Page 93 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Noctule!” Priya’s voice cut through my panic. “Wait—”

I barely heard her. The car hadn’t even stopped moving before I reached for the door handle.

I sprinted towards the overturned van, slipping slightly in the mud. The passenger door had crumpled on impact, metal twisted like origami gone wrong.

Two figures crawled from the driver’s side window. Their movements were disturbing—joints bending at impossible angles, heads lolling on broken necks that should have killed them. The first one’s jaw hung loose, connected by strips of grey flesh, while maggots writhed in the cavities where its eyes should have been. The second’s ribcage was exposed, yellowed bone gleaming wet in the Mercedes’s harsh lights. Their smiles stretched impossibly wide, lips peeled back to reveal blackened teeth. The stench of decay rolled off them in waves—sweet rot and grave soil.

I forced down my revulsion. No matter how many times I’d encountered the risen dead, that first moment of wrongness never quite faded.

They charged at me with that unnatural, jerky gait. I ducked the first one’s swinging arm, feeling the wind of its passing. The second grabbed my jacket with fingers like steel cables. I twisted free, fabric tearing, and drove my elbow into its face. Bone crunched, but it didn’t slow—these things felt no pain.

My vision blurred from hunger as I fought. Every movement drained what little strength I had left. I managed to snap the first one’s neck completely, but it kept coming, head flopping grotesquely. Who was controlling these puppets? Necromancers were a rare breed, and only the most powerful could animate corpses with such precision.

The second deadwalker slammed me into the van’s side, light exploding behind my eyes. Its hands found my throat, squeezing. I clawed at rotting flesh, but my weakened muscles betrayed me. The weight of my ancient dagger at my hip burned, begging to be used, but my arms were pinned. Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision. Something sharp—a broken rib from its exposed cage—tore through my side. White-hot agony ripped through me as the jagged bone carved deep into my flesh. When was the last time I’d felt this level of pain? Too long ago to remember.

A muffled cry came from inside the van. “Help!”

Flynn’s voice shot through me like lightning. With the last dregs of my energy, I ripped my right arm free, fingers finding the familiar carved handle of my dagger. I wrenched the deadwalker’s head back while drawing my blade across its throat—the ancient silver parting flesh and sinew until vertebrae cracked like wet chalk.

It dropped, twitching. I spun to face the other one, letting instinct take over. Dropping my blade, my hands plunged into its chest cavity, ripping through bone and gristle until I found what remained of its heart. Putrid blood coated my fingers as I crushed the organ to pulp—viscous and jellied, squishing between my fingers like rotting fruit—and the creature collapsed, finally still.

Cool blood—my own—soaked through my shirt, the wound in my side burning like holy water.

I wiped my gore-covered hands on my coat. Fourth time this month I’d ruined it. The brass buttons were tarnished with blood, the wool matted with fluids.

Flynn.

I stumbled towards the van, my side screaming in protest. The back doors had buckled inward from the impact, metal twisted and warped. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I hauled myself up onto the vehicle’s side, fingers finding purchase in the dented panels.

The interior was pitch black. “Flynn?”

“Here!” His voice was shaky but strong.

I crawled through the wreckage, feeling my way forward. The van’s cargo space was empty except for a huddled shape against the far wall—now the floor. My hands found Flynn’s shoulders, and relief flooded through me so intensely I nearly collapsed.

“Are you hurt?” I ran my fingers over his arms, his face, checking for injuries. “Did they—”

“I’m okay.” Flynn’s breath was warm against my palm. “Just slightly bruised. What happened?Fuck, I thought that was the end.” He shuddered out a sigh.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt hollow, inadequate. My hands trembled against his skin. “Flynn, I’m so sorry. I should have known, should have protected—”

“Don’t.” Flynn’s pulse thrummed against my fingertips, alive,here. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“But I—”

“No.” His grip tightened. “Stop. Not everything bad that happens is because of you, Seb. I’m the one who insisted I go to work, remember?” He tipped his head back, resting it on the metal. “Who even were they? Vampires?”

I shook my head. “We call them deadwalkers. They’re products of necromancy. Thralls under the control of another. They tend to be pretty mindless, but these two managed to drive this van well enough.They were also surprisingly well coordinated.” I had the wound to prove it.

He shuffled about. “These zip ties are cutting off my circulation. Can you get them off?”

My hands found his wrists, bound tight with plastic restraints. Without thinking, I extended my fangs and bent down. The sharp points sliced through easily.

Flynn flexed his freed hands. “That’s… actually quite useful.”

“First time anyone’s called them useful.” I cut through the ties around his ankles. “Usually it’s more along the lines of ‘horrifying.’”

“Well, I’m grateful for them.” His fingers brushed my cheek, coming dangerously close to my fangs.

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