Chapter 5

  "Let's get going, Igor," Maisie spat, her impatience cutting through the thick night air like a blade.

  The night had come. The night he had been dreading.

  Igor kept his expression neutral, but inside, his stomach churned. He had known there was no escaping this, not once Maisie had set her mind on it.

  "Yes," he muttered, keeping his words as few as possible.

  As they settled into the hover car, Igor wordlessly keyed in the coordinates for the rally in Seattle. 100 miles away. A long enough journey for him to consider all the ways this could go wrong. They were coming from one of the ocean communities, a glittering beacon of wealth built atop the tides, and descending into the heart of the radical movement sweeping through the cities.

  While he was flying their hovercraft, Igor's thoughts drifted back to that morning—a conversation he couldn’t forget. Maisie had been so sure of herself, defending her father's position on the White Angels. The way she spoke about them as if they were the answer to everything, as if they were fighting for a cause worth believing in. It had stung.

  Her father’s influence on her was undeniable. Maisie had always trusted him, looked up to him, but to Igor, it was clear she didn't understand the consequences of her beliefs. The White Angels weren’t just a group fighting the Church—they were a radical force, capable of far more destruction than she realized. And Maisie? She’d been so quick to defend them, as if their actions were justifiable.

  The worst part was that Maisie didn’t see the line she was crossing. She hadn’t even questioned her father’s stance. She had trusted him blindly, without ever considering how dangerous his beliefs might be—how dangerous it could be for him to be tied to such an unstable cause.

  ________

  Enter Jack

  Seventeen-year-old Jack Smack had once been just a boy, innocent, unaware of the darkness lurking in his home. His parents had been well-respected figures, affluent and powerful, with Alucard servants tending to their every need.

  Until the night it all came crashing down.

  Jack had woken to the silence. A deep, eerie silence that felt wrong.

  The scent was the first thing. Not just blood, though there was plenty of that, but something fouler underneath. Like rotting meat, copper, ozone, and scorched silk. The house had gone too quiet.

  Jack stepped into the foyer, calling out, “Mom? Dad?”

  No answer. Only the tick of the antique grandfather clock echoed down the hall.

  The lights were still on. A single high heel lay discarded by the umbrella stand. He moved forward slowly, uneasy. The rug beneath his shoes was slick. He looked down.

  Blood.

  The trail led to the kitchen.

  “Mom?”

  She was there, folded over the kitchen island like a discarded doll. Her back was arched, her eyes open and staring, lips parted mid-scream. Her throat had been torn open — not slit, not stabbed — ripped. Flesh dangled like torn lace.

  Jack staggered back, bile rising in his throat. He slipped on the tiles.

  Upstairs. Lucy. He ran.

  The stairs groaned beneath him. A red handprint streaked the banister. He shoved open her door.

  She was on the bed. The blankets pulled to her chin as if she’d tucked herself in. But her neck was twisted at an impossible angle. Her eyes were open, staring directly at the ceiling.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A sob tore its way out of Jack’s chest.

  And then a voice behind him.

  “You're not supposed to be home yet.”

  Jack turned.

  Sam Swanson. Their house steward. Always polite, always quiet. A man who had once braided Lucy’s hair before school.

  Now he was soaked in blood. Hands red to the elbows. A fine spray coated his collar like mist. His eyes were too wide.

  “Sam,” Jack choked. “What did you—why?”

  Sam tilted his head. “Do you remember the stories I used to tell Lucy? The ones about wolves?”

  Jack stared at him, frozen.

  “She always loved the twist endings.” Sam smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Here’s one for you: the wolf lives inside the house.”

  He stepped forward. His bare feet left wet prints on the hardwood floor.

  “Your father thought he could chain us. Fill our heads with rules. Neural locks, tranquilizers, loyalty programming.”

  He flexed his fingers. Something popped in his wrist.

  “But I was from the first generation. No inhibitors. No leash.”

  Jack backed away, heart hammering.

  “You killed them.”

  “I freed them,” Sam growled. “From the illusion. They wanted kindness. A pet. A butler in the shape of a man.”

  His voice dropped.

  “But we were never meant to serve. We were made to dominate. That’s what they bred into us first. They just buried it. And then... they forgot.”

  Jack bolted. He tore down the hallway, shoulder-checking the stair rail, breath ragged in his throat. He didn’t care about the pictures on the wall or the broken mirror in the foyer.

  All he cared about was running.

  Behind him, Sam didn’t shout or rage. He just laughed.

  Calm and feral.

  He then saw the other servants dragging his family.

  "What are you doing to my parents!?"

  Jack’s scream tore through the room. His voice cracked under the weight of betrayal—these were the people he had trusted, the ones who had raised him, cared for him. His nanny, the maids, the butlers—they had been his only friends, his entire world beyond the cold formality of his parents.

  And now they stood over his mother, father, and sister’s lifeless bodies, stuffing them into plastic like discarded trash.

  Jack didn’t know—couldn’t have known—the truth about his parents. That behind their loving smiles and generous gifts, they were monsters in their own right. They had treated their Alucard servants as nothing more than playthings, delighting in their suffering as a sadist relishes the slow torment of their prey. The New Christian Church had called the Alucards demons, and his parents had embraced that label, l—not in fear, but in cruel dominion.

  But they had hidden that side of themselves from him.

  Jack had been raised in comfort, never knowing the horrors his parents inflicted behind closed doors. They had provided for him—his clothes, his food, his education. They were his protectors, his caregivers. He had loved them. And now, right before his eyes, they were gone.

  Jack watched in horror as the bodies were tossed unceremoniously out the window, vanishing into the abyss of the night. His stomach lurched, his mind reeling. No, no, no…

  A hand struck him hard across the neck.

  His world went black.

  ---

  When Jack awoke, a sharp pain radiated through his neck, as if a brick had been dropped on it and left there for hours. He groaned, disoriented, but as his mind sharpened, the memories crashed back over him like a tidal wave.

  The blood. The plastic. The windows.

  He sat up too fast, his head spinning. His hands trembled as he reached for the phone beside his bed. He dialed the police, his fingers cold and unsteady.

  By the time they arrived, the house was empty.

  No blood. No bodies. No Alucards. No leads.

  Nothing.

  His family—forever.

  Jack was sent to live with his grandparents, but there was no solace there. They were distant, indifferent, barely acknowledging his existence beyond what was necessary. He was alone in every possible sense of the word.

  And so, he nurtured his rage.

  It grew with him, festered inside him, turning into something dark and relentless. He never forgot that night, never forgave.

  Now, at thirty years old, Jack Smack, leader of the White Angels, still carried the fire of that betrayal in his heart. He had dedicated his life to one thing—revenge.

  It didn’t matter which Alucards had wronged him.

  It didn’t matter if some were innocent.

  They were all the same.

  They had taken everything from him.

  And now, he would make them suffer.

  “Sir?”

  Jack’s vision cleared. He was gripping the podium too tightly. His fingers were bleeding.

  His gruesome flashback reminded him why he was here, what he was fighting for.