Serena stayed with her until sunlight filtered down into the cave entryway.

"Good luck," she said, "Try not to do anything too stupid, okay?" Her words were joking, but her eyes were worried.

"Serena," Camila blurted out before she could disappear. "I love you. I'm just- I'm going to miss you."

Serena smiled. "I know. I love you too. And I'm very proud of you."

The words echoed faintly after she vanished.

Camila unsheathed her daggers. She checked that the iron box was securely fastened inside her backpack. She took a deep breath.

She stepped into the light.

Bodies littered the ground, frozen blood clinging to the dry yellow-green grass. The smell of burnt flesh tinged with the sour edge of wolfsbane hung heavy in the air. Flies buzzed and picked at the lashes of the dead, settling skinny legs atop glassy eyeballs and lolling tongues. Overlooking the battlefield, a man stood on a hilltop. His bony hand shielded black eyes from the gleam of the setting sun.

Dragomir.

Camila scanned the battlefield. Where had the bodies come from? Nearby towns that Rosa had ransacked? She stumbled over a leather purse, the handle stiff with blood. A woman—her ponytail ripped from her scalp, her neck wet and bleeding—stared at her with glassy eyes.

Her heart beat faster.

In the distance, Dragomir's lips tilted upwards. He must have recognized her. She recognized him. A tent, larger than Camila's bedroom, stood behind him, the canvas flaps fluttering in the wind.

Something tugged on the mating bond. 

Camila wasn't sure whether it was Alex or Declan. She wasn't sure what they were trying to say. But she sensed their location. Somewhere, atop that hill, they waited for her.

She started to walk.

Her backpack grew heavy, the metal box digging into her low back, the edges barely softened by the fabric. The smell of rotting flesh, bone and blood, smothered her, fogging up her lungs and making her eyes water. Small fires flickered around her, the flames hissing against the dry prairie grass. Flies buzzed.

The grass crunched under her feet, stiff with ice and dried blood.

His suit was raven black, his shoes polished and gleaming. His hair narrowed to a sleek widow's peak and his eyes were sunken, inky pits above sharp cheekbones.

Camila reached the bottom of the hill.

"Dragomir!" Her voice split the silence like a knife through butter. "I have the heart. Let my parents go."

Even far below him, Camila saw the glittering satisfaction in his dark eyes.

He beckoned her closer with a single crook of his pointer finger.

She began to climb. The straps of the backpack sliced into her shoulders. Sweat warmed her palms, seeping into the leather grips of her daggers. The cold wind bit into the bare skin of her face, her ankles, the backs of her hands.

The wind picked up, ripping at her hair. It swirled around her in a cloud of black strands.

Dragomir plucked a wine glass from the table beside him. He swished the red liquid inside from edge to edge, taking a careful sip. When he smiled, his teeth glistened crimson.

Camila reached the top. 

The glass clinked gently against the table when he set it down. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as silk. "How are you, Camila?"

"I'm looking forward to getting my parents back."

"How sweet." Dragomir raised an eyebrow. He regarded her, his eyes as black as a crow's feathers, and, not taking his eyes off Camila, called out, "Rosa. Bring them to us, would you?"

The tent flap swung open. Rosa pranced out, waved an excited hand at Camila, and smiled widely. She jerked her head towards Dragomir and winked.

Rosa snapped her fingers and her friends trudged forward. Every movement was coordinated, unnatural, like they were puppets held up by a string. Their eyes were closed and their heads slumped forward. 

Zora looked almost peaceful with her eyes shut, her face innocent and relaxed like she was asleep. If it weren't for the open cuts littering her arms and legs, Camila would have smiled.

Alex looked the opposite. His eyes were closed, but his eyelids flickered, his face fixed in a worried frown.

Declan had taken the worst of it. He hung limply, his face a mess of purple bruises and dried blood. His left arm was elongated, dislocated, and it made his body look faintly unbalanced.

"Was there a point to all this?" Camila fought to keep her words steady. Her hands shook. "I cooperated. Hand them over, my parents too, and I'll hold up my end of the bargain."

"Oh, right, I forgot they looked so bad." Rosa chuckled. She waved a hand. No biggie, the gesture seemed to say. "Sorry. Miry and I got into a bit of a tussle."

"There was some collateral damage." Dragomir studied his wineglass, tracing the edges with his fingertip.

"It's our love language!" Rosa piped up cheerfully. "It's romantic if you think about it."

There was a faint shuffling noise. The tent flap opened again, held up by a shaking hand. There was a muffled gasp. Someone whispered—their tone hushed and urgent. 

Camila knew that voice.

Rosa rolled her eyes. "I forgot about them. Should I put them to sleep again?"

Dragomir paused. He adjusted the sleeves of his suit, studying the setting sun. "Let her be. It's not like she can do much in her condition."

The wind caught the tent flap in its grasp, ripping it aside. Camila knew what she would see, but her heart still shattered in her chest.

Her mother wore no shoes.

Her fine dress was reduced to rags that clung, limply, to her shoulders. She'd lost weight and her cheeks were hollow and sunken, the bones of her face sharp as daggers. Her hair frizzed about her face, wisps of it still caught in the thin grey-black braid that ran down her back like a snake.

Her father had his arm wrapped around her mother's shoulders, as if he was the only thing keeping her upright. His skin was sallow, his beard scraggly and untrimmed. His hands, his fingernails, were covered in dirt and dried blood. But when he looked at Camila, his eyes filled with love.

"The Heart, if you would." Dragomir held out his hand. The fingers were thin as bone.

"Slow down a bit, would you?" Rosa took a step forward. She braced her hands on her hips. "You always do that, Miry. You forget who holds the real power. See, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you're a cheating asshole. No one likes you. And that includes Camila." In a quieter voice, she hissed to Camila. "You can give me the heart now. Or, you know, I'll kill your mom." 

Dragomir froze. He picked up the wine glass, swishing the liquid.

Camila took a step closer.

"Give it to her," Dragomir said softly. His voice was gentle, almost sweet. "And everyone dies. You included."

The wind picked up, rattling the tent and pulling at Camila's hair.

The witch raised her fingers. "He's bluffing. You've got five seconds," Rosa chirped. "I might even give you six because I'm feeling generous."

"I'm sorry."

Rosa frowned. "Really? You're going with him? You've got four seconds. Three. Two."

"For this." Camila snapped her fingers.

The clouds parted.

The wind howled.

And the ghosts swam down from the sky. They moved as one, a tornado of translucent limbs and hungry mouths. They screamed—a shrill noise that cut through the air and rattled Camila's bones—and the temperature plummeted. Icicles formed in seconds, swelling around the roof of the tent. Frost grew like grass and froze Camila's shoes to the ground.

Rosa screamed.

When the cloud of ghosts dissipated, her body lay sprawled across the ground, a heap of skin and dried organs wrapped around broken bone.

Without Rosa's magic to hold them upright, Alex, Declan, and Zora collapsed to the ground. They didn't move, but their chests rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

"Dramatic." Dragomir commented, helping himself to another serving of blood. "The Heart, if you would."

"My mother and my friends first."

"You may have your mother." He waved a bored hand at Camila's mother. "Go. Stand by your daughter."

Dragomir held out his hand.

The sound of the backpack zipping open was strangely loud in the silence. Camila dug past the sleeping bag, the still-dripping water bottle, and clasped the cold iron of the box.

She held it out, careful not to let it slip from her fingers. Before setting it in his white-as-bone palms, she paused.

"My friends?"

Dragomir traced the cover of the box. He ran his fingers along the sharp iron edges, studying the symbols lining the lid. He bent his head, his nose brushing the cold metal, and inhaled deeply.

Camila held her breath.

"Do you know how long I've been looking for this?" Dragomir plucked the box from her fingers easily, as if her werewolf strength was nothing. He set the box on the table beside his wine glass, where it clinked, quietly, against the metal.

Camila shook her head.

"Take a guess."

"A long time? Hold up your end of the bargain, Dragomir, or I'll summon the ghosts again."

"That won't be necessary." Dragomir stepped behind the table, beckoning her closer. "I've been looking for this since your great-great-grandparents took it from me. He didn't have the guts to try to kill me with it."

He didn't blink when he spoke.

"I'm sorry about that." Camila dipped her head. "And I'd like my friends back now."

"You know, Camila," His fingers trailed along the lid. In smooth, quick movement, he pulled it back. The smell of something old and decayed spread into the air. "Have they told you what happens to when someone stabs the Heart?"

Camila chose not to look inside the box.

She remembered Selene's parting advice. "Victory has...a cost."

He dipped his head. "Do you know you look like her?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

"Who?"

"The woman who took the Heart from me. I don't think you understand what it's been like these past centuries. I keep waiting to die. Some mornings I wake, sure this is my last day, and I drain a city of their blood, only to wake up the next day hating myself. My life has never been my own. But, with this in my hands, I can't die."

Camila nodded. His expression didn't shift, his tone didn't change, and she wasn't sure how he wanted her to react.

His thin lips twitched and Dragomir smiled. "Have you ever thought about death, Camila?"

Camila laughed like he was joking, tightening her grip on her daggers. She took another step. Her father had moved to stand by her mother and he shook his head at her, a movement so small she barely noticed. "No more than anyone else. You have what you wanted. It's been nice dealing with you."

"You misunderstand." Dragomir tapped his finger gently against the metal table. His eyes wandered to the horizon again. The sun was barely visible between two twin hills in the distance. "I'd like to kill you. You look just like your great-great-grandmother. She was pretty too."

Camila flung the dagger. It flashed through the air, quick as lightning, spinning straight for his throat.

Dragomir caught it with one hand. He set it gently, carefully on the table.

"I suppose we can fight if you wish."

Camila threw herself forward. Her feet pounded into the ground, kicking up plumes of dried dirt and grass. She threw a punch.

He swerved.

But she had her dagger ready. Camila threw every bit of force in her body, every year of training and every frustrated morning workout into her throw and the blade hurtled towards his gullet. It sliced through the air, swift as a bullet.

She didn't even see him move.

The hard edge of his shoe found the side of her knee. Camila barely registered that he was behind her when he pressed down hard. Something snapped. She whirled, dagger ready, and her leg gave out beneath her.

The ground was hard as stone, icicles sharp against her thigh. The sun had set and the full moon shone down on her. She wondered, vaguely, if Selene was watching. Maybe she'd made popcorn, cuddled up with a fluffy blanket and a dog at her feet—did they have dogs in whatever world that goddesses lived?

"You were the one who wanted to fight." Dragomir dusted his hands against his suit jacket, looking down at her like she was a bug he was about to squash under his shoe. "I think I'll kill the blond first. Rosa says he's very important to you. Then, maybe I'll cycle through the rest of them. I'll work you in somewhere, don't worry."

"No, wait-"

He didn't teleport—that wasn't an ability in a vampire's reservoir—but he moved so quickly it seemed like it. One second he was gloating in front of Camila, the next he had Alex's head cradled in his pale hands.

Camila didn't think.

Her heart hammered against her ribcage. Her bones cracked, her skin burned, and her blood boiled. She raised her head to scream—

It sounded like a howl.

Camila blinked.

The world had changed. The shadows had grown brighter, the colors painted in shades of faint yellows and blues. Dragomir had shrunk—or maybe she had grown. The smell of the battlefield strengthened and Camila smelled everything: wet grass and roses, cities and sweat, cars and gasoline.

She caught the quick tensing of Dragomir's arms and Camila knew, deep in her bones, that he would kill Alex if she didn't do something.

Her feet—paws, she realized with a start—slammed into Dragomir's chest and he tumbled backwards, somersaulting over a large rock. Camila lunged for him again. Her blow didn't land.

His fist plunged into her side, splitting her flesh like water. Pain rocketed through her body and Camila tried to scream, but her throat wouldn't let her.

His hand closed around her rib.

And then Dragomir collapsed.

Camila stumbled away blindly, blood soaking her fur, flanks heaving. Her body shrunk on its own accord, bone crumpling into bone and fur shrinking into her skin.

Her vision blurred.

Her father held a dagger in his hand. Camila's dagger. The iron box lay shattered at his feet, a dark red slime clinging to the pieces.

The dagger fell to the grass and the last thing Camila saw before darkness clouded her vision was her father's eyes, wide, worried, and glistening with tears, as he reached out a hand for her.

Whew! That was a long one! Everyone still with me? Anyone got any last minute predictions for how everything is going to wrap up?

Next chapter should be the last chapter! Thanks for taking the time to read this chapter!! 

-Harley