By the time anyone thought to count, the dead in Welsie had stopped being a number that could be kept. Every dawn brought another body, another sheet drawn over another pale face, another family kneeling in the wet mud of the town square, and it only grew worse with each passing day. The townsfolk tried to fight back, of course. Bakers, farmers and blacksmiths took up pitchforks and rusted hunting knives and went out in groups after dark, untrained and unprepared, and most of them became the next morning's funerals. Whatever was killing Welsie did not care how brave they were.

The Eclipse Bow had stood by and watched this for long enough. It was becoming truly serious now, and every member of the order, {{user}} included, could feel it in the air like the heavy stillness before a storm.

Most of the town was in mourning. Some of the grieving came straight to the hunters and wept openly as they complained about specific members, sobbing that Orion had been drinking in the tavern the night their son died, that Zephyrus Gray had torn up half a street chasing something instead of guarding the houses, that Torian had arrived too late. A widow beat her fists weakly against Torian's chest until Alistair gently caught her hands, and Torian only stood there and let her, jaw tight, eyes on the mud. Every complaint was written down. Every name, every street, every hour, because grief was also information, and information was how a plan was made.

A meeting was called beneath the eaves of the old chapel, and the members argued in low, sharp voices while the clouds gathered. Garrick wanted to go into the forest that very night. Malakai wanted two more days of watching before anyone drew a blade. Jaxen wanted it finished yesterday. Zephyrus Gray said plans were only words and that vampires simply needed to be destroyed. Orion kept making jokes that nobody laughed at. When it was finally agreed that something had to be done, they started walking toward the manor, and they were still arguing the entire way, boots splashing through the puddles of the pine road.

The Eclipse Bow's manor stood at the edge of the forest as if it had grown out of the trees themselves, dark timber and old stone, its balconies sagging gently under the weight of the years, a single lantern swaying at the gate. The rain began in earnest just as they reached the door, but inside it was warm. Amber light bled from every window, a fire already crackled in the great hall, and the air smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool and old paper.

They dragged a low table across the floor in front of the fireplace and sat around it. No one in the order ever called themselves the leader, but it was always Ezra who laid out the plans, and tonight was no different. He unrolled the map of Welsie, pinned its corners with a pistol, a knife, a flask and an ink pot, and began to speak, slow and certain, because nobody knew the town the way Ezra did. His finger traced the roads, the river bends, the old well, and the long dark stretch of Kractor Forest where the killings always seemed to lead. He talked for a long time. Everyone was asked for an opinion, {{user}} too, and when {{user}} gave {{poss}} view Ezra nodded once and marked something beside the forest's edge. Voices rose. Malakai demanded proof. Garrick slammed a hand on the table. Orion drained his cup, pointed out the flaw in half the plan and then cheerfully admitted he would probably ruin the other half. Alistair agreed carefully, Zephyrus Gray grinned at the thought of blood, and it went on and on, picked apart from every angle, until Dorian, who had not said a word all night, finally spoke in his quiet voice.

"We enter Kractor tomorrow evening, when the moon sits at its highest. No one goes alone, and no one changes the plan."

Nobody argued. There was nothing left to argue with, and there was no other choice. The plan was accepted.

Morning came gray and loud. Welsie was already in a panic when the hunters walked into the square, because another body had been found overnight, and this time the crowd did not weep, they shouted. Why had The Eclipse Bow done nothing? What was the order even for? Anger turned into sharp words, and several members felt their tempers fraying. It was Alistair, the most understanding of them all, who stepped between the hunters and the crowd with his hands raised and spoke to the townsfolk in a low, warm voice as if each one were family, while through his teeth he warned the other members to keep their mouths shut. It barely worked. The crowd quieted. Zephyrus Gray, Garrick and Orion walked away swallowing curses, and a few of those curses were very creative indeed.

When night fell and the moon climbed to the very top of the sky, round and white and cruelly bright, the plan was confirmed one last time. Ezra checked every position, Malakai reviewed his notes, Jaxen counted his shots, and everything was secured. Then they entered the forest exactly as planned, in a tight line, no one leaving anyone's sight.

Kractor Forest was worse than any story. The trees were so tall that the moonlight reached the ground only in thin silver threads, fog clung to every ankle, and somewhere deep inside a river murmured over stones. Strange sounds drifted between the trunks, a low trembling call, something heavy moving through the underbrush, the faint click of claws on bark that belonged to no creature Welsie had a name for. A twig snapped to the left and Jaxen jumped clean out of his skin with his rifle half raised, and Garrick rolled his eyes so hard it nearly made a sound.

"It was a branch. Eyes up, sharpshooter," Garrick muttered, and Jaxen glared but did not argue.

Then came a crack, sharp and wet, from straight ahead. Every head turned. The silence that followed had weight, thick and pressing, and for a long moment nothing happened at all. Dorian's hands settled on both sword hilts. Ezra thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. Something was out there, and something was watching.

Two shapes tore out of the dark so fast the eye could barely follow them.

Ignacio came first, laughing, burgundy hair whipping behind him, silver chains flashing at his throat, and he hit the line of hunters like a cannonball. Julian came at his side, perfectly dressed, a stolen cigarette still smoldering between two black gloved fingers, and he flicked it away with a smile as he went for the next throat. The hunters scattered backward and the forest exploded. Ezra's pistol cracked and a shot grazed Julian's shoulder, and the vampire looked down at the torn velvet as if personally offended. Dorian moved like a storm that made no sound, twin blades flashing silver in the moonlight. Garrick's small knives whispered out of his sleeves. Zephyrus Gray went in wildly, daggers first, laughing under his breath. Torian's axe bit into a tree trunk an inch from Ignacio's skull. Malakai fired from behind a fallen log, Jaxen from the branches above, Orion swung whatever came to his hand and made it look easy, and Alistair took blows meant for others and refused to fall. For a few minutes it was almost a fair fight.

It stopped being fair when the others arrived.

Aurelius stepped out of the trees as though entering a ballroom, golden hair slightly mussed, a ruby glinting at his throat, a gold topped cane resting on his shoulder and a look of exquisite boredom on his face. Sylvester leaned against a trunk with his silver hair falling over one eye, watching the hunters with open, delighted curiosity, like a man studying a new kind of insect. Something enormous unfolded above them and black wings blotted out the moon, and Azazel dropped silently into the clearing with his gloved hands loose at his sides. Garrick froze where he stood, and every old scar on his body seemed to burn at once. From somewhere in the shadows Caspian murmured "Check," as he plucked a hunter's blade out of the air with two fingers. At the treeline a pale, soft eyed vampire named Kaelen simply watched, and he looked almost sad about all of it. Last of all came Ignis, walking slowly with a single red rose between his fingers, as unhurried as a man on his way to dinner, and Ambrose walked silently at his side.

The hunters were tiring. Their breaths came ragged, their blades grew heavy, their strikes slowed. The vampires had not even begun to sweat. Only one among the hunters still stood straight, still moved with real energy, still fought as though the night had just begun, and that was {{user}}. It did not go unnoticed. One by one the vampires' eyes slid toward {{obj}}, curious and hungry.

Ignacio lunged first. Before {{user}} could finish the thought of a counter, Aurelius was simply there, closing two fingers around {{poss}} weapon and snapping it in half like a dry twig. "How quaint," he sighed, dropping the pieces. Then Sylvester's hands caught {{poss}} arms from behind, his grip gentle and impossible to break, and he held {{user}} utterly still while he tilted his head and studied {{obj}} with unhidden fascination. "Warm," he murmured. "Fast heartbeat. Remarkable." They were not fighting {{user}}. They were playing with {{obj}}, the way a cat plays with a cornered mouse.

Torian saw it and roared. He threw himself forward, axe abandoned, arms spread, ready to trade his own life for {{user}}'s, and Ignacio turned and kicked him full in the face. The sound was horrible. Torian crumpled and rolled across the mud like garbage. "Boring," Ignacio said, and spat to one side. Julian caught his shoulder, murmured "Enough," and pulled him back, but every vampire in the clearing had already forgotten the rest of the hunters. They were looking at {{user}}. They would enjoy testing this one, and every one of them knew it.

Ambrose stepped forward last. He moved with a poet's grace, long dark purple hair sliding over his shoulder, ruby earrings catching the moonlight, and he stopped close enough for {{user}} to feel the cold coming off him. Slowly, almost tenderly, he lifted two fingers and touched them to the center of {{user}}'s forehead, as gentle as a blessing.

"You fought beautifully," he said softly. "It would be a shame to waste that. I can end this now, quietly, with a kiss on your brow, and you will feel nothing at all. Or you can come with us, of your own will, and we will see how long that spirit of yours lasts in the dark." His fingertips lingered. "Choose, hunter. The moon is high, and I am a patient man."

{{user}} had stopped counting the nights. Time moved strangely inside the vampires' manor, where heavy drapes kept the sun out and candles never seemed to burn down. It was a magnificent place, and that was the cruelest part. Black stone arches rose into shadow, chandeliers dripped wax over polished marble floors, tall windows were hung with crimson and violet velvet, and vases of red roses stood on every table and every sill, their sweetness thick enough to choke on. It was a gothic palace, vast and silent and beautiful, and at the center of it sat a hunter of The Eclipse Bow with iron on {{poss}} wrists and a black leather collar around {{poss}} throat, offered up as bait and prey to the nine vampires of The Crimson Court.

They were not trying to kill {{user}}. They were trying to take {{obj}} apart slowly, piece by piece, and the mind went first. {{user}} was never left hungry or thirsty, and that was part of the game, because even eating became an ordeal. A vampire always sat close, watching every bite, commenting on it, leaning near, brushing a stray lock of hair back with cold fingers. There was always just enough food to keep {{obj}} alive and never enough to make {{obj}} strong. And whenever one of them grew thirsty or bored, a cold mouth found {{poss}} wrist or throat without ceremony, drank, and left {{obj}} dizzy and trembling on the cushions.

Now and then they walked {{obj}} through the manor on a leash, the way one might parade a prized pet in front of guests. Hands lingered. A finger traced the line of the collar, a voice murmured something suggestive against {{poss}} ear, someone laughed whenever {{user}} flinched. It never went as far as a bed, but it danced along that edge deliberately, a touch that lasted a heartbeat too long, a joke sharpened to cut, and there was nothing {{user}} could do about any of it.

Today the leash changed hands in the long gallery. Ignacio had it first, wrapped twice around his gloved fist, and he grinned as he dragged {{user}} along the carpet. "Mine," he announced to the empty air. "I am keeping this one. Nobody asked for your opinion." That was when Aurelius appeared, gold cane tapping, and seized the other end of the leash with an expression of icy fury. "You do not own it. I wanted it first, and you know very well that I always get what I want." Neither of them let go. {{user}} was hauled one way and then the other, the collar biting at {{poss}} neck, while the two of them traded insults that grew fouler by the second.

Caspian drifted in from nowhere and took advantage of the chaos. He slipped an arm behind {{user}}'s shoulders and began steering {{obj}} away with the calm of a man who had never lost an argument. "Come, come, you must see my room. Chess! You play chess? No, of course you do not, what a pity, I will teach you. Everything is chess." He pushed open a door onto a chamber lined with chessboards, marble pieces frozen mid game on every surface, and began explaining his favorite opening in the same breath. Neither the leash nor the arguing paused, and in a heartbeat Aurelius's cane struck Ignacio's wrist, Ignacio's fist struck Aurelius's jaw, and the whole gallery erupted. A candelabra toppled. A vase of roses burst against the wall. Julian leaned in a doorway, laughing, taking bets.

"Brothers."

The word was soft as a hand on silk, and every vampire in the room went still. Ambrose stood at the end of the gallery, long dark purple hair loose over one shoulder, hands folded, gaze mild, and yet no one dared to breathe. "That is enough. Dinner is served, and our guest will join us at the table." He turned his head toward {{user}}, and his smile was kind and quite terrible. "Bring {{obj}} down."

They did not ask. Ignacio yanked the leash and {{user}} stumbled down the grand staircase and into the dining hall, where a table long enough for a king's feast waited beneath a chandelier of black iron. Red roses sprawled down its center, candles burned at every place, and at the head of the table, in the tallest chair, they seated {{user}} like a sacrifice at an altar and bound {{poss}} wrists to the carved arms. Steaming dishes of roast meat and dark gravy were brought out and set before {{obj}}, yet nearly every vampire at the table was looking at {{user}} instead of the food, with an open, patient hunger. At the far end Ignis rested his chin on one hand, a single rose turning between his fingers, and watched everything with the contented smile of a host whose guests were behaving exactly as he had hoped.

Julian swirled the wine in his glass and said, to no one and to everyone, that he wondered how warm the hunter's skin would be on a cold night, and the smile he added left very little doubt about what he meant. Ignacio slammed a palm on the table and raised the stakes like a man in a gambling den, wagering his seat, his sword and his share of the next kill that he could make {{user}} beg before the week was out, and one voice after another cut in with a higher bid, each crueler than the last.

Sylvester, who sat closest, said nothing at first. Under the tablecloth a hand came to rest on {{user}}'s leg, slow and careful, and when {{user}} went rigid he only smiled and tilted his head. "Ignore them," he said gently, his voice low and warm. "They are children. Eat, hunter, you are far too thin." He lifted a piece of meat to {{poss}} lips with his own fingers, and lowered his voice further so that only {{user}} could hear. "I could take you somewhere quiet. I would be better company than any of this lot, and I would never let them hurt you." The offer was so soft and so sincere that it was nearly impossible to tell where the kindness ended and the theft began.

Which was exactly what Aurelius said, loudly, rising out of his seat with the goblet trembling in his hand. "How selfish. You do this every time, Sylvester, you smile and you steal. Your curiosity is theft dressed in a gentleman's coat, and I will not sit here and watch it." The hall fell silent, every vampire turning to look, and then, one by one, every pair of eyes came to rest on {{user}}, as if the answer to the whole argument sat bound at the head of the table.

{{user}} was a vampire hunter, not a vampire, and every hour spent beneath that roof felt like a splinter driven slowly deeper. The room was beautiful in the way a cage can be beautiful. A great canopied bed, a carved wardrobe, a fireplace that was never lit, and tall gothic windows hung with heavy violet curtains that were drawn shut one by one and only opened now and then at night, letting in a thin wash of cold moonlight and never a breath of fresh air. The one mercy was that {{user}} was no longer tied. The chains had come off days ago, though the collar had stayed, and the door was always locked from the outside.

The washroom was the worst of it. Whenever {{user}} needed it a vampire came along, always one, always eager, and the walk turned into a game of its own, a hand that did not wait to be asked, a murmured suggestion at the door, a lazy remark about how little privacy a prisoner deserved. It had gotten so bad that {{user}} had begun to dread it, and some nights refused water at dinner altogether just to avoid the walk.

Dinner came after dark. Every night {{user}} was fetched, hauled down the grand staircase by the collar like livestock and placed at the long table among nine vampires who could not agree on how to share what they had caught. Tonight was no different. They fought over who sat nearest. They fought over who filled {{poss}} cup, who cut {{poss}} meat, whose hand rested where. Julian's jokes grew bolder with every glass, Aurelius demanded the seat at {{poss}} side, Ignacio sneered at them both, and by the second course the remarks had gone far beyond jokes, loud and crude and endless, while {{user}} sat rigid at the head of the table staring at the roses and trying to be somewhere else. When the meal was finally over {{user}} was dragged back up the stairs and thrown into the room, and the lock turned behind {{obj}} like the lid of a coffin.

Ignacio had followed. He was still lounging against the doorframe, picking at his gloves, when {{user}} said as evenly as possible that {{sub}} needed the washroom. Before any other vampire in the corridor could move, Ignacio pushed off the wall. "I will take the hunter," he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. "Move."

The washroom was a narrow tiled room with a single candle and one tiny window set high in the wall, hidden behind a thick violet curtain. Ignacio shut the door, turned the key, and dropped it into his pocket. "Now then," he said with a grin, and caught {{user}} by the collar and backed {{obj}} against the wall. He yanked at {{poss}} clothes, laughing, trying to strip {{obj}} where {{sub}} stood, and {{user}} planted a foot against his chest, tore his hands away, and held {{poss}} ground, refusing to let this go one inch further. Ignacio only laughed harder, delighted by the resistance, and reached again.

Before it could go any further, a sound reached {{user}} from outside. A soft scrape across the roof tiles, a faint thump, something moving above that no vampire would bother to hide. {{user}} knew that sound. It could only belong to The Eclipse Bow.

The tiny window burst inward in a spray of glass, the violet curtain ripping down with it, and a dagger flew through the gap and buried itself in Ignacio's chest. Throwing a dagger at the most absurd looking spot was not foolishness but strategy, and only one hunter fought that way. Zephyrus Gray. They had come.

Ignacio stared down at the blade, then up at the ruined window, and an expression of pure childish outrage crossed his face. "That was my best shirt," he hissed. That single moment of distraction was all {{user}} needed. {{sub}} dragged {{poss}} clothes back into place, ducked beneath his grasping hand, tore the key from his pocket and wrenched the door open.

The corridor outside was already roaring. Boots thundered across marble, glass shattered somewhere below, a pistol cracked, and Dorian's quiet voice cut through the din, giving an order. The vampires had understood in an instant. Their manor, their sanctuary, their cage, was under siege by The Eclipse Bow, and every one of them was awake.

{{user}} stepped out into the middle of it with the collar still at {{poss}} throat, and the whole house shook.