Chapter 12: Showdown

The mausoleum loomed like a shadow cut from stone; outlined in sickly pallid moonlight, its crumbling gothic obsidian spires reaching into the blackened sky. Fog; cold, oppressive, clung to the ridge like ghostly fingers, pooling around the wide cracked steps that led to the arched iron doors. The fog muted the world, dampening sound and swallowing movement until it felt as though the mausoleum stood alone in an endless void. It reached twenty feet high at the peaks of its spires, while the crumbling domed roof reached a little over ten feet. Slimy black-green creeping vines engulfed every crack and fractured gap in the stonework, covering up ancient ornate, beautiful carvings. The family name of whomsoever built the mausoleum in ages past, carved into iron over the door, writ in a language long forgotten, was so rusted and grimy as to be illegible anyway.

Vanity approached cautiously, her boots crunching on the gravel-strewn path. The cold air bit at her skin, the faint scent of mildew and decay filling her nostrils. Her piercing violet eyes scanned the building, noting the crumbling gargoyles perched along the roofline; intricately carved, now decaying statues of creatures unlike any she'd seen in her life or even read mentioned in books; obscene chimera, cloven hooved spider bodied demons with ugly, massive sexual appendages, six, eight breasts, multiple mouths; fatted toad-like creatures with lupine legs, huge spiked cocks and werejackal heads. Each chimera gargoyle more horrid than the last, their grotesque semi-human faces twisted into snarls that seemed to watch her every step as they cavorted in a static orgy of still-life horror.

The rusted iron lattice doors stood slightly ajar, hanging off a hinge on one side; their once-ornate carvings corroded by time and streaked with oxidised red. She placed a gloved hand on the edge of one, pushing it open with a metallic groan that echoed into the darkness beyond like the last wail of a dying man.

Inside, the mausoleum was vast and chilling. The stone walls were lined with alcoves, each containing ancient urns and carvings worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Shafts of moonlight pierced through cracks in the high domed ceiling, casting fractured beams of pale light that barely penetrated the swirling fog. From the main chamber, multiple smaller antechambers led off into shadow, each barely illuminated by the pale moons light, cracked and overgrown. Two staircases led down into immutable darkness, presumably, Vanity thought, the most ancient crypts. The cracked flagstone floor was littered with detritus; shattered remnants of ancient pottery, rubble, dust, those slimy black vines, bat guano.

The silence was suffocating, pressing in on her like a living thing. Every sound she made, her boots scuffing against the stone, her breath hitching in her throat, seemed muted, dulled by the fog which rolled at her feet. She adjusted her grip on her pistol, the oiled barrels gleaming faintly as she crossed the threshold and descended into the mausoleum's main chamber.

Then she saw them.

Five bodies lay scattered across the cold stone floor, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Each was dressed in expensive dark blue and grey uniforms of hardened leather and banded steel; mercenaries, probably Blackwood's men who had failed to return. Vanity paused, her gaze narrowing as she took in the scene. Shit, she was impressed they had made it this far. She expected to see the telltale signs of vampires: drained corpses, pale and shriveled, or the shredded carnage left by werewolves. But the truth was something else entirely.

Four of the corpses had a neat, clean hole drilled through their skulls. Blood had pooled around their heads, stark, congealed and dark against the grey flagstone, and spent casings glimmered faintly in the moonlight. One had been shot directly through her left eye, the precision chilling in its cold efficiency. Two of the corpses still had their weapons holstered, heavy pistols by the looks of it, and hunting knives still in sheaths. One corpse held their very expensive looking, very powerful pistol in their dead hand; Vanity could tell just by looking that they hadn't gotten so much as a single round off. Two coach guns- sawn off double barrel shotguns - were scattered on the flagstones, equally unused. Whoever, whatever, had killed these mercenaries had done so with frightening speed and efficiency.

Vanity stopped beside one of the bodies, her violet eyes scanning the details; the only corpse not shot in the head. His chest bore a single wound, centre mass. A well-crafted vest of hardened leather and layered metal banding, designed to stop bullet and blade alike, had been punctured like tissue paper.

"What the fuck happened here?" she muttered to herself. Her gaze flicked over the other bodies. They were all the same; mercilessly efficient kills, clean and deliberate. The stench of death was thick, coppery and foul. Her violet eyes flicked between the bullet casings scattered on the ground, the sheathed weapons... This was an execution. She had been prepared for carnage, but not like this.

She crouched and pulled the pistol from the corpses holster and examined it; a well smithed, extremely expensive, double chamber twelve shooter, heavy gauge. In well-trained hands, the kinda weapon that could kill a score of motherfuckers easy as slapping gnats, without even needing to stop to reload. And it was useless. Even if the unfortunate bled-out sonofabitch she crouched beside had drawn in time, a quick examination showed no ritual sigils on the weapon, and two chambers filled with mundane bullets. Not silver, not cold iron. If they'd come up against a werewolf or a Vampire, they'd have been as well tossing pebbles at them.

"Fuckin' amateurs," Vanity whispered. She checked the man's neck. He at least had the presence of mind to wear a Holy Symbol of the Divine Radiance, for all the good it did him. She wrapped the leather strap around her hand and pulled, snapping the symbol off. As it came free in her hand, the corpse let out a gurgling, coughing wheeze, his head lolling slowly to the side. Mother Fucking Night, he was alive.

The man's punctured chest rose and fell in faint, shallow gasps, his lips trembling as he sucked in air through bloody teeth. He was older, his face creased and gaunt, a well sculpted salt and pepper beard flecked with blood and dirt. His eyes were open now, bloodshot, wild, darting between her face and the shadows that surrounded them. His uniform and armor were soaked through with blood and sweat, and a darker stain spread across his pants where he'd pissed himself.

"Easy there partner, easy," Vanity whispered, checking his pulse in his neck; faint, barely tangible, but it was there. "What the fuck happened here?"

His mouth opened, blood bubbling at the corners of his cracked lips as he struggled to speak. He raised a trembling hand, his fingers twitching as if to reach for her, but the words came out in a frantic, broken, hoarse whisper.

"Run," he rasped, his voice cracked and desperate. "He's... He's still - "

The bark of a gunshot tore through the air, deafening in the enclosed space. Vanity jerked back instinctively as the man's head snapped violently to the side. Blood sprayed across her face, hot and wet, as the back of his skull burst open, splattering the stone behind him. His body went sharply limp, his trembling hand falling to the flagstones with a lifeless thud.

The sound of the shot echoed endlessly, reverberating through the chamber like a scream. Vanity didn't move, stayed crouched; her breath caught in her throat as she slowly wiped her face with the sleeve of her duster. Her violet eyes scanned the shadows, her pistol raised, her heart pounding against her ribs. Nothing. No sound, no scent, no feeling of anyone in the mausoleum with her. What the fuck. The silence returned, thicker than before, oppressive and suffocating.

Then, chasm-deep, like a whisper carried on the breath of a corpse, the voice came from the shadow of one of the antechambers.

"Well now," it drawled, low and hollow, filled with an eerie weight that seemed to press against her skin. "Ain't you just a sight for dead eyes."

The voice crawled through the air like a curse, rattling in her chest. Vanity's hand tightened on her pistol, body tensed and ready to roll, her violet eyes narrowing and every sense on fire.

The figure emerged from the shadows, his polished pointed-toe boots tapping softly against the stone. He was tall and impossibly lean, his frame cutting an angular nightmare silhouette against the pale beams of moonlight. His duster swirled around him like smoke, the fine black fabric lined with subtle embroidery that shimmered faintly in the gloom. His wide-brimmed hat cast deep shadows over his face, but the flickering blue flames that burned within his hollow eye sockets illuminated his gaunt undead features.

His skin was pale and stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, his lips thin and bloodless, curling into a faint, humorless rictus smirk. In his gloved hand, he held an enormous seven shooter revolver; a monstrous thing of black iron; its barrel long and ornate, the arcane engravings along its surface twisting jnto vines and skulls.

Vanity's mouth twitched as she straightened, her pistol levelled at the creature's chest. The flickering flames in his eyes danced erratically, casting eerie shadows that shifted and crawled across his face.

"Zoran the Damned, I presume," she said, her voice sharp and steady despite the chill clawing at her spine.

The smirk widened, revealing teeth too perfect for his corpse-like face. He tipped his hat with his free hand, the motion deliberate, mocking.

"That depends," he said, his voice dripping with amusement, each word hollow and ethereal. "On who's askin'."

Vanity held her ground, her pistol trained on the undead gunslinger. Zoran took a couple of steps towards her, almost like he was daring her to react; he moved like a shadow, with impossible fluid grace; his long black duster trailing behind him as his boots clicked against the stone. As he moved into a beam of pale, ghostly moonlight, he revealed more of himself; he wore extremely well tailored slim black pants with fine silver embroidery and a loose fitting black silken shirt with a thin silver bolo tie loose around his thin, pale neck. His revolver, beautiful and terrible and ornate, never wavered, its barrel steady as he stared at Vanity with those flickering blue flames in his hollow eyes. His gaze dropped briefly to her gun; an almost imperceptible motion, followed by an equally imperceptible nod.

"Mighty fine lookin' iron," Zoran drawled, his voice smooth and hollow, like the whisper of wind over an open grave. "Double-barrel, twenty gauge, sawn down with some skill and carved with some mighty intricate runes. Someone put a lotta love and power into that piece."

Vanity's lips twisted into a sneer, her violet eyes blazing as she kept the pistol aimed square at his chest. "Yeah," she snapped. "That someone was me."

Zoran chuckled softly, the sound dry and brittle, like old wood splintering.

"Impressive. How's 'bout you place it gently on the ground with the due reverence such a fine piece o' iron deserves?"

"Over my dead body," Vanity shot back, her voice sharp as steel. The faintest flicker of a smirk crossed Zoran's pale lips.

"That's usually how these things go," he said. His revolver tilted ever so slightly, the engraved barrel gleaming faintly in the fractured moonlight. His voice was flat, hollow, as if from beyond the grave itself as he continued. "On the ground. Now."

Vanity's nostrils flared as her grip on the pistol tightened. Her finger hovered near the trigger, her breath steady despite the tension coiling in her chest.

"No fuckin' way."

Zoran tilted his head, his empty eye sockets narrowing as the blue flames within flickered brighter.

"Darlin', you really think you're quick enough to get a shot off before me?" he asked, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather. Vanity's jaw tightened, her violet eyes locking onto his, unflinching.

"I'll take my chances," she said through gritted teeth.

Zoran's smirk widened, his bony fingers flexing around the grip of his revolver. The gunshot exploded through the air like a thunderclap, the flash of Zoran's revolver illuminating the shadows for a split second. Pain shot through Vanity's hand like fire as his shot hit her gun at precisely the right angle to knock it from her grasp; sharp and searing as her pistol was sent spinning across the flagstones, the twin barrels glinting faintly as it clattered to a stop against an ancient cracked stone sarcophagus. She staggered back, clutching her hand as a string of curses hissed through her teeth.

"Motherfuckin' son of a bitch!" she snarled, her chest heaving as she flexed her fingers against the sharp sting radiating up her arm. She made the faintest motion to reach for the hilt of her sword with her other hand; Zoran cocked the hammer on his revolver again, the motion slow and deliberate, the metallic click echoing through the chamber. He tilted the barrel toward her chest, his hollow gaze fixed on her.

"Don't," he said softly, the flames in his eyes flickering brighter, "even think about it." He gestured faintly with the revolver, his voice steady as the grave. "Would be a damn shame to ruin such a fine breast as yours."

Vanity clenched her fists at her sides, her teeth grinding as she forced herself to stay still, to not reach for her sword and rush this creature.

"That's better," Zoran said, the faint smirk of his rictus grin still tugging at his bloodless lips. He gestured with the revolver again, nodding toward a broken stone bench behind her. "Take a load off, sweetheart. You're makin' me all manner of anxious standin' there."

With a sharp exhale, Vanity lowered herself onto the bench, her movements slow and deliberate. Her glare burned into him, her violet eyes refusing to waver as she settled onto the cold stone. Zoran moved with an eerie, fluid grace, crossing the chamber to perch on the edge of a crumbling sarcophagus. His long, lean frame folded like a marionette, his duster swirling faintly around him as he leaned back. The revolver rested lazily on his thigh, the barrel still pointed in her direction.

"Sword on your back. Toss it." His burning blue eyes, cold and ethereal, scanned down her body. "And those knives you think you got hidden under that frilly little skirt. Nice and easy now."

Vanity hissed between gritted teeth. She unbuckled the scabbard of her sword and slung it to the ground between them. Then, slow and with precision, she pushed back the edges of her duster, spread her legs wide and unstrapped the throwing knives, concealed under her black skirt, before tossing them next to the sword. Zoran watched her with detached interest. Most men would've been unable to resist her there, exposed, legs open like that. But Zoran showed no sign of interest in her smooth olive thighs or the slightest hint of her cunt visible as she stripped the straps from her legs.

Vanity didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew a small bundle of parchment. The pages were yellowed and brittle, the edges curling with age. The jagged black symbols scrawled across them seemed to pulse faintly, catching the moonlight like inked veins.

"Now," he drawled, his tone soft but still hollow and impassive, "I'm no mystic, but I reckon you come all this way lookin' for these." He held the pages up, tilting his head as his smirk deepened. "Just like these poor unfortunates here." He motioned to the corpses littered around the chamber. Vanity's eyes locked onto the bundle, her pulse quickening.

"Yeah," she said sharply, her voice edged with tension. "If that's what I think it is, yeah." Zoran's rictus smirk softened, but the flames in his eyes didn't dim.

"Well I hate to piss on your hearth," he said, his voice almost apologetic, though still tinged with that hollow drawl. "But I can't give 'em to you."

Vanity's fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms.

"Why the fuck not?"

Zoran leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he met her gaze.

"Because I need 'em."

Vanity's eyes narrowed.

"Fuck does a Wraith need with a spell o' protection against undead?"

Zoran said nothing. He leaned casually against the edge of the broken sarcophagus, his long, lean frame draped in the black folds of his duster. The bundle of yellowed pages rested loosely in his gloved hand, the flickering blue flames in his hollow sockets casting faint shadows over his corpse-like face. Vanity smirked, despite herself. "Alright, not a big talker. Fine. But if you've got what you came for, why are you still here?"

Zoran's dead rictus smirk widened, his lips curling with slow, deliberate amusement.

"Waitin'," he drawled, his tone smooth as polished bone. "For you."

Vanity's eyes narrowed, her breath hitching slightly.

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

Zoran gestured lazily toward the corpse closest to him, the one she'd tried to speak to.

"I kept that poor bastard alive for two whole days as a trap for any might've pursued me. Figured someone'd come sniffin' after me sooner or later. Imagine my surprise when you slunk in here."

The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting. Vanity's pulse quickened, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. She leaned forward slightly.

"So you know who I am, huh?"

Zoran tilted his head, voice flat.

"Course I do, Vanity Hellsong," he said, hollow, even, like it was the most onvious thing in the world. "You think someone like me don't keep tabs on folks like you? What's my bounty up to these days?"

Vanity hesitated a moment before answering, her eyes narrowing even as her smirk widened.

"Fourteen hundred Thalers."

Zoran's smirk faltered, his brow creasing faintly.

"Fourteen hundred?" he echoed, his voice showing signs of something approaching genuine emotion for the first time; disappointment. "I'd've thought I was worth well over two thousand by now."

They locked eyes, the tension between them coiling, the flickering light of Zoran's sockets casting his smirk into sharper relief. Vanity straightened, crossing one leg over the other as she kept her gaze steady.

"Don't be so down in the mouth, Zoran. Church is tight with the purse strings is all, even at the worst o' times." Zoran allowed himself a chuckle like the scraping of bone. Vanity continued. "So, you know me. You know what I do, and seems you got me at a disadvantage right now. If I'm right in guessin', I ain't walkin' outta here, so why not just tell me? Why d'you want those pages?"

"Well now, put like that," Zoran began, his voice as hollow as an open grave, as cold as the void between the stars. "I suppose I could -"

His head jerked to the side, sharp and sudden, like a marionette yanked on its strings. His fingers flexed around the grip of his revolver, but otherwise, he did not move. Not a muscle.

Vanity felt the shift before she heard it. A tightening of the air, a creeping weight in the atmosphere. Then low, guttural growls, the scrape of claws against stone, the slow, deliberate crunch of something massive shifting through the mist. And beneath it all, threading through the night like silk through a noose; laughter. Smooth, patient, knowing.

Zoran cocked the hammer of his revolver softly to mute the sound.

"Pick up your gun."

Vanity didn't need to be told twice. She crossed the room in three quick strides, boots barely making a sound against the cracked flagstones. Her fingers curled around the polished grip of her pistol, the smooth etchings of the runes biting familiar into her palm. She snapped the weapon shut with a practiced flick of her wrist, pulse hammering, steady but strong.

Zoran had already moved. He flowed across the mausoleum like something that wasn't quite real, wasn't quite there, until he was at the narrow window. His silhouette against the misty gloom looked wrong; stretched, hollow, something caught between the world of the living and whatever of the seven hells had birthed him.

Vanity stalked over, pistol raised, jaw set.

"What are we looking at?"

Zoran's voice was barely more than a breath.

"Werewolves." His head tilted, just slightly. "Six. And a vampire."

Vanity's grip on her gun tightened. Through the dense, shifting fog, she could see the faintest movement of lupine figures prowling between headstones, shapes slinking closer, circling. The low snarls echoed, growing bolder, closer. Zoran did not move. He remained as still as the dead, revolver poised, his burning blue eyes locked on the fog beyond the mausoleum door. Vanity wet her lips, feeling the heat of her own breath against the cold air.

"Well, shit," she muttered, flexing her fingers around her gun. "Guess your bounty's gonna have to wait."

Before Zoran could reply, the voice slithered through the darkness.

"Warm blood."

Vanity went rigid. The words were slow, rich, curling through the night with the weight of something ancient. Something hungry. "Warm blood. Come out and present yourself."

Zoran smirked, just a flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on the mist. Vanity scowled.

"Guess they're here for me."

"Seems that way."

She could hear the werewolves breathing now, hear the scrape of claws on rock. The air was thick with the scent of wet fur and old blood.

Zoran straightened, finally turning to face her.

"Wolves are a problem, but a Vampire's another kinda shit-show altogether. You give an inch and he'll dodge bullets like you was firin' into thin air. He'll sense anythin' you throw at him faster'n you can whip it. Best bet here is keep him busy," he said, voice as cool as a corpse's breath, the hollow blue eye sockets ablaze. "Get me a shot."

Vanity pushed out a slow breath and rolled her shoulders.

"Not a problem," she murmured over her shoulder, voice low, razor-edged. "Stay sharp and stay out o' sight."

Zoran didn't argue. He only tipped his head, that slow, unreadable gesture, before dissolving back into the dark. The wraith was uncanny; one second solid, the next, just a whisper of presence, a shadow unmoored.

Vanity stepped out into the cold, fetid night. The werewolves were close. Close enough that she could hear the slow, wet sound of tongues lapping over teeth, the scrape of claws in the dirt. They moved deliberately, bodies rippling with a sick, heavy sinewy grace, breath steaming in the cold. Each one as large and menacing as the wolf she'd slain an hour earlier. But she barely spared them a glance; her eyes focused on the real shit-show.

He was tall, lean, handsome and sharp-featured, with that cold, effortless grace that only the very old, very powerful managed to pull off. Wheat-blonde hair fell in lazy waves around his shoulders. His fine coat flared like a cloak, and his long nimble fngers flexed at his sides, poised, patient. But his eyes; black, simmering pits rimmed in the dull burn of embers, smoldering red irises, raked her up and down like he was trying to commit every inch of her, every line, every curve to memory. He slowly, deliberately licked his full sensuous lips, long tongue leaving a faint trail of wetness; and as he did so he revealed his fangs. Canine teeth, elongated, narrow, razor sharp. His mouth curled into a carnal grin as Vanity flicked her gaze lower, at the obscene, obvious bulge stretching the front of his tight satin pants where his impressive cock swelled as he drank her in.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was like fine silk dragged over rusted barbs. It was deep, velvety, sensual; to the untrained ear, almost harmonious. This was the voice they used to enthrall mortals. But Vanity was no rube; she heard the hunger beneath the surface, the edge, the barbs; she knew the feral creature hiding just beneath the pantomime of human nobility.

"Well, well," he purred. "What delicious creature have we here?"

Vanity shifted her weight, rolling her hips, slow and deliberate. His eyes followed like a starving dog.

"Funny," she cooed in response. "I was about to ask the very same thing. What a specimen you are." The vampire took a step closer, looking like he wanted to devour her right where she stood. "You don't need that pack o' hounds at your back just to come pay a visit to a warm, willin' damsel do you?"

The Vampire smirked, his response casual..

"Not normally, of course. But you reek of recent death, my dear. Blood, gunsmoke and silver," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "A dangerous perfume to carry through a place like this."

Vanity smirked.

"You wanna get closer and see what else I smell of?"

Something flashed behind his expression; hunger, amusement, interest. His eyes dragged over her again, slow, indulgent. And then he inhaled softly, as if testing the nose of a glass of fine wine; and his smirk faltered. It was brief, just a flicker. A small, sharp hitch in that carefully cultivated mask. But Vanity caught it.

The vampire's fingers twitched. He inhaled again, this time slower. His expression hardened, becoming cold and white as marble.

"What in the seven hells," he murmured, so low it almost wasn't a question, "have you been consorting with?"

Vanity grinned as she felt her power swell. The air was damp, cold, sharp; but inside her, there was only heat. That low, steady thrum between her thighs, the tight ache of her nipples, hard and sensitive against the cool night. In a brief second the Vampire had realised two things; it could not enthrall her. And in that moment came the second realisation; there was something different about her. Vampires thrived on control, but this one realised he had none; not only that, had given it away. To her. His cock, thick and aching, bulging against the delicate material of his pants, fighting against the silk, betrayed his desires. Vanity licked her lips, slow, purposefully, watching his nostrils flare as he tracked the motion like an animal scenting blood. She had control now. She was enthralling him. He sensed something in her, something calling to him.

Vanity guessed it must be the Carnavite.

Though she'd excised its influence, some remnant must have still clung to her; faint, but enough to catch the Vampire's notice. The Lust Demon she had fought and killed in the Dreadrock Ridge mine, who's blood and cum she had swallowed, which had driven her into a mindless carnal frenzy she had only exorcised by almost fucking Raven to death, had been borne from Carnifax, the same Demon Prince who had spawned Vampires. The Vampire could sense it in her; it excited him. And because of that, he had already given her all the control she needed.

Vanity took a step closer to the Vampire. Then another. The wolves were stiff at his back, muscles tensed, eyes locked on her, but they didn't lunge. Vanity reached out. The Vampire stiffened as her fingers curled over him, slow, deliberate, pressing against the thick, solid weight of his cock through his pants. A sharp inhale. A clenched jaw. His cock pulsed, a slow, aching twitch; and her own cunt throbbed in answer.

"I'll be thrice damned," she murmured, giving him a long, testing stroke, dragging her palm over the thick shape of him. "You're so fuckin' hard for me, aintcha?"

He didn't answer. His breath, an unnecessary affectation for an undead creature, had gone shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides, the sharp cut of his jaw tighter than before. He was trying to mask it, trying to hold onto that stoic, untouchable power, but the way his cock jumped in her grip gave everything away.

Vanity's smirk widened. "You like this, don't you?" she purred, curling her fingers more firmly around the base of his cock, giving him a slow, teasing pump. "You like me stroking your big, hard, vampire cock while your dogs watch?"

The wolves snarled, but the Vampire kept his eyes locked on Vanity's gaze; his preternatural red irises wide, a mix of admiration, lust, wonder, shock; fear? She felt it when his hips gave a single, involuntary roll into her palm, his cock throbbing against her hand, thick and aching. His head dipped, his breath brushing cold against her cheek, perfectly imperfect long blonde brushing against Vanity's shoulder; his voice a low, ragged thing as he tried to muster some kind of resistance.

"You're playing with fire, bitch."

She moaned in response; not loud. Not exaggerated. Just a soft, low, wet sound of pleasure, of control, of knowing she had him right where he belonged to her.

"Am I?" she whispered, pressing her nails lightly into the shape of him, dragging slow, deliberate circles with the tips of her fingers. "Because it sure as shit feels to me like you're the one about to fuckin' explode." His breath was shaking now, his hips barely holding still, his cock heavy and pulsing. "Tell me your name," she purred, giving him one long, torturous stroke from base to tip, pressing her palm firm against the head, feeling the damp heat where his leaking cockhead had already started to stain the silk.

"LaVore," he grimaced. Vanity grinned.

"Just LaVore? What, no grand regal title? No strong, proud epithet? I thought you Vampires all had that. Lord LaVore the Mighty? Ser LaVore the lover?" She spat that last word with a wicked grin. "You like it, don't you, Just LaVore?" she murmured, voice thick with amusement, with power. "Me strokin' your fuckin' cock, makin' you twitch, leak your juice all over my hands while I'm makin' you pant like a fuckin' bitch in heat. How 'bout Ser LaVore the Submissive..?"

Abruptly, with lightning speed, the twin barrels of her pistol snapped under his chin, tilting his head up, forcing his lips to part on a sharp inhale; pale white fangs visible between his lips. LaVore was frozen. His cock was still throbbing, still leaking, his hips still trembling with the ache of the edge she'd left him on."Now, I'm just here on an errand and nothin' else, and I got what I came to this sunless shithole for," she murmured, pressing the cold barrels of the pistol harder into his jaw, her other hand still wrapped around his cock, giving him one long, slow, cruel stroke. "I ain't gotta be a problem for you or your were-mutts here. So I'm walkin' the fuck out of here, understood?"

Vanity felt LaVore shatter under her touch. His breath hitched, his entire body locked up, his cock giving one final, desperate pulse against her palm. His hips jerked, his thighs tensed so hard they shook, his cock spilling hot, shameful spurts of cum into his silk pants, soaking through in a dark, spreading stain. His lips curled back, fangs bared in something between a snarl and a moan, his body wracked by the orgasm tearing through him. Vanity milked it, dragging her fingers slow, squeezing just enough to make him shudder all the way through it, his thighs twitching, his hands spasming open and closed, trying and failing to hold onto whatever scrap of dignity he had left.

"That's a good boy, mmm."

He collapsed onto his knees, trembling, the scent of his own release thick in the cold, mist-choked air. The wolves hesitated, sniffing his release in the cold air. Their master, the vampire who commanded them with that smooth, effortless arrogance, was kneeling in front of Vanity, panting, shaking, his silk pants drenched in cum, his breath coming in ragged, broken snarls. He was humiliation made cold, marbled, perfect flesh. Vanity cocked her hip and licked her fingertips, her gun hanging loose in her other hand as she looked down at this dread creature of the night utterly undone by her touch. She let a soft snort of derision escape her.

That was a mistake.

Abruptly, his head jerked up, and his eyes burned with something feral, demonic; something desperate, something hungry and wrong. The mask slipped, that veil of civility and humanity that all vampires wore; nothing but a bad joke. The seed of Carnifax, that raw, hateful demonic hunger and lust, burst forth, shocking even Vanity with its sudden ferocity. She stepped back in shock, readying her gun as LaVore moved with frightening speed to his feet again.

"Succubus sex-bitch cunt," he spat, voice hoarse, face twisted with rage and lingering desire; all carved marble beauty replaced by feral need and hate, steaming with the indignity of what she'd done to him. The very air around him seemed to burn and twist with his rage as he loomed closer. "Demon-whore! You're going fucking nowhere. I'll fucking eat your flesh from the bone, bathe in your fucking blood and throw the bones to my dogs after I let them fuck your corpse, you hear - "

LaVore's skull detonated like a rotted melon under a hammer, a thick, wet blast of bone, flesh, and clotted black filth bursting outward in a gory kaleidoscope, spraying the wolves, the dirt, Vanity herself as Zoran's monstrous pistol barked once from the shadow of the mausoleum window. LaVore's body twitched once, then slumped remains-of-his-face-first into the dirt, a thick, steaming mass of pulped brain matter, gore and shredded cartilage spilling from the jagged ruin of his neck. Mother Fucking Night, Vanity thought to herself. Whatever fucking bullets Zoran had loaded in that pistol that could execute a Vampire in one shot were powerful; terrifying, not like anything she'd ever wielded herself.

The wolves yelped, staggered back, tensed. Vanity levelled her gun at them and called back over her shoulder.

"Took your sweet fuckin' time."

Zoran's voice was flat, hollow, a grave whisper carried in the wind..

"Had to wait till you slowed him down enough so he wouldn't sense the bullet coming his way."

Vanity's smirk was all teeth.

"Well. You're fuckin' welcome."

Snarls ripped the air, claws dug deep into the damp earth, muscles bunched as the pack of werewolves recovered their senses and prepared to pounce. Vanity licked blood off her lip.

"Alright, you fuckin' mangy mutts." Her fingers clasped tight around the grip of her gun, her pulse pounding in her throat, in her chest, in the wet heat between her thighs. "Let's fuckin' go."

Without warning they were on her, a sudden, explosive eruption of bristled black, muscle and claw, as the pack launched forward with blistering speed; a nightmare storm of fur and fangs. Vanity fired both barrels at once into the oncoming fray. The silver rounds hit the lead wolf like thunderbolts, sending it spinning, its shoulder blown apart in a shower of shredded meat and bone, a wet, high-pitched yelp strangled in its throat as the silver ate through it like acid.

Zoran was already in motion. The wraith flowed from the shadows like fluid night, his revolver cracking once, twice, each shot precise as a scalpel. A wolf's head snapped back as a bullet punched straight through its skull, a geyser of black ichor spraying the mist. Another went down with its spine shattered, convulsing and whimpering, its body refusing to die just yet even as the wound crackled and smoked, the silver burning through it.

Vanity spun as a hulking brute of a wolf, eight feet tall at the shoulder and all barbs and ropes of venom lunged, dodging just barely as she frantically reloaded her pistol with shells from her belt; too close for comfort. Claws grazed her stomach, shredding her duster as the wolf turned on her again, and she hissed through her teeth, dropping low as she snapped the gun shut and fired a point-blank shot straight into its open mouth. The werewolf's skull burst apart, viscous acrid black blood, brain matter and shattered teeth exploding out the back of its head. She cocked the hammer and spun fast, hearing another behind her, gun at the ready; but this one was too fast even for Vanity.

Pain. A sudden, white-hot fire at her thigh, cutting through her nerves, her muscles, right to the bone as the enormous black werewolf's powerful jaws clamped down on her leg, the searing poison agony of its saliva infecting the wound even as it tore at her. She screamed a curse, and fired but the shot went wide, grazing the wolf's back as it began to thrash, trying to throw her around like a rag doll. She smashed the butt of her gun against its snout, its eyes, but it was too strong. The beast just ripped in, teeth sinking deep, its jaws like a steel trap on her thigh, its wild sickly yellow eyes locked on her as it pulled her down. Vanity's body jerked, vision whiting out for a half-second as she felt the wet pop of muscle tearing, her blood gushing warm and wetly over the wolf's snout. She reached back for her sword and remembered in that instant it was still inside the mausoleum. Fuck.

Zoran's gun cracked, and the werewolf's skull detonated, spraying gore all over Vanity and the dirt from a shot which could have taken her leg off if it wasn't so perfectly aimed. The weight vanished, the wolf corpse collapsing, its jaws ripping away from her flesh in a fresh surge of white-hot agony. Vanity staggered back, only adrenaline keeping her on her feet as the pain in her thigh burned, her breath coming in ragged, angry gasps, the scent of her own blood thick in her nose. She spat, heaved, yanking the spent shells from her gun and slamming two new ones in place. Zoran reloaded with inhuman calm, spinning his gun on his finger, snapping the cylinder shut, his empty gaze locking onto the final charging beast.

It came at them frothing, eyes wide and deranged, its matted fur soaked in blood; its own and others. Zoran caught it mid-lunge, his revolver barking, taking one whole leg off in a searing explosion of fur and gore. It screeched and howled, landing awkwardly enough to buy Vanity an opening; hobbling, cursing, feeling the searing pain and something much, much worse in her wound, she levelled her gun as the three legged beast spun awkwardly towards her, and unloaded both barrels into it. With a final howling whimper the wolf collapsed, spilling it's life into the sodden, muddy earth.

Vanity staggered to the mausoleum wall and grabbed at her thigh. The bite throbbed like a second heartbeat, hot and wrong and pulsing with unnatural rhythm. Blood poured from the ragged crescent wound on her thigh, the torn skin already darkening, staining, going grey and fetid; she was becoming infected with the creeping curse of lycanthropy. Vanity swore, dropping her gun, every breath rasping like a blade dragged over bone as she clutched her leg, her eyes wildly scanning the battlefield for her bag. The battlefield twitched with death. Blood pooled in deep puddles, steaming where it mixed with the cold mist. Fur hung from jagged stone. Bones cracked under Zoran's boots as he stepped up beside her, still holding his smoking sidearm. His cold blue flame eyes scanned her leg with terrifying nonchalance.

"It's moving fast," he muttered. "I can cut the leg - "

"Don't finish that fuckin' sentence," she snapped, spinning on him, eyes wild and glassy with pain and fury. "I'm not losing a fuckin' inch of myself to this."

Zoran remained cold, impassive.

"Curse'll reach your heart in no time at all; you'll be done for."

She pushed away from the wall as she spotted her bag, discarded in the mud by a wolf corpse. Her fingers shook, but she crouched and tore through her bag. Holy water, its glass vial slick with grime and old blood; and then, gleaming like a perverse relic in the deathly moonlight, her solid silver dildo. Cold, heavy in her hand, wickedly smooth to the touch. It glinted with inlaid runes that pulsed faintly against her palm, thrumming with restrained power. Zoran blinked. "That what I think it is?"

"Shut the fuck up and help me," Vanity hissed, shoving the vial of holy water into his hands.

Without another word, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her skirt and shoved it down hard, wincing as the fabric rubbed against the wound on her thigh. Her bare ass flexed as she kicked it away, leaving her naked from the waist down save for her boots crusted with blood, her thighs smeared with battle and sweat and dark arterial slick.

The mist licked up her legs, coiling between them like a curious lover. Her cunt, shining, swollen, wet with arousal and adrenaline and fury, glinted in the open air as she threw her torn duster off onto the ground. Zoran uncorked the vial and held it out to Vanity. She snatched it and sloshed the holy water straight onto the bite on her thigh. It screamed against her skin. Steam blasted from the wound, sizzling, eating into cursed flesh. She snarled through her teeth, back arching, her body a taut wire of agony and control. Blood and holy water poured down her leg in rivulets, pooling at her boot.

She spread her legs, wide and shameless, planted her boots into the mud and gore, and slid the cold silver dildo into herself with a violent, sopping sound. Her cunt sucked greedily at the sacred metal, her whole body shuddering like she'd just been electrocuted. Her fingers clawed into her thighs as she rammed the dildo deeper, harder, each thrust forcing out a guttural moan. It wasn't pleasure; not yet. It was ritualistic, raw and brutal, violent and desperate sex magick. The arcane runes, the silver, lit her up inside like a lantern; the spread of sensation from cool to tingling to burning inside her cunt spread across her whole body as she moaned and cried out, fucking the curse out of her body with silver.

Zoran said nothing. Just stared.

Her body lit up with every wet, desperate thrust. Her nipples stood hard and wet in the cold, pressing hard against her corset as her tits bounced with each plunge of the dildo, shaking ever close to spilling free as the mist curled over her sweat-slicked skin. Her moans grew louder, filthier, as the pleasure came crashing in, overwhelming the searing pain, swallowing it whole. She was leaking everywhere, her pussy slick and loud, wet lips greedily sucking the dildo into her; the sound of her fucking echoing off the crypt walls. The infection fought back. She felt it twisting, flaring, digging deeper. She only fucked herself harder.

The runes flared. Vanity's breath came in raw, ragged gulps; lungs struggling to pull oxygen from the thick, gore-heavy air. Her thighs were soaked, trembling, and she cried out in agony and ecstasy as the orgasm ripped through her. She screamed, cursed, shook violently as a spraying flood of corruption spewed from her cunt, black oily cum pouring in a torrent from between her legs onto the muddy gore beneath her. But she wasn't finished.

"Oh fuck no," she hissed, spitting blood and bile into the dirt, feeling the curse of the lycanthrope still struggling to consume her. "Fuck you. Fuck you!"

Her hands went to the laces of her corset and tore, pulling the whole thing off in one forceful yank. Her tits spilled free, high and perfect, nipples hard as bullets and dripping sweat. Her whole body glistened in the pale moonlight, coated in blood, mist, sweat, and the raw shine of her own arousal. She clawed at her clit, enflamed, determined to expel the lycanthropy before it took hold.

Zoran stood back, silent and unmoving, but not unfeeling. His eyes tracked every twitch of her muscles, every tremble of her thighs, every wet slap of that silver dildo spearing into her cunt.

She was*soaked. The holy water had hissed and sizzled against the bite, but now it ran down her leg in rivulets, mixing with her juices, turning the mud beneath her feet into a puddle of sex and gore.

Vanity dropped to her knees, wide-legged, back arched in mid-orgasmic prayer, kicking her boots off. She rammed the dildo in deep, groaning as her cunt swallowed the slick, hot silver like a lover she didn't intend to let go. Her fingers worked her clit in tight, punishing circles, and her body jerked, her hips slamming forward as she fucked herself harder.

"Come on, cunt," she growled at herself, nails clawing her own thigh. "Come the fuck on, fuckin' do it..."

She pulled the dildo out; glimmering wet, glistening with slick and cum and corruption, and*spat on it before shoving it back into her pussy, deep, hard, relentless. Her scream was thunder, lightning, war. Her tits bounced with every thrust, slick skin slapping wetly against her palms and thighs, her entire body flexing. Her second orgasm hit like a landslide, cunt clamped down on the silver, twitching, convulsing, her juices gushing out in violent, pulsing jets; each one a spray of black, corrupted filth that steamed and hissed as it struck the earth. She squirted like a possessed thing, gasping, screaming, climaxing as another wet fetid spray, vile and thick, splattered the ground in black corruption as her cunt spasmed through one last savage pulse.

Vanity was on all fours now, soaked in sweat and ruin. Her body trembled in waves, cunt still dripping from the last explosive purge, thighs slick with a cocktail of blood, holy water, and the black, smoking remnants of the curse. The bite wound throbbed red and angry, but it wasn't done, not yet. She could still feel it. The last strands of lycanthropy wound tight in her spine like barbed wire. Clinging. Burrowing. Refusing to let go.

Zoran stood silent as death, watching her from the edge of the graveyard haze. His eyes were cold stars, ancient and expressionless.

"It ain't done."

Vanity growled low, an animal sound from the pit of her gut.

"Neither am I."

She gripped the silver dildo and pulled it from her glistening cunt, wetness squelching obscenely around the ridged silver, filth and cum and ichor dripping in strings. Her fingers trembled, her body shuddered. Vanity reached back, her hands spread her ass wide, and the cool fog kissed her exposed, slick hole. She didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch. With a snarl between her teeth, she shoved the slick, slippery silver deep into her asshole. The scream that tore from her throat was pure carnality and agony. Her back bowed. Her fingers clawed at the dirt. Her tits dragged in the mud and moss, nipples stiff, streaked with grime. She started to move, grinding, working the dildo in and out of her tight, sweat-slick anus with a ferocious rhythm. Each thrust seared through her like fire. Each plunge was a death knell for the infection, burning it from her root, her guts, her soul.

Vanity fucked herself like a beast possessed; her legs shaking, her whole body twitching on the edge of implosion. Her free hand clawed at her own tits, pinching her nipples until they bled, until she could feel every nerve scream beneath her skin.

Zoran stood motionless, utterly silent, watching the ritual unfold with eerie stillness.

Vanity's voice cracked around a vicious cry. "Come the fuck on... that's fuckin' it, I can feel it move, fuck!"

Her thighs spread wider, her ass slapping against her hand, the silver gleaming as it disappeared into her again and again. This was what she was, fucking in the filth; she thought of her father, Andras, Rickard, imagining their cocks deep in her ass, pushing her into the mud and dirt; it spurred her on. Raven, her tongue, fingers in her cunt and ass. Vanity was high on carnality, so fucking close to victory. The curse howled inside her, writhing, clawing, but she kept thrusting, kept fucking it out of her body until she felt the swell in her again, dark and hungry, fighting, but being pushed out, out as she came.

Her back arched like a bow. Her eyes rolled white. A scream exploded from her lungs as her body spasmed, clenched tight around the silver buried in her ass and the curse erupted out of her in a geyser of black rot and cum. The ichor sprayed in thick, smoking jets from her asshole and cunt simultaneously, splashing the ground, her thighs, her feet, her tits, even her hair. Her cunt contracted, twitching, gushing, her whole body purging itself in a climax so violent it left her slumped in the mud, twitching, gasping.

The graveyard fell deathly silent. The fog clung to the earth like sweat on skin, and the graveyard had fallen into a reverent hush. Even the wind dared not whisper. The only sounds were the slow drip of cooling ichor from Vanity's thighs and the ragged pull of her breath. Her body trembled, not with weakness, but with the lingering electricity of the act. The purge. The ritual. The raw fucking aftermath. She stayed down for a moment longer, savoring it. Chest rising and falling in slow, measured waves. Her nipples were stiff, filthy peaks, smeared with mud and sweat and gore, and her body was streaked with the mess of violence and sex-magick.

Finally, she sat up, grimacing slightly as her thighs protested. Her hands slid down her body, slick and slow, fingers tracing the ragged bite on her upper thigh. The flesh was pink, raw, but whole. No more greying skin, no pulsing corruption. The holy water and the purging had worked. Still, she wasn't one to take chances. With two fingers, she reached down and slipped them into her own cunt, slow and deliberate, pushing deep until she brushed her cervix. Her body clenched instinctively around the intrusion; still hypersensitive, still twitching from the aftershocks. She pulled her fingers out, slick and glistening, and inspected them.

No black rot or corruption. Just her own heat. Wetness. Sex. She brought them to her lips, licked them clean, then turned her attention lower. Her other hand slid behind her, tracing the sore, stretched ring of her anus. She winced, but pushed two fingers in there as well, wriggling, searching. Nothing. Just ache. Just residual heat. Just the sweet throb of post-orgasm filth. She sniffed her fingers again and licked them clean, savouring the taste of her sweat and juices, and exhaled a satisfied groan. She reached for the silver dildo. It was slick with her juices, expelled ichor, holy water, mud, even blood. She began wiping it clean with the edge of her duster, polishing the shaft like it was a sacred relic.

She didn't notice Zoran kneel until the cold brush of his gloved hand touched her thigh.

She looked down. He had a black neckerchief in his hand, neatly folded. He knelt beside her, his presence a dark silhouette against the pale mist, his skeletal jaw still, eyes locked on her wound. Without a word, he began to clean the inside of her thigh just below the curve of her bare, muddied cunt with slow, meticulous motions. His touch was clinical. Precise. Cold as the grave. But it did something to her. The contrast between her body still burning with heat and blood and aftermath, and his touch like ice along the seam of her sex lit her up again.

She tensed slightly as his fingers grazed too close, just under her folds. Not teasing. Not deliberate. Just business. But that's what made it worse. Or better. She didn't even know. Her breath hitched. Zoran didn't glance up. He wrapped gauze around her thigh with expert precision, not saying a word. The bandage hugged tight just beneath her cunt, framing her heat like a picture in a black silk ribbon. Still, his hand brushed close again, almost grazing her lips. And again, he didn't flinch. Didn't react. Just cleaned and bandaged.

Vanity spread her legs just a little wider as she sat in the dirt, one hand trailing lazily down her belly.

"Don't stop now Wraith,"she purred, voice thick as molasses, rich with satisfied menace. "You missed a spot".

Zoran didn't reply. He simply knelt again beside her, slow as the grave itself, and picked up the black cloth he'd been using to clean the gory remnants from her thigh. She watched his hands with a heated, lazy hunger; his long, skeletal fingers, his touch as precise and cold as a surgeon's. The neckerchief moved again. This time slower. Deeper. He started at her inner thigh, higher than before, dragging the cool fabric against flushed, overly sensitive skin. Vanity flinched, a soft gasp hissing between her teeth. The slow friction of cloth against flesh was maddening, the way he dabbed and wiped not roughly, but with care, ignited something low in her belly.

She spread wider for him, head tilting back, throat exposed to the stars. Her fingers dug into the earth behind her for balance, her breath stuttering when the cloth slid up, just brushing the swollen folds of her freshly used cunt. Zoran didn't hesitate. Just kept working, cleaning her slick pussy like it was part of the mission, like her pleasure was incidental.

"Seen a lot of magic in my time. Lotta different cures for poison and curses. But never seen anythin' like that," he muttered, emotionless.

It was infuriatingly erotic. Her eyes darted to the tight, expensive black pants, to his crotch, expecting to see a throb, a swell, the outline of a cock bursting to be free. It was always the same; anyone who touched her, was near her, she could always rely on that; hardness or wetness. But Zoran showed no sign of arousal. He was caressing her thighs, her cunt, his cold dead hands so close to her ass, and he felt nothing. His motions were methodical. From her outer lips to the crease of her thighs, to the dark, tender slit between. He lifted one leg at the knee, cradling it over his arm, spreading her even wider. She moaned softly, cunt twitching under the chill of his focus. Her body was trembling again, but not from pain, not from fatigue.

When the cloth slid gently between her asscheeks, trailing the edge of her still-gaping hole, she choked on a gasp and bucked slightly. Her head snapped up, her violet eyes meeting the cold blue flames in his sockets.

"You're gonna make me fucking cum again," she breathed, eyes wide, fever-bright.

Zoran's face didn't change. His voice was a low murmur, soft as falling ash.

"Maybe you should. Might help get your head straight."

He pressed the cloth forward, deeper between her cheeks, and her hips jerked. The pressure, the drag, the coldness was obscene. Her clit throbbed. Her breath came in shallow bursts. Still nothing. Here was a creature her body, her aura, could not control. Methodically, like he was loading his pistol or tying his boots, he moved his hand over her clit, and it was driving her fucking wild.

Vanity threw her head back again and laughed; long, guttural, throaty. It was so fucking wrong, but by the three, it felt so fucking good. Her thighs quivered, her toes curled in the mud, and she bit her bottom lip hard enough to bleed. She reached down and caught his wrist, not to stop him. Just to feel the chill of his flesh against her burning skin. She peeled his glove off, took the cloth from his hand and tossed it aside as she guided his bare, undead flesh to her aching pussy. She wanted to feel him, cold as the grave, against her.

"Keep going," she whispered. "Just like that. Make me fucking cum."

His pale, necrotic fingers obeyed her without hesitation. Vanity dragged his hand up, right to the drenched crease between her thighs, guiding him into the slick heat of her cunt with a shuddering gasp. She was still dripping, still swollen from the storm she'd only just begun to ride, her labia puffed and parted, lips flushed with blood. Zoran's cold fingertips slid against the feverish heat of her slit. Vanity's knees buckled, mud squelching beneath her feet as his fingers sank inside her, then curled his fingers upward, dragging along her walls like he knew exactly how to bring her off. She dropped to all fours and pushed his hand deeper, her tits swinging pendulously beneath her, nipples long and thick and hard as diamond in the chill darkness.

Her thighs spread wider, ass tilting upward instinctively, and she was panting now, high and ragged, each breath catching on the edge of a moan.

"Fuck," she hissed, "fuck yes, that's it, right there..."

With her free hand, she reached back, grabbed his other wrist and guided his other hand between her ass cheeks. Zoran followed her unspoken command, sliding his fingers lower, pressing between the firm, filthy curves of her ass, until he found the slick, twitching ring of muscle that clenched and pulsed with every wave of pleasure echoing through her. She was still stretched open from the dildo, and his cold finger eased in with an obscene pop, swallowed to the knuckle by that greedy, spasming heat. Vanity arched her back, moaning deep and wild, her tits swinging beneath her as her body rocked forward into one hand and back into the other.

"Holy fuck," she gasped, voice cracked, hair hanging in her face, plastered with sweat and streaked with dirt and ash. "Don't stop, don't fucking stop...""

Zoran was merciless, expression blank but hands relentless; one sliding deeper inside her cunt, his fingers curling and spreading, the other twisting inside her ass with brutal precision. Vanity was trapped between them, the center of this perfect storm, her whole body slick, her thighs trembling, her breath catching with every thrust. Mud coated her knees, smeared across the tops of her thighs, her whole lower body a mess of slick heat and dripping lust. Every twitch of her muscles made a new obscene sound. Her nipples scraped against the ground as she rocked, sensitive and aching, dragged through dirt and filth. She bit down on her forearm to muffle the scream of lust but it still tore through the clearing, a snarling, feral sound. Vanity slammed her hips back, grinding down against him, her face twisted in fury and lust.

"Harder, you dead fuck, fuck me with those fingers," she snarled, her voice breaking into a groan as her pussy spasmed around him, slick and sucking, begging. She reached down and grabbed one of her own tits, nails digging into the meat as she twisted her nipple hard, dragging herself higher toward the inevitable crashing climax. She was so close now; her clit was a blazing beacon of pain and pleasure, every thrust pushing her closer to some rapturous oblivion. Her muscles trembled, her spine bowed, her cunt and ass both clenching down around Zoran's fingers like she could pull him inside and devour him whole.

"Gonna cum," she gasped, head snapping back, eyes rolling white, spit hanging from her mouth as she bucked and writhed. "Gonna fucking cum..."

Her muscles locked, every inch of her trembling, taut, and over-strung like a wire about to snap. Zoran's fingers were deep in her asshole, in her cunt, forcing her open. His cold, undead grip was merciless, steady, without an ounce of passion, but it made her crazy; made her feral. And when he twisted just so, pressing deep inside her cunt while curling those frozen fingers inside her ass with exquisite, mechanical cruelty, Vanity broke.

"Fuck!" she screamed, voice going hoarse and wild, back arching as her whole body locked in an orgasm so vicious it rattled her bones. Hot, slick torrents of cum squirted from her spasming pussy, drenching her own thighs, splashing into the mud, coating her belly and tits and arms in a chaotic spray of her own high. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth wide in a gasping, wordless cry, body jerking and convulsing, a wild thing overwhelmed by ecstasy. Her fingers clawed into the muck. Her thighs quivered. Her nipples throbbed, sensitive and aching as her orgasm went on and on, like her body refused to stop wringing itself out.

She collapsed forward at last, tits smacking the earth, ass still twitching, cunt still drooling and clenching, breath coming in ragged, filthy gasps. Her body was smeared in cum and earth and blood and ash, a mud-slicked goddess. Zoran pulled his fingers free, one after the other, slow and utterly dispassionate. He rose to his feet without a sound, looming over her prone naked body, his black coat shifting like smoke around his still form.

"Your head clear now?" he asked, voice as cold and flat as winter stone.

Vanity groaned, flopping onto her back, tits smeared in mud and shining with sweat, her thighs still twitching from aftershocks. She let out a breathless laugh, violet eyes half-lidded.

"Crystal fuckin' clear."

Zoran straightened, slowly, silently. His hands moved with mechanical precision as he wiped his fingers on the black neckerchief and pulled his gloves back on. He turned away from Vanity, popped the chamber of his enormous ornate revolver and reloaded it with bullets from his belt, one chamber at a time, each round sliding into place with a heavy, final click. His coat shifted like a living shadow over his tall frame. Behind him, Vanity was moving. Still panting from her release, but clear in her mind now. She knew exactly what needed to be done. She pulled her leather corset back over her sweat-slick torso, fingers fumbling at the buckles, breath still rough in her throat. Her legs were streaked with dirt and drying cum, her cunt still swollen, glistening, exposed, but her leg wound cleaned and bandaged. Her skirt discarded in the mud, temporarily forgotten. She didn't need it right now.

The twin barrels of her custom, rune-carved 20-gauge pistol clicked as she snapped it shut, freshly loaded with arcane silver shot. Her bare thighs were streaked with sweat, mud, and ritual filth, her skin flushed and cooling in the night air, but her stance was solid. The twin barrels of her rune-carved pistol pressed right against the back of Zoran's neck, and her finger didn't so much as twitch off the trigger.

"Appreciate the help with everythin' an' all, but I'll be taking those pages now," she said, voice low and mean. Zoran stood silent for a moment, like he hadn't heard her. Then, calm as a crypt door swinging open, he said,

"No."

Vanity's brow twitched.

"Wrong fuckin' answer." She cocked the hammer.

"I need them," Zoran said, turning slowly to face her. He didn't raise his hands. Didn't reach for a weapon. His hollow eyes burned with pale blue fire, unreadable, steady.

"You don't need shit," she spat. "I've got a town full o' people teetering on the edge of becomin' a massacre. Those pages are all that can help."

"They won't," Zoran said with dispassionate finality.

Vanity's grip tightened.

"Excuse me?"

"Blackwood Creek, right? " Vanity's violet eyes narrowed, but she nodded faintly. Zoran continued. "Zachary Blackwood believes that the spell that guarded Blackwood Creek is fadin' 'cos o' the passin' of time, and he needs these pages to strengthen it. Stop me when I say somethin' untrue, Vanity Hellsong, but I was sniffin' around the town long afore you showed up. The ritual tome that protected Blackwood Creek was old," Zoran said. "Bound to place, to power, to belief. Somehow, Cornell Blackwood made it work, and I think I know how." Vanity opened her mouth to interrupt, but Zoran shook his head. "I'll come to that soon enough. So the tome worked. But it was never gonna be a permanent solution. See, Cornell's curiosity extended beyond that one tome. Had the hubris of a Confessor, alright. Believed he could wield unholy power to do the Lord of Light's good work. That book wasn't the first source o' power he found. The tomb was."

"What tomb?" Vanity whispered, gun never wavering.

"The one underneath Blackwood Creek. Cornell Blackwood didn't just build Blackwood Creek because it was a good place for prospectin' or farmland. He built it because he found something. A tomb. Ancient. Deep under the rock, under the land. A temple to a forgotten demi-god; something old, and hungry."

Vanity didn't speak. She just stared.

"He started digging," Zoran went on. "Quiet. Private. Unearthed a whole mess o' relics afore the Vampires even took notice of his little burgeoning burgh. Tomes, jewelry, offerings. Kept some, sold some, filled his library, poured what he found into the foundations of his legacy. And all of it just on the outside of the tomb. Enough ancient unholy power to allow his decrepit puritanical old ass to enact the ritual of protection that kept the Creek alive. Cost him his life though." Vanity nodded. "So that you know. But like I said, all of that power he mustered up from the outskirts. Cornell died long afore he could figure out how to unlock the tomb itself."

Zoran's mouth curled just slightly, that dead rictus smirk showing bleached teeth.

"And that would've been that, and Blackwood Creek'd a been fine. Only, Cornell's grandson went and figured it out." Vanity's lips drew into a sneer..

"Max Blackwood. The Human-born Vampire."

Zoran whistled, a cold, dry whistle.

"So Zachary Blackwood 'fessed that much up to ya, huh? Must've been a sucker for those charms of yours to give up the family's dirty secret."

"I have my talents," Vanity smiled, humourlessly.

"I'd say that you do." Zoran continued, unmoving, voice hollow, deep, dead. "That's right. You ask anyone, read anythin' 'bout the Blackwoods and they'll tell you Max Blackwood died o' natural causes', a wealthy sonovabitch. Truth is he disappeared thirty years ago, and I doubt even his son knows where. But Max Blackwood didn't disappear," Zoran said. "He went down. Into the earth. Into the tomb. Thirty years ago. And he never came back." Vanity's mouth parted slightly, stunned. "Somehow, that Vampire son of a bitch was able to unlock that tomb beneath Blackwood Creek. Since then, tomb's been like a festerin' open wound, bleedin' serious wicked energies for years, and no one's been paying attention. The energy from the tomb is what dissolved the protection spell. Max Blackwood, wittingly or not, undid his grandfather's great sacrifice. So, you'd best believe me when I tell you that these pages you so desperately want on Zach Blackwoods behalf? Be like tryin' to treat a decapitation with a single stitch."

Vanity's heart raced. This was more than she'd bargained for; a lot fucking more. She steadied her voice.

"And just how did you come to know all of this?"

Zoran's face didn't move.

"Because I once served a master whose attentions have been on that tomb long before Cornell Blackwood broke ground there."

The air seemed to fall still, the mist pressing in tighter. Vanity's voice was low, hoarse, barely a whisper in the cold dreadful night.

"Who might that be, exactly?"

Zoran's eyes glowed; the weight of the name, the single word he spoke, felt like a shot to Vanity's gut.

"Ossisoul."

Ossisoul; the Dread Lich Lord of Nostovar. The Undying King. The most feared of all of Tierra Muerta's Dark Powers. Even the Vampire Lords of the Blood Coast feared him; a terrifying, undead force of inscrutable, untold intellect and dreadful, unimaginable power. In the handful of generations mankind had settled in Tierra Muerta, his name had become legend, a nightmare tale. It was said that if Ossisoul ever turned his horrific attentions to it, ever left his blasted frigid empire of bones in the north and swept south, mankind would be utterly doomed.

Vanity swallowed, hard; her mouth dry. It made sense. Zoran was a powerful undead creature. Of course he was in the service of the Lich.

"You said 'used to' serve. Fuck does that mean? You just up and quit?"

The mist coiled tighter around them, damp and still. Vanity kept the gun leveled on Zoran's pale, unmoving face, her breath still ragged from the orgasm that had left her legs weak and her skin slick. Her thighs glistened with the mess of the ritual, dried streaks of holy water and her own cum marking her like war paint. She waited. Zoran's gaze moved down, then back up her body, regarding her as if for the first time, unnerving her. He didn't blink.

"I told you. I need the pages," he said again, voice flat. "I need to disappear. From him. I was ever his trusted lieutenant. A mindless tool. An extension of his will." The cold, blazing blue flames of his eyes scrutinised Vanity. "Seven years ago, something changed. Part of me that had been dead for centuries awoke once more. And so, to use your parlance, yes. I just up and quit. And I have been running from his sight ever since."

"So the pages..."

"... are the only thing I've found that can ward me from his sight completely. But I can't do it alone. I need a sorcerer to enact the rite, someone who knows how to handle ancient binding magick. You asked why I waited on someone... on you. That's why."

"Sounds a lot like you're askin' for my help," Vanity snorted, though her tone had lost some of its bite. Zoran nodded, slow, imperceptible.

"I'm offering you a parley. You heIp me enact the rite to ward me from Ossisoul, and in exchange I can help you stop whatever's waking in that tomb. And believe me; you're gonna need that help, Vanity Hellsong."

Vanity stared at him, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. Her tits were streaked with sweat and dirt, nipples still flushed and raw from earlier. Slowly, meticulously, she uncocked the hammer and lowered the gun. Her voice came low, dry, hoarse from moaning and shouting and fighting.

"Why me?"

Zoran's brow furrowed ever so slightly..

"Thought that much'd be obvious."

The statement hung in the cold air like mist. Vanity snorted softly. Whatever was obvious to Zoran was lost on her, at least for the moment. She cleared her throat.

"I know a girl."

Zoran tilted his head. Vanity ran a hand through her filthy, matted red hair and sighed. "She's young. Raw. But she's got power. I'm talkin' real fuckin' old-world magickal power. She'll help."

Zoran's expression didn't change. But something in the way he stood shifted, almost like he was letting his guard down just the faintest touch. Vanity crouched and grabbed her skirt, laying bloody, wet and muddy in the dirt, and started pulling it up over her slender, cum and filth-streaked legs. "Well? Fuck are you standin' there swayin' in the breeze like a hung corpse for? Grab my shit from inside the mausoleum. We got a shitty hike out of this nightmare place and a long fuckin' ride back to Blackwood Creek after. And you got a whole fuckin' lot more information to spill on the way."

She tightened the belt of her skirt and snatched a boot from the mud. Zoran turned with almost the vaguest hint of a genuine smile across his rictus and started towards the mausoleum. As she pulled her boots on, Vanity called after him.

"And for the record, if I ain't killin' you, you owe me fourteen hundred fuckin' thalers."