The red thorn

Chapter three

The smoke over the village didn't rise in a soft, lazy plume. It billowed up in thick, angry black coils, darkening the morning sun.

Elora stared at the sky, her stomach dropping into a cold abyss. "Mother," she choked out.

She turned her back on the witch and sprinted.

"Elora, wait!" the woman called out, her voice striking the air like a brass bell, but Elora didn't stop. Her boots tore into the dirt path, her lungs burning as she ran faster than she ever had in her life. The trees blurred past her in a smear of green and brown.

The closer she got to Oakhaven, the heavier the air became. It didn't smell like burning firewood—it smelled of copper, sweet flowers, and charred meat.

She burst into the village square and skidded to a halt, the breath trapped in her chest.

The square was utterly silent. No screaming, no rushing feet, no town guards ringing the alarm. The villagers were gathered in a dense, motionless circle near the center of the road, staring blankly at the ground. They stood upright, their eyes wide, glassy, and completely unblinking, like dolls arranged on a shelf.

*Thralls.* The word echoed in Elora's mind, dark and instinctive, though she had never heard it before.

In the middle of the paralyzed crowd stood the man from the tavern—the stranger in the velvet coat. He was kneeling in front of the apothecary, a delicate glass bottle in his hand, casually collecting the dripping crimson liquid pooling from a body lying on the stone steps.

Sarah Vance lay motionless, her neck bent at an impossible angle.

"Mother!" Elora screamed, taking a desperate step forward.

The stranger paused. He didn't turn quickly; his movements were fluid, elegant, and terrifyingly precise. When he raised his head, his eyes were not human. They were solid, luminescent crimson, surrounded by black veins that spiderwebbed across his high cheekbones.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, a slow, appreciative breath, before his gaze locked directly onto Elora.

"Ah," the man purred, his voice a rich, dark baritone that seemed to vibrate directly inside Elora's skull. "The lost thorn. He said you would smell like cheap herbs and fear."

He stood up, wiping a trace of blood from his lips with the back of a gloved hand. Around him, the mesmerized villagers didn't move a muscle, completely trapped in his mental grip.

"Your mother was very stubborn, little girl," he said softly, taking a step toward her. In the blink of an eye—faster than human sight could track—he vanished from the steps and reappeared barely three feet in front of her face. "She refused to tell us where you were. But blood always answers to its master."

Elora backed away, her hands trembling as she drew her small utility knife. "Get away from me."

The vampire laughed, a low, musical sound. "With a knife? Child, you don't even know what you are. Dracula sends his regards."

He reached out, his pale, clawed hand blurring as it lunged straight for her throat.

Instinct took over. Elora didn't think; she threw her hands up defensively.

A violent wave of silver-red energy erupted from her palms, hitting the vampire square in the chest. The force of the blast ripped through the air with a deafening crack, shattering the glass windows of every shop in the square.

The vampire shrieked as he was hurled backward, crashing straight through the heavy oak doors of the tavern.

The telepathic hold over the villagers snapped instantly. Screams erupted as the townspeople collapsed to their knees, disoriented and terrified.

Elora stood frozen, her hands smoking, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

A hand gripped her shoulder, tight and unyielding. She flinched, but it was the witch from the woods.

"He will heal in seconds, and more are coming," the old woman hissed, pulling Elora backward into the shadows of an alleyway. "If you want her death to mean anything, run."