Chapter 8
Alaura drove through the forgotten part of Luxen, the roads cracked, sidewalks lined with old streetlights that flickered weakly in the evening haze. The industrial district had been abandoned for years, left to deteriorate as businesses moved on and people stopped coming.
Windows either shattered or boarded up, jagged glass clinging stubbornly to their frames, gaping holes where time had worn them away. The roof sagged in places, its edges warped and curling, as if gravity itself was trying to pull the structure down.
She had no intention of going inside, instead she walked slowly around the perimeter, fingers trailing along the chain-link fence that wrapped around the property, though it did little to keep anyone—or anything—out. Several sections bent inward, twisted like something had forced its way through. The “NO TRESPASSING” signs were sun-bleached and barely legible. Their corners flapping weakly in the autumn breeze, having gave up trying to keep intruders away.
Boots crunching against the gravel, her mind began to wonder, trying to imagine her father standing here ten years ago.
Had he been nervous? Had he stood in this very spot, breathing in the same metallic scent of rust and rot? Had he known what he was walking into? Or had he thought he would be coming home that night?
The air around the warehouse felt wrong. It wasn’t just the decay, the abandonment, or the eerie quiet. It was something else. Something unnatural.
Swallowing hard, she stopped near a section of fence that had been completely torn open. Metal bent outward—not cut, not broken—ripped. Something strong had come through here. Recently judging by the tracks in the dirt where grass still had not grown back.
Alaura sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, fingers unconsciously drawn to the daggers beneath her jacket.
This place wasn’t just some abandoned building.
Whatever killed her father… might still be here.
The sky now a star speckled void above, night had taken hold completely as she completed her lap around the warehouse. Pools of sticky yellow from the street lights stretched the shadows of nearby buildings into unnerving, twisted shapes. Among those shadows, she saw the silhouettes of two figures standing near her car, their bodies barely illuminated.
Her pulse spiked, cold dread crept up her spine. They weren’t moving, just standing there, watching her.
She didn’t have to get any closer to know what they were, the daggers sending small electric pulses through her ribs, a sign something was off.
Alaura turned sharply on her heels, forcing herself to walk, not run. Running meant panic. Panic meant prey.
The problem—this was the warehouse district.
There weren’t many places to go. Sprawled ahead of her were endless rows of abandoned factories and storage facilities, their entrances locked up—steel doors chained and bolted, windows covered with rusted grates. A ghost town of concrete and ruin, where the only sound was the distant, hollow echo of a city that had long since turned its back on this place.
Desperately, her eyes scanned the block desperately, needing somewhere to slip away.
Then she spotted it.
A sandwich shop. The “OPEN” sign flickered weakly, sputtering a dull red glow through the window. It looked empty. Perfect.
She adjusted her pace, angling toward it, keeping her shoulders squared, her breathing steady—like she wasn’t being hunted. But behind her, she felt it. The slow, inevitable approach of something moving in her direction.
Above the door, the bell jingled softly as Alaura pushed inside the empty shop. The place smelled like stale bread and fryer grease, too many late-night sandwiches soaked into the walls.
Behind the counter, a young guy—barely out of high school—sat hunched over his phone, texting. At the sound of the door, he looked up, blinking in surprise. “Uh—hey. Welcome to—”
Cutting him off, she lowered her tone. “Listen, I know this is weird, but my ex is following me. I think he’s dangerous. I just need to slip out the back.” She didn’t have to fake the tension in her voice, the breathlessness that made her words clipped.
The kid blinked again, looking toward the door. He must’ve seen something in her expression—the fear, the urgency—that told him this wasn’t just some awkward breakup.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Uh, there’s an alley out back.” He gestured toward the swinging door behind the counter. “Go. I’ll stall him if he comes in.”
Alaura exhaled, relief flickering through her, brief but genuine. “Thank you,” she whispered over her shoulder, already moving.
She slipped through the back door, pushing it open just enough to slide into the narrow alleyway beyond.
The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of old rain and rotted food. Enclosed by the backs of buildings, the alley was tight. A single rusted dumpster slouched against one of the brick walls, overflowing with black garbage bags, their contents spilling out onto the concrete.
Keeping her steps light, she turned swiftly down the passage, planning her escape route. If she could just make it a few blocks away, she’d circle back for her car later.
Then—she stopped.
A figure was waiting at the far end of the alley, lingering beyond the reach of the only light. She turned her head slightly. Another figure stood at its entrance, blocking her exit.
They had her cornered, but all she could do was let a half-cocky grin grace her mouth.
She had been training for this since she was ten.
At the time, she thought her father was just being overprotective, pushing her into combat sports, self-defense, and knife training. They were never hobbies. Never something she got to choose. It had been an expectation, ingrained in her through every sparring session, every bruise, every sharp command.
Now she understood.
He knew what was out there, preparing her, unintentionally creating something dangerous. Her father and coach drilled it into her, over and over again—no remorse for an assailant who is attacking. It can be the difference between life or death.
Her life. Her death.
Probably the reason Alaura didn’t feel a shred of guilt when she killed that creature at her mother’s house, or for the creatures she’s about to kill in this alley.
But he is only partially responsible for the way she is. He set her down this path before he died, made sure she knew how to fight, how to think five moves ahead, how to break a man twice her size. When her mother closed her out, gave her no guidance, she continued on that same path.
The other part of her—the part that wasn’t shaped by knives or violence—was forged in wealth and power. Alaura’s parent’s last names were close to royalty. Names that opened doors, that bought silence, that ensured no one dared to question her. She could burn bridges without consequence. Could play with fire without fear of being burned. Even if she didn’t use either of their last names, she didn’t need to.
Alaura’s fingers itched for the daggers, but she didn’t move, not yet. Glancing between the two figures, she studied them—not just their positioning, but their stance, their posture, the way they carried themselves.
She took a few small steps toward the brick wall beside her, pressing her back against it. Dropping her shoulders, eyes widening, playing the part of trapped little doe. Letting the creatures think they outsmarted her.
It worked. The two figures grinned.
They looked exactly like the one from her mother’s house. Black eyes. Black veins. Fangs.
The one on the left took a step forward, movements lazy, dripping with confidence. His voice slithered through the night, smooth and mocking. “Nowhere to run, sweetheart?”
With a chuckle, the second figure shook his head. “Gotta say, you led us on a fun little chase.”
They moved in and Alaura let them. Was waiting, watching their steps.
Closer, then she struck.
Hands fast as lightning, the twin daggers unsheathed in a single, seamless movement, metal whispering against leather as they came free.
Lunging, she drove her left blade deep, straight into the first one’s throat. Shock filled his black eyes as his body seized. Before he could react, she twisted, a wet, sickening sound followed the motion.
At the same time, she plunged her right dagger under the second one’s chin, straight through his soft pallet, the impact clean.
Their expressions went from arrogance to agony in an instant.
Alaura gritted her teeth, muscles tight as she yanked the blades free. A dark ichor sprayed as their bodies collapsed at her feet, black blood pooling onto the concrete.
She stood over them, face emotionless, daggers dripping, breathing unsteady. Her heart raced, adrenaline surging beneath her skin, but something inside didn’t make sense. She still had no idea what these things were. Didn’t know why they were after her.
But she knew one thing for certain.
She wasn’t prey.
Not anymore.
Taking a shaky step back, her eyes flicked to the alley entrance. No one was coming. No one had seen. No sirens. No footsteps. No gasps of horror from some unsuspecting passerby.
The world outside this dark, forgotten corner of the city remained untouched, unaware that two bodies—or whatever they were—now lay bleeding out at her feet.
She wiped the blades against the hem of her jacket, the fabric already stained beyond saving, then slid them back into their sheathes, the acquainted pulse of electricity settling against her ribs.
Lingering, she took one last look at the bodies—their twisted forms, their empty, black eyes staring at nothing—before vanishing between the buildings.
Quickly, but carefully, she retraced her steps towards the car.
The sandwich shop was still quiet when she passed, the employee inside scrolling through his phone, blissfully unaware of what occurred a few feet away. Good. He had helped her—didn’t want him dragged into this.
A few blocks later, Alaura spotted her car exactly where she left it, all windows remaining intact. Would be difficult to explain to the car shop why she showed up twice in one week with shattered glass in the seats.
With a quick look around, she unlocked her car, the small beep from the alarm feeling impossibly loud in the night. Her fingers shook as she unlatched the door then slid into the driver’s seat. The silence felt suffocating when the door closed behind her.
Gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, she willed herself to focus. Hands trembling, she slid the key into the ignition as the engine rumbled to life.
Her foot hit the gas and peeled off the curb. The moment the tires began rotating, Alaura fixated on the task ahead. She made it out. Now, she just needed to get home.
The drive back to her apartment felt longer than it should have. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every shadow along the sidewalk seemed to shift just a little too much in her periphery.
Unable to help it, her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror more times than she cared to count. She half-expected to see more of them trailing her, those hollow black eyes absorbing the glow of her taillights, those fanged grins stretching wide as they pursued her through the city streets.
But the roads behind her remained empty. No headlights following at a steady pace. No figures lurking at the edge of her vision. No monsters this time.
It was almost two am by the time Alaura pulled into the lot behind her building. The city had settled into the kind of quiet that only came in the dead of night—not the peace of evening, but the heavier kind, the kind that belonged to the things that moved in the dark. Even the distant sounds of traffic had faded into nothing.
Turning off the engine, she sat there for a long second, hands still warm from the fight. From the blood. From the movement of those creatures crumpling to the ground. Their last moments burned into her muscles, into her skin, into the space behind her eyes.
Alaura swallowed hard, exhaling through her nose. “This isn’t your life. You don’t want this.” The words were muffled, even in her own mind.
With a sharp inhale, she pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool night air. Keeping her head down, she pulled her jacket tighter as she crossed the lot. She moved fast, checking the dark corners out of instinct. The stairs leading to her apartment sat ahead, polished stone steps worn smooth from years of footfalls, now slick with the night’s lingering dampness.
By the time she reached her door, her pulse had finally started to settle. She stepped inside, easing the door shut behind her, the deadbolt sliding into place with a solid click. The city remaining outside.
Her apartment felt too tranquil. Too normal for what just happened. City light bled in through the windows, stretching familiar shapes across the floor. The scent of coffee still clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of old paper and citrus-laced cleaning solution.
Everything was exactly as she left it. The only thing out of place was the box of journals sitting on the counter.
Alaura’s eyes locked onto it, and something inside her snapped. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want the blood, the fight, the chase. She wasn’t her father. Didn’t need to unravel what happened to him. Didn’t need to decode whatever secrets her mother had spent years hiding.
She snatched up the scattered journals with shaky, angry movements and shoved them back into the box, using all the force of someone trying to shove away truth itself.
Thud. Something small slipped from between the pages, hitting the floor with a metallic clink.
Looking down, she froze. An old, brass key, scratches along the edges, worn from use or time, attached to a small metal tag with faded writing. Her brows knit as she bent, fingers curling around the cool metal.
“What the hell did this go to?” Somewhere in the back of her mind, a whisper of curiosity itched. Another piece of the puzzle, something else her father left behind.
Nope. She wasn’t doing this. She was done. Clenching her jaw, she threw it back into the box. The lid slammed shut before she hauled it across the apartment, dragging it to her closet and shoving it deep into a corner.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
Alaura stared at the closed closet door for a long moment, expecting it to burst open, as if the box would refuse to go back into the darkness.
Then, slowly, her fingers brushed against the daggers beneath her jacket.
Just because she was done looking for trouble didn’t mean trouble was done looking for her. She pulled one out, the black obsidian blade making her all white, bright bathroom feel dim. They already saved her twice.
She didn’t want this world, didn’t know why these creatures were hunting her, still didn’t know what she was up against. But she knew one thing, she wasn’t going to be caught unarmed or off guard.
Throughout her apartment, she carefully tucked the daggers into places where she could easily reach them. She hid one in the nightstand beside her bed, the other tucked into the drawer beneath the kitchen counter.
Exhaustion crashed over her all at once as she walked back toward the bathroom. Her body ached in places she didn’t even notice before, a deep, bone-weary soreness settling into her limbs. The adrenaline had finally worn off, leaving her feeling wrung out and left to dry.
Alaura twisted the shower knob as far as it would go, watching the scalding water pour from the faucet. She didn’t step in right away. Instead, she let the steam rise, curling against the mirror, fogging over her reflection until her own face became a hazy blur.
No longer recognizing herself.
Only then did she begin peeling off her clothes. The fabric was stiff in places, dark dried blood cracking against the material. Her fingers trembled as she pulled off her jacket, her shirt, her jeans. She ignored it, shoved that feeling deep down as she balled up the ruined clothing and tossed them straight into the trash.
She stepped under the hot spray, the first hit of heat making her muscles lock before her body adjusted. Resting her forehead against the cool tile, she let her eyes slip shut. The water ran black for a few seconds, swirling down the drain, carrying away the last remnants of the night.
By the time she stepped out, her body felt lighter.
Like she could almost pretend tonight never happened. Could almost convince herself that she didn’t drive to a warehouse, wasn’t hunted, hadn’t killed.
She dressed in set of silk pajamas, the fabric smooth against her still-warm skin. Then ran a towel through her damp hair, letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders.
Her bed never looked more inviting, the sheets made and unspoiled by the chaos of the night. Without another thought, she collapsed onto the mattress, sinking into the comfort of the blankets, burrowing deep beneath them.
No daggers strapped to her sides. No journals waiting with answers she refused to read. No monsters lurking under her bed.
Just sleep. Just normal.
Tomorrow, she’d wake up, work, and pretend nothing happened.
Because as far as she was concerned—nothing had.
Mary Louise Emerson 
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