RESORT
Part 23

SCENARIO 4
12:30 PM
6 Hours Until Dawn
7 Delvers remaining…

I looked down at poor Roy, buried under the heavy shelf, his blood mixing with the pooling wine and broken glass. He made a soft croak in his open pierced throat while the werewolf tried to break down the basement door not far from him. He made an effort to get up, but barely could hold it for a second before he collapsed under the shelf's weight; a long hiss escaped his lips. His eyes went blank and distant.

I snapped back next to Duke Henry at the garden. "Soooo…your butler is pretty much dead."

"Hm. What a shame." Henry shrugged and took out a pocket notebook and a black pen from his jacket. He started writing on it then slipped it back.

"What did you write about?"

"My notes."

"You're taking notes?"

"In how my minions are performing, yes."

I chuckled. "Are you seriously giving them performance reviews? One of your employees is dead. I don't think he cares anymore."

"At least I can see for myself how they can take a beating. Consider this a test."

"So they are test subjects."

"Correct."

"Well, they don't die easy from a serious injury." I pictured the corkscrew in Roy's throat. "Roy remained standing for five minutes while his throat was open."

Henry took out his notebook again and wrote more stuff in it. I caught the words Blood Sorcery circled at the very top.

"Sorcery?"

"It might improve their constitution and stamina, if I learn how to harness it." Henry thinned his lips. "May I make an odd request, my lord?"

"Based on what I've done and seen in the past few months, Henry, nothing is ever odd."

"On your next archetype upgrades, perhaps we should expedite the inclusion of a sorcerer or a powerful archmage in your dungeon. You have covered the offensive and defensive capabilities of your domain, but we are lacking in the magical front. I request to learn blood sorcery in order to enhance my reach and help you."

"Technically, I am magic."

"Right you are, sir. But not during a delve...unless you are willing to break the rules."

"And bring the Administrators to us? You know I am not allowed to cast spells that directly influence a delve."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Yes, the faraway hot pockets behind the screen. Do you want my personal opinion, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"The Administrators are just as mortal as the humans inside that manor. They work for and manipulate the loopholes of the System, but mortal nonetheless. For all Cores, they are fair game for you to offer a delve and feed on."

"They didn't give me those vibes when I spoke to them."

"It's probably because they don't want the habit of Cores eating them. They're an odd lot who fancies themselves above the System's cycle of life."

"They also eat dungeons who disobey."

Henry smiled mischievously. "That is…if a DEATH CORE allows them to. And everyone in the universe knows Death Cores are not to be fucked with. And besides, who do you really work for? The Administrators or The System?"

"The System demands balance."

"The System demands balance because mortals demand balance."

And Death Cores demand chaos, I wanted to say. All the rewards that surviving delvers could have would tip off the balance of a world to those who knew how to ask for such power. Humans on Earth did not have that luxury of foresight except for a select few.

If anyone survived tonight's delve, I wondered what they would wish for.

I turned to Henry. "Best not speak ill of them when those people you dislike so much are watching and paying us."

"I don't dislike them, my lord, no," Henry said. "They're paying you so that they can get high from a fraction of your power."

I didn't say anything. Right now, I didn't want to risk offending the Administrators since I'm still a juvenile Core.

Henry added, "And besides, I often wonder what aliens taste like."

Kevin and the others were still holed up in that upstairs room, debating themselves in circles whether they should stay or go like a bunch of hens clucking in a coop while the wolf pawed at the fence. I let them stew and bicker for another few minutes. My many-eyes followed the real action: Lope, Kate, and Vivian coming up from the cellar steps like rats driven out by floodwater.

The basement door was still holding, though Christ only knew how. Xavier hit it again and again with those new big shoulders of his, and every slam sounded like a tree snapping in half. Still, it held. For now.

After running through a couple of hallways, they spilled into the dining room. I drew the lights down another notch for mood lighting (A dungeon lord's allowed to have his little amusements) and watched the shadows stretch in the corners. The delvers didn't seem to notice. Lope jammed a chair under the knob as a barricade, like that would do a damn thing against the freight train hammering around downstairs. They all stood there for a beat, listening. As they looked around the room, they found it empty. Safe, at least for a few minutes. And that was when all the adrenaline drained out of them and pushed their emotions to the surface.

Vivian's soft cries came first. Kate and Lope started squabbling. Lope got practical about their survival, the way a man does when he's trying to keep all the gears in his head turning in the same direction. Kate just came apart in fits, like someone frantically trying to tape back together a broken vase, but it just kept falling apart in her hands. It took five long minutes of back-and-forth before they both reached the truth they didn't want to face: they were being hunted by a werewolf.

No, they were TRAPPED with a fucking werewolf.

Vivian, the poor little thing, wanted to go back for her brother. Of course she did. She kicked and screamed like a small chihuahua in their grip. Kate finally slapped her—a sharp, flat crack that hung in the room for a long second afterward. I chuckled. You'd be amazed what a good slap can do to rewire a person's thinking. And that's exactly what happened: It brought Vivian's Resolve back to a darker orange. She sulked and sat down on the chair at the head of the table, clutching her reddened cheek.

"He's not your brother anymore," Kate told her desperately. "If you go back down there, you'll die."

Vivian's hope was still there though, and I doubted that was ever going to change. "Maybe we can find something to reverse it?"

Lope just stared at her, and you could see him making the decision to be cruel for her own good. "You saw it with your own eyes, girl. He turned into a goddamn animal. He's a werewolf! Ain't nobody got a cure for that around here! How are we supposed to find one?!"

"They don't exist," Vivian said, her voice cracking. Even she didn't believe her words.

"Well they fucking do now," Lope said.

Vivian wiped a small tear running down her cheek with the back of her hand. "Madame Dallaire said I shouldn't go into the mountains."

"And who the hell is Madame Dallaire?" Lope asked.

"A…" Vivian paused. She didn't really know what she was. A witch? A seer? A crazy con artist? She shook her head. "Never mind."

I turned my many-eyes back at the cabin where Oracle was, but the construct beat me to it.

"Lauren Toomes is in her home asleep, my lord."

"Good. I don't want to deal with another interruption from a sorcerer." Rules of magic were sometimes a funny thing. I couldn't risk the possibility that merely uttering Madame Dallaire's name might wake the sorcerer up and sense some trouble in the mountains. She and Vivian had grown awfully close in the past couple of weeks.

"If she decides to drive up the mountains, I'll disable her car. I have already made a couple of contingencies," Oracle said.

I remembered Hodge's last stand at the Core Tree. That was a close call. Maybe Henry was right. Maybe I really needed to invest on recruiting a mage for my dungeon to combat future spellcasters.

Back at the manor, Kate asked the only question left. "So what do we do now?"

Lope scanned the room—doors, windows, exits—and was satisfied by what he saw. "I think it's safe enough here. You two stay. I'm gonna see if the others are still holed up by the front. That's the last place I left them."

Kate stiffened. "No way. I want to see my sister."

"She's upstairs," Lope reminded her, gentle as he could. "I'll get Daryl, Nina, and Ray first. Better if we move as a group before we find the others. I'll only be gone for five minutes. Ten, tops. Okay?"

Kate crossed her arms, lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine. But hurry. That door back there is not going to hold forever."

Lope paused to listen. They didn't hear the slamming noises beyond the door anymore. "I'll be right back," he said and left.

That made me smile.

Folks in horror movies always said that, and they almost never did.

I let my Many-Eyes drift like a bored cameraman craning for a better view, and there, at the mouth of the East Wing, under the flaking portrait of a man who'd once thought himself important back in the Gilded Age, Garth and Luke had gathered.

I flew out of the dining room because curiosity was one of my cheaper vices. Maybe they were giving each other pep talks. Maybe they were comparing their favorite ways to carve a man open. Either was possible. I drifted past the smoking room on my way and the delvers were still in there, bickering amongst themselves, although it was already coming to a consensus that it was time to move their ass and find a way out of this building. As I suspected, the respite gave them a false sense of security.

"Watcha guys doing?" I asked, appearing right next to Garth and Luke.

Luke—Were-Luke, if you want to be technical—blew out a huff out of his snout like someone who'd just found out their grandma died. "We have a problem, my lord." His voice sounded warped, guttural, and warmly deep. All the werewolves sounded like that.

"What kind of problem?"

He paused, looked sideways as if checking for potential eavesdroppers that weren't there. "Have you received any notifications on your side?"

Oh, yeah, that little prick of the System and how it kept buzzing me with notifications like a hungry mosquito. I had been watching the action in the basement so I ignored and reduced the tab because of its annoying pings except when it had something to do with earning crystals or essence. I popped open the System menu with a gesture. There it was, stark and official and annoyingly polite about a potential issue in my dungeon. They even colored it a dull red on the bar to let me know it was a very serious matter.

[ A potential recruitable archetype, a werewolf, has appeared inside your domain. ]

[ Warning: All werewolf slots have been filled (3/3). You must create a new archetype or upgrade a trait to increase your werewolf pack! ]

[ Warning: A scenario is in progress. You cannot create a new archetype. ]

"Whoops," I said out loud. "It's a delving night, so I can't create new monsters until after the delve's done." Or when all the delvers are dead, I thought.

The werewolves nodded.

"Wait a minute. Does that mean Xavier is not listening to me?"

"He can, but he is untethered to the dungeon," Luke said. "His werewolf instincts are at an overdrive. Without your guidance and the power of the System's influence, he is a walking bomb. He will not care about a delver's Resolve. He will go for the kill. Always. He will always be a Berserker."

A Berserker? I quickly opened the monsters tab and looked at The Werewolf stat sheet.

That looked pretty bad. I didn't want the delvers to die so quickly without collecting their essence. I realized The Sawyers had never used this ability yet. Maybe they were saving it for special occasions or for emergencies.

"So what do we do?" I asked.

Garth's eyes glittered in the low light and straightened his back. "Either he submits to us," he said, "or we kill him."

I let that sit. It was one thing to have a werewolf eating on the same table and quite another to have one loose and destroying all the curtains, plates, and expensive cutlery. Plus, it was nice to finally hear Garth speak. Well, his werewolf form, anyway. "By 'submit' you mean…"

"Show him the pecking order," Garth said. "Alan's alpha, but he's not here. I am second. If he refuses, I'll kill him."

"You think that'll work?"

"He's still a werewolf—dungeon or untethered. His blood will know," Luke said.

"And if he submits?"

"He'll follow us," Luke said. "The System will grant him temporary status within the dungeon as one of us. After that… you have to either create a new archetype for him or let him slide into the pack proper as a fourth member of our pack. That usually means an upgrade to our Pack Tactics trait."

"That…can work. I mean, I already got his essence, and—" I stopped before I could say that it was a nice appetizer for tonight's feast. I'm already down three of my ten-course menu. "Bring him to heel. Kill him if he does not. I don't want more interruptions from outsiders tonight. Let's proceed with tonight's delve, shall we?"

I watched them go. Were-Luke flattened back toward the upstairs rooms like a shadow returning to its place, ears twitching for any human stupidity from the upstairs' delvers. Were-Garth moved the other way, down the corridor toward the foyer and the grand staircase.

That's when I realized another problem.

As Were-Garth came padding down the stairs, at the same time, Lope was sneaking along the ground floor, bent low like a burglar in a cartoon, heading toward the sitting room. He moved in jerks and starts, pausing at every corner, checking over his shoulder, not realizing a werewolf was heading in his direction.

They turned into the same hallway from opposite ends. The corridor was narrow enough that neither could just slip by unnoticed. They stopped dead, ten yards apart, eyes locked at each other.

Lope froze, his mouth partway open, like he'd stumbled into a bear trap. Were-Garth's golden eyes narrowed, reflecting the weak light. For a long, breathless moment, it was predator and prey sizing each other up.

Then… nothing.

Were-Garth snorted, a wet, dismissive sound, and shifted his shoulders like a man adjusting a jacket that didn't quite fit. He continued walking down the hallway because he had bigger things to deal with. Xavier was the priority right now, not this skinny human with his wide eyes, blood-stained flesh, and sweaty shirt.

Lope blinked, waiting for the charge that didn't come. "...Uh," he said, as if words might trip the beast and reminded him that he was supposed to eat him.

Were-Garth gave him one last look of disdain mixed with boredom then turned his head away like Lope was a disgusting vegetable.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Excuse me. Coming through," said Were-Garth in that warped werewolf voice, which only scared Lope even more and stayed rooted in place. The werewolf ambled past the delver, claws tapping the floorboards brushing so close that Lope could smell the wet-dog stink of him.

When the werewolf was gone, Lope let out a long, shaky breath and muttered, "What the fuck just happened?"

Lope staggered back a step, head spinning. He tilted his head, tracking the disappearing silhouette, and trying to read the rules of a game that made no sense. Moments ago, these monsters were on a feeding frenzy. Now? Calm. Polite. Walking past like he was some tourist in a haunted house. Clearly, reality had taken a vacation.

He exhaled slowly, muttering to himself, "I… I don't even… okay…" His voice trailed off, more confused. But he was glad he was still alive.

Then Lope heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy metallic door gave way, crashing to the ground, and trailed by a howl of two monstrous wolves.

Were-Xavier bounded through the hallways. His nose twitched, tracking the scent of fear, sweat, and human blood. The manor seemed to shrink around him as he ran, the shadows stretching and flinching away from his bulk.

He reached the dining room in seconds.

The door exploded.

Wood splintered like brittle bones under Xavier's weight; The air shook with the force of it. The barricade Lope had set up splintered under a single slash of his claws. Kate and Vivian screamed, but the sound barely registered over the beast's roar.

Kate and Vivian huddled behind the long table, eyes wide with fear, hands pressed to their mouths, then ducked underneath. Too late. The werewolf saw them first. Xavier lunged when his gaze landed on them, revealing bared teeth and fury radiating from every taut muscle.

Then the far door detonated inward.

Were-Garth hit the rogue werewolf side-on before he could reach the delvers; two freight trains colliding in a shower of spit and claws. They slammed into the dining table, splitting it halfway down the middle. The women scrambled deeper underneath as wood splinters rained like shrapnel. Some even cutting Kate's cheek.

Were-Xavier ripped free and came up fast, eyes glowing like coals, jaws painted red. Were-Garth was already there, hammering a shoulder into his chest, looping an arm around the thick neck, then dragging him back into the wreckage. Fists that weren't fists anymore pounded, claws opened skin in thick wet ribbons. Every blow sounded like a butcher at work.

Vivian lurched forward. "Xavier—!"

Kate clamped a hand over her mouth and yanked her away from the carnage. "Shut up! You'll get us both killed!"

The werewolves crashed against the walls, plaster bursting like old scabs. The chandelier above swayed and tinkled. And then Were-Xavier went feral, pushing deeper into his Berserker state. He surged, muscles bulging, eyes lit like molten steel. He ripped Were-Garth off his feet and hurled him clear across the room. Were-Garth hit the wall, wood paneling caving in, and slid down in a heap. A painting fell off the wall and smashed on top of his head. For a couple of seconds he stayed there, shaking his head, stunned by Xavier's raw power.

That was all Were-Xavier needed. He turned, sensing the prey hiding under the table. His snarl deepened as Vivian's eyes locked on him, wide, wet. "Xavier…" she whispered. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Recognition flickered, gone as quickly as it came as the beast within overpowered his humanity.

He lunged for her sister.

He lunged for the kill.

Vivian froze, deer in headlights, and would've been shredded if Kate hadn't yanked her sideways. Xavier's claws carved through empty air, gouged a shallow trench in the floorboards where Vivian's head had been. Kate dragged her toward the far end, shouting something incoherent together with her desperate screams.

Were-Xavier wheeled for another strike—

And Were-Garth hit him from behind like a meteor.

The elder werewolf drove him into the wrecked table, more wood snapping under their combined weight. Were-Xavier roared, spinning, claws raking at Were-Garth's back, but Were-Garth locked on and wouldn't let go. They tore into each other again in a performance of pure violence, bodies slamming into walls and sending dust snowing from the ceiling.

That's when Lope appeared in the doorway and then dove under the table. He didn't argue—just grabbed both women by the arms and dragged them out the way he'd come. Vivian fought him at first, still watching the fight, but he hauled them clear with a grunt and said, "There's no time! Let's get out of here while they're still distracted!"

Behind them, the fight hit its crescendo. Were-Xavier lunged, frothing and mindless. Were-Garth twisted and moved his body around as if he had been a werewolf for many years, powered by discipline and the System's influence, and locked both arms around the rogue beast's throat. He wrenched him down, forced him to the broken floorboards, teeth snapping an inch from his face. A guttural dominance growl rolled out of Were-Garth's chest, so deep it made the chandelier above them hum.

Were-Xavier thrashed. For a full minute it was all fury and bloodlust. Then his struggles slowed. The fire in his eyes dissipated. His body went slack, chest heaving in slow breaths. His gaze flicked upward in reluctant recognition to Garth and who he was to him.

Were-Garth leaned in, jaws peeling open, hot breath flooding Xavier's face. The sound was a promise of more violence if the rogue beast didn't keep it in check: Submit or die.

Were-Xavier whimpered once, then turned his head away, bared his front teeth in surrender.

The elder wolf stayed there a moment longer, pressing the lesson home.

Then, Were-Garth let go.

[ You have granted a one night visa to a foreign archetype. They may now enjoy The System's influence and the Core's traits for Werewolves. ]

A visa? I pulled up the prompt and searched what the visa meant from The System.

[ Visa Pass: A pass given to an individual foreign archetype to safely hunt in the Core's domain. The pass can be revoked by the System or the Dungeon Lord if the archetype breaks the Core's rules and the dungeon's archetype traits. As a Death Core, you can grant unlimited visas to visiting monsters. ]

I reckoned that by foreign, they meant not created originally from the dungeon.

I closed the tab.

For a moment, the room went quiet. Dust floated in shafts of light, the stink of blood and fur thick enough to choke on. Were-Xavier lay pinned, chest heaving under Were-Garth's weight as his submission was sealed and done.

Then the System took him.

Convulsions racked Were-Xavier's body. At first just a twitch, then full-body spasms that sent him thrashing across the floor like he was electrocuted. His claws tore trenches in the boards. His back arched hard enough to crack. Were-Garth jerked away, ears flat, growl faltering. A strange magical glow hit the young wolf next. A flash of jade green light blinked and spread across his body. His eyes blazed white, veins crawling with pale fire. His mouth opened wide in a whimpered howl.

And then silence.

Were-Xavier went still. Chest rising. Falling. Rising again. He rolled to his knees slow, like a puppet learning new strings. Blood dripped off him, thick on his fur, his claws, and his teeth, but his Lycan blood was already healing the wounds Were-Garth had inflicted.

His head turned. Eyes lifted. Up past the wreckage. Past the torn walls and the ruined table.

And then, to me.

He froze there, the fury no longer stamped in his gaze, trembling with something new.

Reverence.

At some point, Kevin couldn't take it anymore and snapped. Shoved the barricade of chairs and end tables aside with a scrape that made everyone flinch.

"Stay here and rot for all I care," he said.

He was right, of course. One way or another, if the delvers hadn't moved for the next half an hour, Were-Luke would burst in there through the hidden room adjacent to the bookshelf and usher in some carnage. The others didn't argue. Sure, they were scared, but they also felt like splitting up was a bad idea. At least they had some sense about that.

The hallway beyond got darker, which was my doing (again, mood lightning). They moved tight, sneakers scraping softly, every scuff too loud in the hush of people scared of their own pulse. They turned to a hallway that overlooked outside. Like the windows downstairs, the upstairs windows were also barred tight. Kevin seized the bars, gave them a violent shake like he could bully the house into cracking. The metal didn't even rattle.

"Truck's right there," Kevin hissed and gestured to their vehicle right on the driveway like some cruel joke. "We just gotta—"

"—unless we can turn into smoke, we're not getting out through that window," Nina interjected.

Daryl let out a long, shaky sigh, lips tight around the words. "Anything's possible in this fucking place."

Sheila hung back, forehead pressed to the glass, breath fogging it pale. Then she froze. "Wait. Look."

They all crowded around her, four faces mashed against the window like a bunch of schoolkids spying at a peep show.

In the garden sat a man. Still as taxidermy. Sitting on the wrought-iron chair with a porcelain cup in hand next to a tiny table with a desert tray. Not moving, not twitching. Lifting the cup now and then for a neat sip and set it down.

"Who the hell…" Daryl started, and trailed off.

The man looked up for a heartbeat. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. But somehow, they knew he'd clocked them.

Sheila jerked back from the window. "I think that's Henry," she said. "If he's here…then, Kate…"

The silence afterward was sticky and suffocating. Kevin swallowed hard. Nina broke it with a sharp shake of her head. "Can we just keep moving?" she said quickly and started walking.

Daryl placed a hand on Sheila shoulder. "I'm sure Kate's fine. Maybe she's back in town and is also worried for us to come back?"

Sheila shook her head, eyes glassy. "I don't know, Daryl. I'm worried something happened to her."

"She's strong," Daryl insisted, but his words fell apart halfway through. "She'll—"

They heard the loud roars of the wolves downstairs; the werewolf brawl in the dining room reverberating across the manor.

"Yeah, we should keep moving and stay the fuck away from whatever those noises are," Kevin said.

Nina was already walking ahead, creeped out from seeing Henry out in the garden. She didn't even want to entertain whatever he was planning to them. She just wanted to escape and get the hell out of town. As far away from Point Hope as possible Fuck this cursed town, she thought. Like everyone else, she also regretted joining Kevin in his stupid heist. A part of her blamed him for Ray's death, but she knew she couldn't say it out loud to his face. She wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

She slipped into the next hallway, shoulders tight, scanning.

And then she froze.

The others piled up behind her, one by one, like cars rear-ending on black ice. Kevin leaned over her shoulder, Daryl bumping close behind, until they all saw it.

At the far end of the corridor, crouched low on her haunches, something waited.

Not something.

Someone.

Slight frame, long hair tumbling forward to shroud most of her face. But the posture was all wrong. She crouched like an animal, knees high, fingers splayed on the floorboards, her spine bent in a feral curve. Though her hair veiled her face, when she shifted, the gleam came through—two pinprick glints that caught the dim light like wet glass.

Sheila felt her guts clench, bile sharp at the back of her throat, voice trembling on the edge of disbelief. "Wendy?"

The figure cocked her head, slow and insectile, as if the bones in her neck weren't screwed in right anymore. A dry rasp slipped out, not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. Then, without warning, she bolted deeper into the hallway, darting with an inhuman whip-crack of movement, bare feet slapping against the floorboards.

"Sheila," Daryl muttered. "Don't—"

"Wendy!" Sheila broke loose, a ragged shout in her throat, legs pumping as she tore after her friend.

"Sheila, no!" Kevin hissed, but it was already too late.

Nina lunged to catch her, fingers snagging only air. The three of them swore in unison and then sprinted, too late, too far behind.

They turned the corner in time to see Wendy's shape slip through a doorway at the middle of the left hall, Sheila vanishing after her without a pause.

Kevin jumped into the door first, and what lay beyond wasn't an ordinary room.

It was an oval-shaped room with a spiraling staircase.

Sheila and the others looked up.

A narrow, spiraling throat of stone that climbed upward into blackness. Each step was choked with dust and cobwebs. The air smelled of cold iron and something older, fouler, like blood soaked into the stone long ago and left to rot and permeate.

"Wendy! Wait!" Sheila shouted, bouncing off the stone like a bullet ricocheting in a tomb.

Kevin grabbed his girlfriend's wrist. "Sheila, stop! Let's get out of here before someone hears you shouting—"

"She could be hurt, Kevin!" Sheila yanked her hand loose from his grip and ran up the stairs.

"Sheila!" Kevin bellowed into the spiral, his voice swallowed whole by the tower's hollow lung. "Get back here!"

Sheila didn't answer and continued climbing.

Kevin spat a curse. "God damn it!" He tore after her. So did Daryl.

"Daryl, wait!" Nina grabbed his elbow. "I don't think it's a good idea to go up there."

"Sheila's right. Wendy looks hurt. Who knows what that psycho did to her and how long he has been keeping her here?"

"But something's not right about this. What if she's—"

"She's not one of them. She's not a—" Daryl still had trouble saying the word: werewolf. "—she's not a monster."

"You said it yourself. Anything's possible in this place."

Daryl sighed, hand dipping into his pocket. He pulled out a small, gleaming letter opener and pressed it into her hand.

"What's this?" Nina asked, fingers tightening on the cold metal.

"Find a place to hide if things go south. This should help. Found it in the smoking room drawers."

She turned it over. Metal glinted in the dim light, the handle marked: STERLING SILVER.

"Silver," she whispered, teeth clenching.

Daryl nodded once. "I'll be right back."

Without another word, he pushed off, boots grinding dust from the stairs as he vanished after Sheila, Kevin, and Wendy. The room seemed to sag behind him, the spiral swallowing sound and shadow, leaving Nina all alone in the dark hallway.

Sheila pounded up the stairs, lungs burning, hair plastered to her face with sweat. Each step groaned under their weight, dust puffing up in choking clouds. Ahead, Wendy's silhouette flickered in the shadows, moving with a predatory, unnatural fluidity that made Sheila's stomach coil.

Kevin and Daryl followed close behind, their voices swallowed by the tower's hollow spiral as they called after Sheila to slow down.

But Sheila didn't dare slow down. Adrenaline pinned her feet to the chase.

She saw Wendy vanished through a doorway at the top and Sheila slammed into it, swinging the door open, and spilled into the next room.

It was a bedroom. Curved walls stretched up to a ceiling high enough to trap shadows. Dust-laden cobwebs hung in the corners. The furniture, once ornate, now sagged under neglect. Dark wood glimmered with a little rot and age. There was no color and no warmth, just the darkness and the sour tang of decay clinging in the air. It reminded Sheila of Rapunzel if her room was trashed by her evil stepmother and left to rot.

Sheila's gaze caught a closet door, cracked just enough to reveal movement.

"Wendy?" Sheila whispered.

A soft shuffle answered.

She moved and placed her hand to the edge of the door, pushing it slowly. Inside was another dark room; the first thing she saw were the chains.

Thick iron bars bolted to the walls, some rattling faintly as though recently disturbed. Dust covered the floor, but scratches and scuffs told a story of a desperate struggle. Sheila's stomach sank: this was a cage. And there, crouched in the corner, Wendy rose. Half her face emerged from the shadow, pale skin pressed against her tangled hair.

Behind Sheila, Kevin and Daryl arrived, panting.

"Wendy? Are you okay?" Sheila stepped closer.

Wendy flinched, inching back.

"It's okay. It's me. Sheila. Don't be afraid."

"Sheila?" Wendy's voice quivered.

"Yes, it's me. Oh God…what has Henry done to you? Did he…?" Sheila's voice cracked.

Kevin stepped into the closet, gently pulling Sheila back. "Sheila…what the fuck?"

"She's hurt, babe. We have to help her."

Wendy lifted a pale, trembling hand. Sheila grasped it instinctively, warmth passing through the ice-cold fingers. Carefully, they guided her out of the closet and onto the bed. Sheila tugged the curtains by the balcony and draped it around Wendy's thin sundress.

"She must be freezing," Sheila said.

Wendy's sobs shook her body. "He…he did things to me."

Daryl crouched beside her. "I swear to God, when I get this asshole psycho…"

"What kind of things?" Sheila asked.

Wendy shook her head violently. "Things…things not kind. Things you don't understand."

Sheila stroked her back gently. "It's okay. We'll get you out. We'll fix this. We're gonna put him in jail. I promise."

Kevin knelt before her. "Did he…do anything else?" He ignored Sheila shooting him a deathly glare.

Wendy hesitated. "He…made me drink his blood."

Kevin's jaw tightened. "What for?"

Sheila pulled the curtains closer, pressing them around Wendy's trembling shoulders. "There. Warm now. We can get you downstairs…we'll figure out the rest."

Wendy shook her head. "I…can't."

"Yes, you can," Sheila said firmly. "We'll make it. We'll all get out of here."

Wendy's eyes darted around the room. "I'm…hungry."

Sheila glanced at Kevin and Daryl. "Do you think we can get her food? Water?"

Kevin shook his head. "Not with what's loose downstairs. It's not safe to stop by the kitchen."

Wendy's lips trembled. "Sheila…"

"What? What is it, sweetie?"

"You need to run."

"The monsters? Don't worry. I'm here now, and Kevin's got a gun—"

"No." Wendy's voice was sharp, ice cutting through the air. "If you don't run, you're going to die here."

Sheila gently brushedWendy's hair aside—and froze.

The strands fell away, revealing teeth impossibly long and sharp, catching the little light in the tower, glinting like razors. They were not human teeth. Not anything she had seen before. Everyone staggered back and away from Wendy. Sheila fell off the edge of the bed, heart hammering so loud it seemed Wendy could hear her blood pumping.

"Wendy? What…what…" Sheila's voice shook.

"Jesus Christ! What the fuck's wrong with her teeth?!" Daryl screamed.

Wendy rose. The curtains fell from her shoulders. Her movement was impossibly smooth, predatory. Every step, every tilt of her head radiated the hunger coiling inside her like a living thing.

"I'm his now," she hissed, voice jagged, filled with unnatural ferocity. "And I'm so…fucking…hungry!"

Wendy exploded forward like a spring released from hell. Sheila barely had time to scream before the vampire spawn pinned her to the floor, hands clamping like iron, teeth bared with drool. Sheila kicked and thrashed, trying to push her off, but Wendy's weight was crushing, her fingers like talons digging into her shoulders. The razor-sharp teeth slashed inches from her throat. Sheila's stomach lurched; her vision blurred with panic.

Kevin shoved Wendy off Sheila, while Daryl grabbed her shoulders and threw her across the room. The body skidded across the floor, hitting the wall with a sickening crack next to the open closet door. Dust and old plaster rained down on them.

That didn't slow Wendy down. Instead, she rolled to her feet and moved with impossible speed. Her limbs bent in ways that made me even flinch. She leapt and crawled along the walls, scaling them like a crab out for blood, movements so fluid and inhuman it made the delvers scream just witnessing it.

The delvers scrambled to their feet and ran for the doorway, each step a desperate hammer against the floorboards.

Then, Wendy struck.

She moved faster than the mortal eye could track. Sheila's stomach dropped as she saw the inhuman blur lunge at Daryl, claws digging into his back.

"Kevin!" Daryl shouted, eyes filled with tears, pleading for help.

Sheila and Kevin couldn't tear their gaze from the horror unfolding. Daryl's arms thrashed, trying to peel Wendy off, kicking and clawing, but the strength coiled in her lithe, unnatural body was overwhelming.

Sheila's scream caught in her throat as Wendy's jaws found their mark. Her teeth sank into the side of Daryl's neck, tearing through skin and muscle. Blood sprayed in a sickening arc, hot and metallic, coating the walls, and the floor, and all over Kevin's shocked open mouth. Daryl's scream tore through the room, a ragged, raw sound that echoed in the tower like a church bell of terror.

"Get her off me! Get her off me!" Daryl screamed.

With a horrifying, fluid motion, Wendy's hands gripped into Daryl's neck. Sheila gasped, instinctively lunging forward, but Kevin caught her shoulder, holding her back as the impossible unfolded. Wendy wrenched. Skin, sinew, bone, tearing through everything. Daryl's head came free in her hands like a grotesque, wet, red trophy. She flung it through the open doorway, letting it spin down the spiral staircase below with a sickening thud.

The body collapsed to the floor in a twitching, lifeless heap.

Wendy crouched over the stump where his head had been, lips pressed to the gaping wound and drank his spurting blood. The sound was wet, sucking, intimate in its horror. Sheila gagged and Kevin's face went white, and without a word, they bolted in terror.

Back downstairs a few moments earlier, Nina's feet hovered at the bottom of the spiral staircase, hesitating whether she should follow the others. The hallway beyond was dark, empty, and scary, and she didn't want to be alone. The thought of stepping out on her own and getting into a random room to hide made her gut twist. What if there was something there waiting for her? She should have insisted the others didn't follow Wendy, but she did look hurt.

Then she heard it.

A scream. Multiple screams from above. The sound ripped through the manor like a blade through cloth. Nina froze. Her ears rang with it, her chest hammering so hard she was sure it would give her away if a monster was listening for fresh prey nearby.

A small shadow, maybe a cat, passed over the stairwell. She looked up—and what tumbled down toward her wasn't a cat at all.

Daryl's head, slick with blood, came spinning through the air like a grotesque projectile. It landed with a wet, sickening thump right in front of her. Blood spraying everywhere from his cracked skull. One of his eyeballs popped right out of its sockets and wedged itself on Nina's left boot.

[ You have gained 1 essence: Daryl Gallagher ]

[You have gained 150 crystals]

Nina's scream tore out of her throat before her mind could even process what she just saw. She staggered backward, tripping over the doorframe, and sent her sprawling across the floor in the middle of the hallway.

Movement at the end of the hall.

At the far end, a familiar monstrous shape waited. Still, silent, watching. Its eyes glimmered like molten steel, fixed on her. Muscles tensed, chest rising and falling with deliberate, predatory patience. Its teeth caught the little moonlight streaming from the windows, fang tips glinting in warning.

Nina's body betrayed her. She couldn't move. Every instinct screamed at her to flee.

Move, damn you, move! She screamed inside her head. But she couldn't pry her eyes away from the beast.

Nina's limbs were locked with fear, but terror edged into a sudden resolve. She forced her knees to bend, pushed off the floor, and scrambled to her feet as a surge of strength entered her. She welcomed it.

Were-Luke's growl split the air—a low, guttural sound that vibrated in her bones. Then it moved like a black blur, tearing down the hallway toward her.

Nina screamed and ran.

She didn't dare look back, but she could feel the predator's presence behind her pressing closer with every step. The hallway seemed endless, stretching and twisting as if the manor itself conspired to trap her. Every corner was a trap, every doorway a dead end. Another scream tore out of her, a warning and a plea all at once. Were-Luke's hot breath, smell of iron and fur, pressed into her back. Nina knew one misstep, one stumble, and she was out for good.

Nina realized she was coming to a corner and she needed to slow down. Were-Luke knew this, too, and its claws sliced through the air, aimed for her head.

She froze for a heartbeat, taking in the timing, and then she ducked out of the way. The claws shredded empty air, grazing only the wall behind her. The beast stumbled forward, momentum carrying it into the wall with a bone-jarring thud.

Yes! Nina roared in triumph.

For a fraction of a second, hope ignited. She had gained some distance and she might have a chance in surviving this.

But the hallway ended abruptly. A French-style door blocked her path, glass panes glinting in the dim light. Every second counted. She couldn't waste time fumbling with the handle to open it when the werewolf behind her was already back onto their feet and resuming the chase. And it could be locked!

No, I need to keep going!

Nina ran, sprinting full tilt, shoulders forward, arms covering her eyes, and braced for impact. She launched herself through the window. With a scream and a crash, she smashed through the panes. Shards rained around her like glittering knives, slicing at the air, some breaking skin around her arm.

She burst into the manor's massive conservatory. Momentum carried her over the balcony railing of the terrace overlooking the perfectly manicured and placed trees and vegetation below, and she couldn't stop. She stumbled forward as the world tilted beneath her. She hit the railing hard, ribs jarring into her lungs, and tumbled over.

Water met her with a cold, choking splash. She sank into a shallow pond, arms flailing just enough to keep her from hitting the bottom too hard. Ripples spread across the stagnant water as glass shards fell like deadly confetti from above.

Nina's blood sang with adrenaline. She had bought herself a moment, maybe more. And she wasn't about to waste it. She needed a place to hide and the beast was drawing close.