They stopped in an empty field outside the city. Edgar crumpled to the ground, his stomach twisting with nausea.

  “My hand!” he gasped, clutching the bckened stump, suffocating with pain. “I need a hospital!”

  “There will be no hospital,” a low voice replied. “You’ll answer my questions. Then you’ll go to hell.”

  He was yanked up by his hair, forced to look up.

  “Where is Deacon Frost?”

  “Who the hell are you?! Another mutant?!” Edgar shouted, clinging to the st shreds of his pride. “You’re going to kill me anyway! I won’t say a thing!”

  “Correct. You will die tonight. The only question is: right now or after the worst pain you’ve ever known?”

  The rider lifted his visor. Edgar froze in horror.

  Fmes. A burning skull stared at him with empty eye sockets. This thing… this thing didn’t just want to kill him. It was here to judge him.

  Fear. First, primal. Then something deeper, otherworldly. The fear a sinner feels right after death, standing before the gates of hell.

  “Wait!” the vampire shrieked hysterically. “You’re looking for Frost? I don’t know anyone by that name…”

  The fire in those hollow sockets crackled menacingly.

  “But I know people who might! I can connect you with them! Just give me a chance!”

  “I only need an address.”

  “Of course!” the vampire nodded frantically, relief flooding him. “I’ll even draw you a map!”

  “Oh, you’ll draw one,” the voice of hell’s gatekeeper rustled like a falling tree. “You’ll tell me everything—once you’ve felt the pain you caused others in your long, wretched life.”

  The fmes in the skull’s eyes grew unbearable. They didn’t just burn—they tore open his soul, turning it inside out, forcing him to feel all the evil he’d ever inflicted.

  He saw himself through the eyes of those he’d murdered. Women begging for mercy. Children screaming in terror. People he’d drained dry, leaving their cold bodies to rot in basements.

  Now they all stared at him.

  “No…” His voice grew ragged, barely a whisper. “No, no, no…”

  And the fire consumed him.

  ///

  The mansion was bathed in the soft golden glow of candlelight, its reflections dancing across the immacute white tablecloth. The air was filled with subtle aromas of aged wine, incense, and a faint trace of blood. Seated around the long table were dies and gentlemen dressed in luxurious attire, discussing politics, scandals, and high-society gossip. They looked aristocratic and refined, but beneath the silk gloves hid cws, and behind their sophisticated smiles—predatory fangs.

  Emma gently adjusted a lock of her red hair. Her face appeared youthful, almost innocent, but her eyes betrayed her true age—too observant, too knowing. She sat rexed at the head of the table, listening to her guests with a zy smile.

  The servants entered silently, carrying trays with silver domes. In one fluid motion, the lids were lifted, and steam rose from the dishes.

  “Venetian-style liver paté, infused with muscat wine,” the butler announced solemnly, gesturing to the first dish. “Filet of young man, fattened on almond milk, aged with spices, and roasted to perfection.”

  “Brain soufflé, slow-cooked, served in its natural cocotte,” he added gracefully, pointing to the split skulls filled with delicate, creamy mass.

  “And, of course, our special soup,” his voice took on a note of pride.

  “Oh, what a delightful broth!” excimed one of the gentlemen, sipping from his spoon. “The blood creates a light, airy texture, like the nectar of the gods, and the bubbles burst on the tongue with a gentle whisper, inducing euphoria… What is it?”

  Emma smirked.

  “A secret,” she replied, her gaze sweeping over the enchanted faces of her guests.

  “Oh, I beg you, do tell!” the man pleaded, leaning back in his chair. “Now I’ll spend eternity wondering about it!”

  Emma sighed theatrically, pausing for dramatic effect.

  “What kind of hostess would I be if my guests left unsatisfied? That would go against all rules of etiquette,” she said softly, smiling. “The broth is made from the blood of Alpine children. Their life in the mountains saturates the blood with oxygen, hence the bubbles. But they must be caught at a young age. Teenage hormones ruin the fvor.”

  “How fascinating!” a dy beside her opened an elegant notebook. “I must write down the recipe.”

  The dinner party continued. Gsses clinked, and refined toasts were made.

  “We’re one short tonight,” someone noted. “Could it be our hostess has finally decided that rascal Edgar doesn’t belong among us?”

  “I heard he still hunts personally. Ugh, how barbaric,” a dy remarked, setting down her fork as if the news had spoiled her appetite. “It’s unbecoming for a vampire to soil his hands with street filth.”

  “Oh, Edgar. Poor boy,” responded another guest, who appeared no older than fifteen. “Still prowling the streets like a stray dog. He doesn’t understand the charm of peace.”

  Emma smiled.

  “Well said. I sent Edgar an invitation, but he didn’t respond. I suppose he’s too busy hunting down ‘Twilight’ fangirls.”

  Laughter echoed around the table.

  And then…

  A roar from hell.

  The walls trembled. Gsses filled with blood-red wine shook, their contents spilling over. Paintings rattled, candles fred with fierce fmes.

  A thunderous crash at the mansion’s gates—like the night itself had split in two.

  Then… a fsh.

  A massive window shattered into fragments, gss raining down onto the table, wine spilling onto the cloth, mixing with the bloody dishes.

  A fming bike roared into the room, riding straight across the table. Fire trailed behind, leaving charred streaks on the cloth, ptes cracked from the heat, and some guests’ hair caught abze. The chandelier crashed to the floor, candles rolling across the ground. Guests leapt to their feet, frozen in terror.

  On the bike sat a figure in a leather jacket, a helmet on its head, fmes licking from underneath.

  He drew a shotgun.

  A shot rang out.

  The first gentleman jolted and colpsed to the floor, fiery buckshot ripping through him. The second followed right after. The vampires screamed, scattering in panic, but the hellish buckshot pierced even the walls, tearing their bodies into ash.

  Emma shoved the servant standing in front of her with all her strength, hoping to distract the monster, and dashed for the exit. She heard a chilling whistle—instinct screamed to duck, but she hesitated for just a split second.

  A fming chain shot through the air, its links punching through the servant's body, reducing him to dust, then snapped around Emma’s legs with a sharp crack. She twisted, trying to break free, but the infernal metal cmped down with unnatural force.

  Through the smoke and fire, she saw her entire dinner party reduced to ash in mere seconds.

  She tried to crawl away, but the biker yanked the chain, dragging her roughly toward him.

  Cold hands in leather gloves grabbed her, forcing her to her feet. She stared into the helmet like gazing into an abyss, seeing her own face reflected back—smeared with soot, mascara streaked down her cheeks. But worse were the shadows clinging to her soul.

  The biker’s voice grated like metal scraping against metal:

  "You’re the oldest snake in this pit."

  "How galnt." Emma lifted her chin proudly, forcing her voice not to tremble. "It’s not every day I receive such a compliment."

  "It’s not a compliment. You’re the queen leech in this nest. Your sins stretch back to the seventeenth century. Which means you know more than anyone. Answer me. Where is Deacon Frost?"

  "So, it’s Frost you’re after?" Emma blinked in surprise but quickly regained her composure. "Not me?"

  "You’re just a source of information."

  She tilted her head slightly, assessing the strength of the warrior before her. Slowly, she ran her slender fingers across his helmet.

  "Frost had dinner at my pce. fifty years ago." She smiled softly. "I could help… with the search."

  Her voice grew velvety, tender, enveloping:

  "I’ve been cooped up for far too long. I could keep you company..."

  Silence.

  And then...

  A terrifying, low ugh. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t vampire. It was the stench of sulfur, molten metal, the rumble of thunder.

  "Ever kissed a skeleton?"

  He lifted the visor.

  There was no face beneath.

  Only a skull wreathed in fme.

  The Penance Stare.

  Everything disappeared. Darkness.

  Then—faces. Thousands of them. Appearing one after another, filling the void. At first, strangers. Then—familiar ones. Eyes. Hands reaching out to her. Silent mouths opened in voiceless screams.

  She realized.

  These were her victims.

  The world flipped, reality colpsed. The eyes burned into her soul. Pain. Fear. Judgment.

  Emma screamed.

  /////

  Writer notes:

  The story is going into revision. I realized that its direction can be made more interesting and dynamic. It's important to me not just to finish the story but to make it as engaging as possible. Thank you to everyone who has been with me—I hope you’ll enjoy the new version!