Blood on Fire

Chapter2

“Selene… run…”

A loud crack of thunder ripped through the night.

I jolted awake, heart racing, breath sharp. Rain tapped hard against the windows of my apartment. Lightning flashed outside, briefly lighting the surrounding walls. My skin was clammy, and my shirt stuck to my back with sweat. I sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing my forehead as I tried to slow my breathing.

The dream again.

No, not a dream. A memory.

The same nightmare that visited me for years. My brother’s voice. His blood. Those red eyes. That monster's face. Every detail still burned in my mind like it happened yesterday. I let out a long sigh and stood up, my legs a little shaky. I walked across the cold floor to the small kitchen, my bare feet making soft sounds as I moved. I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. The cold plastic felt good in my hands. I twisted the cap off and drank deeply, hoping it would wash away the tight feeling in my throat.

As I lowered the bottle, something caught my eye. The curtain in the living room window was moving, swaying gently in the wind. I frowned. I didn’t remember leaving the window open. Slowly, I stepped closer. The night outside was dark, lit only by the streetlamp on the corner and the flashes of lightning. The rain streaked the glass like fingers sliding down a mirror. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the street, the trees, the shadows.

Nothing.

Still, I reached for the curtain and pulled it shut, double-checking the lock on the window before stepping back. My apartment was quiet, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something or someone was watching. Turning away, I headed toward the living room's far wall, where a large, old painting hung. A beautiful forest scene. Harmless. Decorative.

But it wasn't just art.

I gripped the frame on both sides and pushed it to the left. It slid smoothly, revealing the hidden door behind it.

I opened it and stepped inside. My secret room wasn’t big. Just large enough for me and what I needed. The walls were lined with dark shelves holding weapons, blades, stakes, throwing knives, and silver-tipped arrows. A crossbow rested against the wall, ready to go. Beside it, several coats, boots, and gear hung neatly, each piece cleaned and maintained.

This room was more than a hideout. It was my war room.

On the far wall was a large corkboard, filled with pinned drawings, notes, maps, and strings connecting different names and places. I had to draw their faces, each one from my memory, and others from my investigation. They were vampires, and the cameras didn’t always see what they looked like. Some of the drawings were circled in red. Others were crossed out completely. At the top of the board, bold letters spelled out one thing.

TARGETS

These weren’t random people. They were monsters wearing human faces. Vampires. Some walked the streets like anyone else: businessmen/women, students, and even teachers. Most people would never know the truth.

But I did.

Because I had seen what they were. What could they do? What did they do to my family?

I stepped closer to the board and ran my finger over the drawing of a red-haired man. His smile was charming, fake. His name? Unknown. But I remembered his voice. He laughed. And the long black-haired man. The way he looked at me when he said, "You’re next," and killed my brother.

They're still out there. And I was going to find them.

I stepped out of my secret room and quietly closed it. Then I went back to my bedroom to try to sleep again. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the clock.

1:25 a.m.



I glanced at the family picture on my nightstand. A wave of loneliness filled me. I sighed, turned off the lamp, and closed my eyes.

The sound of my alarm clock rang throughout the room. I reached out and turned it off, groaning softly. The morning light was already shining through the window. I got up, went to the bathroom to wash my face, and took a quick shower.

Afterward, I put on a plain white shirt, a black coat, jeans, and white sneakers. I grabbed my black shoulder bag and headed to the kitchen.

I placed my bag on the chair, then made a simple breakfast: fried eggs, toasted bread, and coffee. The smell helped wake me up a little more. After eating, I washed the dishes and checked the time.

6:34 a.m.

I put on my glasses, grabbed my bag, and locked the door behind me.

I walked to the elevator, but there was a sign taped to the door: UNDER MAINTENANCE.

I sighed. "Great..." I had no choice but to use the stairs.

As I began walking down, I suddenly felt like someone was behind me. My steps got faster. So did the feeling. Then, I felt a hand grab my shoulder. In one quick move, I spun around, grabbed the hand, twisted the wrist, and pushed the person back.

He let out a sharp cry of pain.

"Ouch! Selene, it’s me!" he shouted.

I stopped, fixing my hair and trying to catch my breath. My heart was still racing from the surprise. When I looked up at the person, I finally recognized the face.

.

“Stephen?” I said, shocked, and quickly helped him up.

Stephen was tall, with messy brown hair that always looked like he had just rolled out of bed. He wore his usual black jacket and square glasses. He’d been my best friend since the fourth year of high school. People always said he was handsome, he had clear skin, sharp eyes, and a lazy kind of charm. But he was also clumsy and weird in the most unexpected ways.

I remember once asking him what skincare he used because his skin was so clear. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I just use one soap... for everything.” When I asked where exactly he used it, he laughed and said, “Even on my ass.”

Disgusting. But that was Stephen.

"You broke my hand!" he groaned dramatically, brushing the dust off his clothes.

"It's your fault,” I said, crossing my arms. “Why didn’t you just call out my name instead of sneaking up on me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. "I thought it would be funny.” His tone was playful, but he was rubbing his wrist.

I raised an eyebrow. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just being dramatic. And honestly, sometimes I questioned if he was straight or not. The way he acted so dramatically, always rolling his eyes and posing, was hard to read. I just shook my head and smiled a little.

We walked to school together like we always did, talking along the way. The streets were still wet from last night’s storm, and the air smelled like rain and leaves. Stephen kept chatting about random things, movies, and I listened, giving short answers, my mind still a bit foggy from the nightmare.