Vampires and Lycans Age of Night

Chapter Two: Return from the Abyss

Chapter Two: Return from the Abyss

The seawater was black.

Not just any black—it was a thick, ink-like black. It wasn't like water, but more like a heavy liquid, viscous like oil, cold like the breath of death. Eileen leaned against the edge of the boat, vomiting up everything in her stomach—first her dinner, then stomach acid, and finally bile. The bitter taste lingered on the back of her tongue, like an indelible mark.

The small boat tossed and turned in the waves, like a leaf about to be shattered. There was no moon in the sky—the new moon had passed—only a sky full of stars, cold and distant. Those stars didn't look like points of light in the sky—they looked more like countless indifferent eyes, looking down on them, these struggling ants.

Waves crashed in one after another. The bow rose—then slammed down—each time as if to smash the small boat to pieces. Eileen's stomach churned—she thought she had vomited everything—but bitter bile still rose in her throat.

No one spoke.

Speaking takes strength. And their strength—was almost gone.

Quincy steered at the stern, his Winchester rifle resting on his knees, the barrel still dripping. His face was indistinct in the starlight, but his movements were mechanical and stiff—as if driven by instinct. He hadn't changed position for hours—his body felt frozen. Tom rowed, his movements mechanical and slow, as if his strength had been completely exhausted. His palms were covered in blisters—some broken, oozing blood and pus—but he didn't stop. Because he knew that if he stopped, the ship would stop. If they stopped—they would die at sea.

Hassin huddled at the bow, clutching a seawater-soaked notebook—the culmination of decades of research, now completely destroyed. The pages were crumpled and stuck together, the ink smeared into blurry patches. He didn't speak, but Eileen could see his shoulders trembling slightly—not from cold, but from despair. Decades of painstaking work—tens of thousands of days and nights of research—were reduced to pulp by the sea. He tried to turn the pages—but the paper crumbled at the slightest touch—slipping through his fingers like dry leaves.

Victoria sat in the middle of the boat, head bowed, her hands clutching her skirt tightly. Her lips trembled slightly, as if she were speaking silently. Eileen tried to hear what she was saying—but she couldn't. The wind was too strong. The waves were too loud.

Eileen looked at Victoria, wanting to say something, but her throat felt constricted.

She thought of Marcus.

When he died, his hand was still outstretched in her direction. His lips moved—"Live on"—and then his hand fell limp.

She had never seen a quieter scene.

Marcus's hand. That hand—the hand that had once held hers, shielded her from the London fog, and left a warm weight on her shoulder. That hand—which lit the streetlights for her on moonless nights, which shielded her from strangers in crowded streets. Now that hand—hanging limply from the ruins, fingertips still pointing in her direction—was saying, "Go, don't look back."

But she looked back.

She kept looking back.

Until the east wing of Blackrock Castle collapsed behind her—burying Dorian in the rubble.

Now—Dorian was dead too.

There was no trace of him in the sea. Only endless blackness. Only waves. Only wind. Only cold—surging towards her from all sides.

Eileen closed her eyes, trying to convince herself—that everything would be alright. But her heart didn't believe it. Her heart pounded coldly in her chest—as if frozen solid.

She opened her eyes.

Victoria was still trembling.

Eileen reached out—and grasped Victoria's hand.

Victoria looked up. Her eyes were full of tears.

"We will survive," Eileen said.

Victoria looked at her—and nodded.

Their hands—in the darkness—were clasped tightly together.

Now—Dorian was dead too.

There was no trace of him in the sea.

Only endless blackness.

Eileen closed her eyes, trying to convince herself—that everything would be alright. But her heart didn't believe it. Her heart pounded coldly in her chest—as if frozen solid.

"We need to find a shore," Tom finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, as if his throat had been soaked in salt water. Each word he uttered was a rough, grinding sound from his throat. "Too much water has entered the boat. If we don't get ashore soon, we'll sink before dawn." He was right. Eileen could feel the planks beneath her feet softening—seawater was seeping in through the cracks. Her boots were completely soaked. The cold salt water had turned her skin white and wrinkled.

"North," Quincy said. His American accent grew more pronounced with exhaustion—each word trailing off. “On my way here, I saw a small fishing village to the north. It’s called Morrie Bay. About five miles from here.”

“Can we make it there?” Hasin asked. His voice was rough, like sandpaper.

“If the wind doesn’t change—yes.” The wind didn’t change.

But the boat was more dilapidated than they had imagined. By the time they saw the Morrie Bay lighthouse, half a foot of water had accumulated at the bottom. Erin scooped the water out with her boots, her hands numb with cold. Her fingers were stiff and inflexible—like icicles that didn’t belong to her. But she didn’t stop. If she stopped—the water would overflow the hull—and they would all sink.

Finally—in the darkest hour before dawn—their hull touched the sand.

It was a wonderful sensation. Rough, firm, the touch of the earth. Erin had never imagined—sand—could bring such happiness.

Eileen jumped off the boat, her legs giving way, and she knelt on the beach. The sand was wet and cold, but she didn't care. She lay there, gasping for air, feeling as if she had relearned to breathe. The air smelled of salty seaweed and fish—the smell of a fishing village—but at that moment, it was the most wonderful scent in the world.

"We can't stay here any longer," Hasin said, reaching out to help her up. His hand trembled—but he pulled her up anyway. "Silas's men will track us. Werewolves have a keen sense of smell—they'll find us."

"Then let's go," Eileen said.

She turned to help Victoria. Victoria's face was as white as a sheet, her eyes half-open, as if she might faint at any moment. Her lips were bluish-purple—cold and exhaustion had ravaged her body.

"Vicky?" Eileen didn't ask. She lay down on the haystack, feeling every joint in her body protest. The hay prickled the back of her neck—but she was too tired to feel the itch. Her eyes were fixed on the barn roof—a faint ray of morning light piercing through the gaps between the planks. Those rays were like slender swords—piercing the darkness, but not the gloom in her heart.

She thought of Marcus.

She thought of his revolver—she should have kept it with her. But she had placed it in his grave. Four silver bullets. She should have kept it with her.

She thought of Dorian.

He should still be alive. He must still be alive. A vampire who had lived for hundreds of years—couldn't have died so easily. He must be somewhere—drifting at sea—waiting for them to rescue him.

But she didn't know—was he really still alive, or was she deceiving herself?

She closed her eyes. "He's right," Tom said. He hauled the boat onto the beach—slowly, as if his last strength had been used up. "Let's find a place to rest for a few hours. We'll set off at dawn." They found an abandoned barn on the edge of the fishing village.

The barn wasn't large, but it was dry, with piles of hay in the corners, exuding the scent of dried plants. A few sheep in the corner pen bleated warily as they entered. The air smelled of hay, wool, and earth—the scent of humanity.

"I'll take the first shift," Quincy said, sitting down in the doorway. He placed his Winchester rifle across his lap, took a silver bullet from his pocket, and twirled it between his fingers. The bullet reflected a cold light in the dim light. "If anything comes near—I'll shoot first, then ask questions."

"Don't you need a rest?" Eileen asked.

"I can sleep in the chair," Quincy said. "A skill I honed chasing bandits in Texas."

"You chased bandits in Texas?"

"That's another story," Quincy said. "Now—sleep." Dorian stood before her.

He was wearing the same black tuxedo he'd worn when they first met—the buttons silver, gleaming in the candlelight. His hair was white—seemingly translucent in the candlelight—like threads woven from moonlight. His red eyes gleamed in the darkness.