GRAVEHOOK

The first body fell from the church bell just before dawn.

It hit the frozen square hard enough to split the skull open across the cobblestones. Nobody screamed. The villagers standing beneath the cathedral only lowered their heads and backed away through the snow while the corpse twisted slowly at the end of the rope still tied to its ankle.

Another body hung above it. Then another.

Three hunters in black church coats swung beneath the bells of Saint Bartholomew Cathedral while blood dripped steadily from their boots onto the white ground below.

The bells kept ringing. Slow. Heavy. Hollow.

Draeven Mordryn watched from horseback at the edge of the square while snow gathered across the shoulders of his coat.

Too late again.

The horse beneath him breathed nervously through the cold. It could smell the dead already.

“So this is where they vanished,” Malgraves muttered beside him.

The priest pulled his hood lower against the wind and stared at the hanging bodies with tired eyes. Half his beard was frozen white.

Draeven said nothing. His gaze stayed on the corpses. Not the bodies themselves. The wounds.

Every hunter hanging from the bells had their chest carved open with surgical precision. No torn flesh. No feeding marks.

Their hearts had been removed cleanly. That bothered him more than the blood. Monsters killed messy.

This didn’t.

A little girl stood near the cathedral steps clutching her mother’s hand. She kept staring at the dead hunters.

Then her eyes shifted toward Draeven. Fear replaced the curiosity immediately. The mother dragged her away.

Draeven looked down at the black veins spreading beneath the skin of his right hand.

Even through the gloves, they showed.

People always noticed eventually.

“The bishop said there were survivors,” he said.

“There were.”

Malgraves nodded toward the cathedral.

“Until midnight.”

Draeven slid from the saddle.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the square. The villagers moved aside quickly, some making signs of prayer as he passed.

Not for protection from monsters. From him. The cathedral doors stood half open. Blood streaked the stone steps.

Draeven rested one hand against the long black shape strapped across his back.

Mournhook.

The wrapped scythe felt warm beneath the leather bindings.

Hungry.

A whisper brushed faintly across the back of his thoughts.

Fresh death.

He ignored it and pushed the doors open. The smell hit first.

Blood. Smoke. Open organs.

Rows of pews had been overturned across the cathedral floor. Candles still burned near the altar while bodies covered the aisle between them.

Priests. Villagers. Something had ripped through them violently.

Draeven crouched beside the nearest corpse. Elderly male. Deep lacerations across the ribs. Defensive wounds on both hands.

Not surprised. He fought back.

“Tracks?” Malgraves asked quietly from behind.

Draeven touched the blood across the floor.

Still warm.

“Recent.”

A low sound echoed somewhere deeper inside the cathedral.

Not human.

Malgraves heard it too. His hand tightened around the chain censer hanging from his belt.

Draeven slowly stood. The whisper returned. Behind the altar.

He hated when the scythe was right.

The two men moved carefully between the pews. Snow drifted through shattered stained-glass windows overhead while the cathedral bells continued ringing outside.

One of the bodies twitched. Malgraves immediately raised the censer. The corpse’s mouth opened.

Black liquid spilled out first. Then teeth. Too many teeth.

The priest recoiled.

The creature exploded upward from the body in a spray of blood and torn ribs.

Draeven moved before the scream fully formed. Mournhook came free in one smooth motion.

The black curved blade cut through the air with a low metallic growl before hooking through the creature’s neck. Draeven twisted sharply and slammed it sideways into a stone pillar hard enough to crack bone.

The monster shrieked.

Long arms. Distended jaw. Human skin stretched too tightly over twitching muscle.

Night creature. But wrong. Its eyes looked almost aware.

It lunged again.

Draeven stepped aside and drove his gauntleted fist into its chest.

The impact shattered ribs instantly. The creature hit the floor hard, skidding through blood.

Before it could rise, Mournhook buried through its skull.

The cathedral went silent.

For a moment, Draeven remained still with one hand resting against the scythe’s handle while dark vapor curled slowly into the blade from the corpse.

Feeding.

The red vein running along the weapon’s edge pulsed once.

Then again.

Malgraves stared at the dead creature.

“That wasn’t starvation mutation.”

“I know.”

Draeven pulled the blade free. The corpse looked almost human again now.

Almost.

A fresh voice drifted softly through his mind. There are more. Draeven’s jaw tightened.

“Basement,” he said.

Malgraves looked at him carefully.

“You heard it again.”

Not a question.

Draeven ignored him and moved toward the altar.

Behind it, hidden beneath torn cloth and broken scripture stands, a stone stairway descended into darkness.

The smell rising from below was worse. Rot mixed with incense. Malgraves lit a lantern while Draeven descended first.

The underground chamber beneath Saint Bartholomew had once been burial crypts. Stone coffins lined the walls beneath arches blackened by age.

Most now stood open. Empty. The lantern light reached strange symbols painted across the floor in fresh blood.

Draeven stopped immediately. Not church markings. Ritual circles. A woman sat at the center of them.

Alive.

Her white dress was soaked red from the waist down. Long dark hair covered most of her face as she rocked slowly back and forth.

Malgraves stepped closer carefully.

“Miss?”

The woman looked up. Her eyes were gone. Not removed. Burned hollow.

“She came here,” the woman whispered.

Draeven felt the cold shift instantly. The whisper inside Mournhook became quieter.

Almost cautious.

“Who?” Malgraves asked.

“The woman in black glass.”

Sylveth.

The name settled heavily in Draeven’s chest. The Veilmother. He crouched beside the woman.

“What happened here?”

“She took the hearts.”

The woman smiled suddenly. Blood leaked from between her teeth.

“She said the gate is opening.”

A wet cracking sound echoed from the darkness deeper inside the crypts.

Then another. Draeven slowly rose. Shapes moved beyond the lantern light.

Multiple.

Malgraves cursed under his breath. The woman on the floor began laughing softly.

One shape stepped forward. Then another. Former hunters.

Their black coats hung in strips from twisted bodies swollen with black veins and exposed bone growths beneath the skin. Their eyes glowed faintly red in the dark.

There were at least eight. No. Ten. One still wore a church executioner medal around its neck.

Draeven lowered the lantern flame with one gloved hand.

The creatures watched him silently. Not feral. Waiting. Mournhook vibrated faintly in his grip. They remember dying.

The nearest creature opened its mouth slowly. And spoke.

“Brother.”

Malgraves froze. Draeven didn’t. The scythe swept outward in a violent black arc as the crypt exploded into motion.

Steel shrieked against stone.

One creature lost both legs instantly while another crashed into a coffin after Draeven hooked its throat and dragged it forward.

The gauntlet followed. Bone shattered beneath the punch.

Another lunged from the side.

Draeven caught its jaw with one hand and slammed its skull against the crypt wall hard enough to burst an eye.

But they kept coming. Too coordinated. Too fast. One creature drove claws across Draeven’s shoulder, tearing through leather and flesh.

Pain burned hot.

The black veins beneath his skin spread instantly up his throat.

The curse reacting. His vision blurred for half a second.

Enough for one of the creatures to tackle him into a stone coffin.

Mournhook screamed inside his mind. Not words. Hunger. The scythe’s red veins ignited violently.

Dark fire burst along the blade.

The creature above him convulsed as the weapon hooked through its spine and drained it dry within seconds.

The others suddenly stopped moving. All at once. Every twisted face turned toward the darkness at the far end of the crypt.

Someone stood there. Tall. Still. A woman draped entirely in black. Her face hidden behind a veil of reflective dark glass.

Sylveth.

Even the creatures seemed afraid of her. Draeven slowly rose to his feet while blood dripped from his shoulder onto the crypt floor.

The Veilmother tilted her head slightly. Like she recognized him. Like she expected him.

Then she spoke softly.

“You look so much like your father.”