Kiss Of The Vampire
"The Girl With the Sharp Sword Part 2"
Mission 12: The Warning From Nothing!
The warehouse felt bigger once the fighting stopped, like the shadows had pulled back just enough to let them breathe. Flashlight beams cut through the dust, picking out the scattered ash piles, the torn blood bags, the faint scorch marks where UV light had bitten skin. Elisia's ears still rang from gunfire, her shoulder throbbing where she'd slammed into the floor earlier. She rolled it slow, testing the ache, and caught Ben watching her with that quiet worry he tried to hide.
Kliev was already sweeping the perimeter, his heavy boots crunching over debris, muttering in a mix of Tagalog and Russian about "fucking bloodsuckers nesting like rats." Cymac coiled his silver whip with practiced flicks, the links whispering as they settled. Alicia reloaded her crossbow calm as ever, but her eyes—sharp, dark, always scanning—lingered on the deeper corners like she expected more to crawl out.
Ben crouched near one of the blanket piles, gloved fingers lifting a scrap of cloth. It was a shirt, torn and stained, with a faded logo from some dive bar in Binondo. "These weren't random street kids," he said, voice low. "Look at the cuts—tailored once. Someone's turning people with jobs, families. Organized."
Elisia joined him, kneeling in the grit. The smell hit her harder now that the adrenaline was fading—rotting blood, mildew, the faint sweetness of decay clinging to everything. It turned her stomach, but she pushed it down, focusing on the details. A wallet lay half-buried under a crate: ID for a security guard from a mall in Makati, photo showing a smiling guy with a kid on his shoulders. Gone now. Just ash.
"Master vamp's building an army," she murmured, that hollow ache flaring again in her chest for no reason she could name. Like grieving for strangers who'd become ghosts too soon. "Or cleaning up loose ends. Either way, we're late to the party."
Mizuno's voice crackled over the open channel again, steady as a metronome. "Team, report full status. Cleanup's fifteen out. Any survivors or intel?"
Ben keyed his comm. "Nest cleared, seven hostiles down. No survivors. Evidence of a sire—multiple recent turns, organized supplies. Looks like they're recruiting or replacing. We need forensics on site ASAP, trace the blood bags."
"Copy. Marking for priority sweep. Hold position till cleanup arrives. Good work."
The line clicked off. Kliev lumbered back, wiping sweat from his brow despite the evening cool seeping through the cracks. "Back rooms clear. Found a drain grate—blood trails leading down. Sewer access. They were coming and going that way."
Alicia nodded toward the side door. "And this one almost bolted. Smart enough to run when outnumbered. Not feral. That's bad."
Cymac leaned against a crate, catching his breath with a wry grin. "Means the boss is close. Teaching them discipline. Or fear."
Elisia stood, brushing dust from her knees, feeling the weight of the city pressing in from outside—the hum of ships at the docks, distant traffic, lives going on oblivious above them. But down here, in this stinking hole, it felt like the underbelly was rotting faster than they could cut it out. She glanced at Ben, saw the same fatigue mirrored in his eyes, the kind that came from too many nights like this.
"We can't let this spread," she said, more to herself than anyone. "If they're turning people this fast, next week it'll be a dozen. Then a hundred."
Ben met her gaze, something fierce flickering there. "We won't. We dig deeper tonight. Trace the sewer, hit their suppliers. Whatever it takes."
The team murmured agreement, a quiet solidarity settling over them like armor. Outside, the first cleanup van sirens wailed faint in the distance, blue lights flashing through the cracks in the walls.
But Elisia couldn't shake the chill creeping up her spine. This wasn't just a rogue vamp anymore. It felt personal, like the darkness was reaching for cracks she didn't even know were there. And in the silence between heartbeats, that unnamed hollow whispered again—urgent, almost pleading.
Like someone she'd forgotten was trying to warn her before it was too late.
The cleanup crew rolled in twenty minutes later, floodlights turning the warehouse into harsh daylight, techs in hazmat suits swarming the nest like ants on a carcass. Elisia watched them bag evidence, tag blood trails, mutter about sewer access with clipped efficiency. But her mind was already underground, itching to follow those drains before the scent went cold.
Ben caught her eye across the chaos, reading her like always. He nodded once—sharp, decisive. "We're going down. Kliev, Cymac, you're with us. Alicia, hold topside with cleanup, keep Mizuno looped."
Alicia arched a brow but didn't argue, crossbow slung easy over her shoulder. "Don't drown in shit, yeah?"
Kliev grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Romantic date, da? Manila sewers. Better than dinner."
Cymac just checked his whip and flashlight, quiet as ever.
They pried the grate in the back room—rusted iron screeching protest as Kliev heaved it up. The smell hit first: thick, rotten, a mix of river muck, piss, and old blood that coated the back of your throat. Elisia gagged once, swallowed it down, and clipped a filtered mask over her face. The others did the same. Then one by one they dropped into the dark.
The ladder was slick with slime, rungs cold and gritty under gloved hands. Elisia went third, boots splashing into ankle-deep water that swirled black and oily around her calves. The tunnel stretched both ways, a concrete throat barely tall enough for Kliev to stand upright, walls weeping moisture and tagged with old gang marks half-washed away. Their flashlights cut pale beams through the murk, catching floating debris and the occasional fat rat that scurried with wet slaps.
"Trail goes east," Ben murmured, crouching to study the drag marks in the sludge—clawed prints, fresh enough to hold shape. "Toward the river outflow. They're heading for open water or another exit."
"Or ambush," Cymac added, voice low, whip uncoiled and ready.
They moved single file, boots sucking in the filth with every step, echoes bouncing weird off the curved walls. The air grew heavier, humid and foul, pressing on Elisia's chest until her breaths came shallow. She felt the city above them—millions of lives grinding on, jeepneys honking, street vendors shouting—while down here it was just the drip of water, the distant rumble of pipes, and the prickle of being hunted in return.
Fifty meters in, the tunnel forked. Left branch narrower, right wider with a faster current. Ben paused, light sweeping the walls. Fresh scratches on the concrete—high up, like something tall had scraped past in a hurry.
"Right," he decided. "Bigger one can handle more of them."
They pressed on, pace quickening. The water deepened to knees, cold seeping through pants, making every step heavier. Elisia's thighs burned from the resistance, heart thudding steady but loud in her ears.
Then a splash ahead—sharp, deliberate.
Kliev froze, raising a fist. They killed the lights except one low beam.
Shapes moved in the gloom: three figures, maybe four, pale skin catching the faint glow as they waded fast. One glanced back—eyes flashing red—and hissed, the sound echoing like a blade on stone.
"Go!" Ben barked.
Flashlights snapped back on, UV modes flicking live. The vampires bolted, splashing wild, water exploding around them.
Elisia surged forward, thighs pumping against the drag, UV beam stabbing ahead to slow them. The lead one shrieked as light seared its back, skin bubbling, but it kept running—shoulder-checking the wall to stay upright.
Cymac whipped his chain low, links singing through the air. It caught the trailing vamp's legs, yanking it backward into the water with a splash that drenched them all. Kliev was on it in seconds—big hands slamming its head under the filth, holding until the thrashing stopped and it dusted mid-submerge, ash clouding the water gray.
But the others were pulling away, faster in the dark, using walls and pipes for leverage.
Elisia pushed harder, lungs burning, closing on the middle one—a female, hair matted and wild. It twisted mid-stride, lunging back at her with claws raking high. She ducked, water slowing the swing just enough, felt the tips snag her sleeve and tear fabric. Came up inside its guard, stake flashing—drove it hard under the ribs. The vamp gasped, foul breath washing over her mask, nails scraping her shoulder as it clawed for purchase. She twisted the wood deeper, felt the heart give, and shoved it away as it crumbled to ash that swirled around her waist.
Ahead, Ben and Cymac cornered the last two where the tunnel widened into a junction chamber—grated walkway above a deeper channel, river roar echoing from an outflow grate. One vamp vaulted the railing, trying for the ladder up. Cymac's whip cracked again, snaring its wrist—yanked it back down into the water with bone-cracking force.
"Oh,oh not so fast Fuck face!" Cymac shouted.
Ben fired twice, silver rounds punching smoking holes. The vamp screamed, flailing, until Kliev waded in and staked it clean.
The final one backed against the wall, cornered and feral, lips peeled from fangs. It feinted left, then sprang right—straight at Elisia as she caught up.
She met it head-on. It crashed into her, momentum slamming her back against the slimy concrete, pain exploding across her spine. Water closed over her head for a second, cold and choking, before she surfaced gasping. The thing was on her chest, fangs snapping for her throat through the mask. She jammed her forearm under its jaw, muscles screaming as she held it off, free hand fumbling for the spare stake at her belt.
Ben shouted her name, but he was tangled with debris from the fight.
Elisia bucked her hips hard, twisting—got half on top, water churning around them. The vamp clawed her side, fire raking through her vest. She ignored it, drove the stake down with everything she had—felt it punch through sternum, grate on bone, find heart.
It convulsed once, nails digging deep into her arm before going limp. Then ash, pouring into the water like ink.
Silence rushed back, broken only by their heaving breaths and the drip from pipes overhead.
Elisia slumped against the wall, blood warm down her side, arm throbbing where claws had torn skin. The hollow ache flared sharp again—grief for no one, loss for nothing she could name.
Ben was there in seconds, hand gentle on her shoulder, eyes scanning the wounds. "Lis... you okay?"
She nodded, voice rough. "Yeah. Just... scratched."
But as they helped her up, flashlights sweeping the empty chamber, she knew they were still one step behind. The sire wasn't here. And whatever it was building down in the dark felt bigger than a nest.
It felt like it was waiting for them to catch up.
The unknown four are whispered about in Bureau black files: House Sanguilith (blood sorcerers), House Ebonreach (dream invaders), House Crimsonveil (illusionists), and House Vorathane (the ones even other vampires don't name aloud).
Now, back to the sewer—let's say the sire they're chasing isn't some random rogue. It's an heir who went off the rails.
Elisia leaned against the slimy wall, blood seeping warm through her fingers where she pressed her side. The water lapped at her boots, carrying swirls of ash and filth toward the outflow grate. Her arm burned from the claw marks, deep enough to need stitches, but the adrenaline kept the pain at a dull roar. Ben was binding a gash on Kliev's forearm with a strip torn from his own shirt, while Cymac swept the chamber one last time, whip coiled but ready.
"Trail's cold," Cymac said, voice flat with frustration. "Outflow's too fast. They planned this exit."
Ben tied off the makeshift bandage and stood, eyes hard. "Not they. He. Mizuno just pushed an update—intel from a Senate informant. The sire's no street turn. It's Cassian Vaeloria. Youngest heir of House Vaeloria."
The name dropped like a stone in the still water. Elisia felt it ripple through the team.
Kliev whistled low. "Diplomat blood? The pretty ones who smile for cameras?"
"The same," Ben said. "But Cassian's been missing from their Manila estate for months. Word is he disagreed with the family's peace policy. Wanted to 'remind humans of their place.' If he's the one turning these foot soldiers..."
Elisia's stomach twisted. A noble heir. That explained the organization, the discipline in the new turns. Vaeloria blood carried the gift of persuasion—weakened in Cassian compared to his father, but still potent. He could whisper suggestions into a victim's mind before feeding, make them walk willingly into the dark. Or command a small army of fresh vamps to obey without question.
Enough power to threaten more than a neighborhood. Enough to bleed a district dry if he built his nest big enough.
She pushed off the wall, ignoring the fresh stab of pain. "Then we're not chasing rogues anymore. We're hunting a lordling with a grudge and inherited tricks. If he gets his numbers up..."
"He could black out Tondo for a night," Cymac finished quietly. "Feed without a trace. Turn half the slums before we mobilize."
The chamber felt colder suddenly, the drip from pipes louder. Elisia tasted sewer rot on her tongue, felt the weight of the city pressing down from above—millions sleeping, eating, living, none of them knowing a single spoiled vampire noble could unravel it all.
Ben met her eyes, that captain's mask cracking just enough to show the worry underneath. "We go back topside. Regroup. This just went from containment to takedown. High priority."
Kliev cracked his neck, grinning fierce despite the blood. "Good. I always wanted to punch a rich boy."
But Elisia didn't smile. That hollow ache inside her throbbed again, sharper this time, like a warning she couldn't quite hear. Cassian Vaeloria wasn't just a killer.
They climbed out of the sewer twenty minutes later, emerging into a side alley behind the warehouse where the night air hit like a slap—cooler, cleaner, but still thick with the Pasig's distant rot and the exhaust from late-night trucks rumbling along Radial Road 10. Elisia peeled off her mask first, sucking in deep breaths that tasted of rain-soaked asphalt and frying oil from a nearby carinderia that never closed. The scratches on her arm and side burned now that the rush was fading, a hot, insistent throb that made her grit her teeth.
Ben helped her up the last rung, his hand lingering on her elbow a second longer than needed. "You sure you're good? Those claws went deep."
She managed a tired nod, flexing her fingers to test the damage. Blood sticky under her shirt, but nothing arterial. "I'll live. Seen worse." But the words felt hollow even to her. That ache inside—the one without a name—was gnawing harder, like fingers scraping at the edges of her mind, trying to pull something buried into the light.
Kliev hauled himself out last, grunting as he landed heavy on the pavement. He shook sludge from his boots, muttering, "Smell like dead rat now. Need bleach bath. Or vodka. Both."
Cymac was already on comms, voice low as he updated Mizuno. The cleanup crew had wrapped the warehouse; floodlights dimming, vans pulling away quiet. Alicia waited by their SUV, leaning against the hood with her crossbow propped beside her like an old friend. She took one look at them—dripping, bloodied, faces grim—and pushed off with a sigh.
"Fun in the poop pipes?" she asked, tossing Ben the keys. "You lot look like you wrestled a croc."
"Something like that," Ben said, catching them one-handed. He filled her in quick: the chase, the dust-ups, Cassian Vaeloria's name dropping like a bomb.
Alicia's eyes narrowed, that sharp mind of hers already piecing it together. "A Vaeloria heir gone rogue. Senate's gonna shit bricks. House Vaeloria's got pull—diplomatic immunity wrapped in red tape. We poke this wrong, and it turns political fast."
"Yeah," Ben agreed, unlocking the SUV. "That's why we're not poking blind. Back to base, patch up, dig into whatever black files Mizuno can pull without ringing alarms."
They piled in, the vehicle sagging under Kliev's weight in the back. Elisia took shotgun, leaning her head against the cool window as Ben pulled out into the sparse traffic. Manila at this hour was a different beast—streets half-empty, neon signs flickering over closed gates, the occasional jeepney blasting mellow OPM as it crawled past. But beneath it all, she felt the city's pulse: vulnerable, sprawling, full of veins a vampire like Cassian could tap without anyone noticing until it was too late.
The drive to the Bureau safehouse in Quezon City took forty minutes, cutting through avenues lit by orange streetlamps and past billboards hawking everything from whitening soap to political promises. Elisia closed her eyes for a bit, letting the engine's hum dull the pain, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, fragments flickered behind her lids—flashes of red eyes in the dark, the security guard's smiling photo with his kid, the way the last vamp had clawed at her like it knew her somehow.
That hollow feeling swelled again, a quiet desperation threading through it. Like a voice muffled by layers of cotton, trying to say her name. She rubbed her temple, pushing it down. Just fatigue. Too many nights bleeding in the shadows.
The safehouse was a nondescript two-story in a gated subdivision—fancy enough to blend with the neighbors, fortified enough to hold if things went south. Reinforced doors, UV shutters, a basement armory that smelled of oil and silver. Mizuno was waiting in the ops room when they filed in, holographic displays flickering over the long table, coffee brewing strong in the corner.
He looked up from a tablet, face as unreadable as ever under the buzz cut. "Debrief. Then med bay. You all stink."
Kliev laughed, dropping into a chair with a thud. "Boss, you sweet talker."
They ran it down quick: the nest, the sewer chase, the fights move by move. Mizuno nodded along, pulling up schematics of the Pasig underground, marking their path in red. When Ben dropped Cassian's name, the room went still.
"Confirmed," Mizuno said, swiping to a grainy file photo—Cassian Vaeloria at some gala months back, all sharp cheekbones and tailored suit, smiling like he owned the room. Younger than most nobles, maybe turned in his twenties, with that eternal pretty-boy edge. "Senate intel matches. He's been off-grid since a family dispute. Father covered it as 'extended travel.' But whispers say he took thralls with him—loyalists who bought his vision of open feeding."
Elisia leaned over the table, studying the photo. Something about those eyes—cold, amused—sent that ache spiking through her chest. Not fear, exactly. Recognition? No, that didn't make sense. She'd never crossed paths with Vaeloria highbloods.
"His gift?" she asked, voice quieter than she meant.
"Weak persuasion," Mizuno replied. "Not full domination like the old man, but enough to nudge minds. Make a victim compliant. Or keep new turns in line without constant oversight. Combined with noble resources... he's dangerous. Ambitious."
Cymac crossed his arms. "So how do we take him? Can't just stake a lord's son without fallout."
"We build a case," Ben said. "Ironclad. More nests, more turns traced to him. Then Senate greenlights a kill order. Until then, we shadow, disrupt, thin his numbers."
Alicia snorted. "While he builds an army in the sewers. Great plan."
"Better than starting a house war," Mizuno countered. But even he sounded tired.
They wrapped it, heading to med bay for patches and stitches. Elisia sat on the exam table while the doc—a quiet woman named Reyes—cleaned her wounds, the antiseptic sting sharp enough to make her hiss.
"Deep lacerations," Reyes murmured, threading suture. "Lucky no infection from that filth. You'll scar."
"Add it to the collection," Elisia said, forcing a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
Ben waited outside the curtain, arms folded, listening. When Reyes finished and left, he slipped in, handing her a fresh shirt.
"You've been quiet," he said softly. "More than usual."
She pulled the shirt on slow, wincing. "Just thinking. This feels... different. Like Cassian's not just killing for fun. It's targeted. Building something."
Ben nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah. I feel it too. But we'll stop him, Lis. We always do."
She wanted to believe him. God, she did. But as she met his eyes—that steady warmth anchoring her—the hollow ache twisted hard, flooding her with a wave of grief so sudden it stole her breath. Loss, sharp and personal, for something slipping away she couldn't grasp.
And in that moment, buried deep under the pain and exhaustion, a whisper finally broke through—not words, exactly, but a pull. Urgent. Familiar.
Like Cassian wasn't hunting the city.
He was hunting her.
They geared up again before dawn, Mizuno pulling strings for satellite overwatch on likely sewer exits near the river. The team moved quiet through the emptying streets, back into the underbelly where the water ran faster and the air hung heavier with the promise of rain topside.
Elisia led point this time, flashlight low, every sense strained. The scratches pulled with each step, but she ignored them, stake gripped tight in her good hand. That whisper in her chest grew louder the deeper they went—drawing her forward, or warning her back, she couldn't tell.
Then, around a bend where the tunnel widened into an old maintenance alcove, they found it: fresh blood smeared on the walls, not old and crusted, but wet. And in the center, propped against a rusted pipe like a mocking gift—a single red rose, thornless, petals perfect.
No footprints leading away. Just the flower, and a faint scent of expensive cologne cutting through the rot.
Ben crouched beside it, face grim. "He's toying with us."
Kliev growled. "Or inviting."
Elisia stared at the rose, heart pounding hard enough to echo in her ears. The ache bloomed into full warning now—clear, insistent.
Cassian knew they were coming.
And whatever he wanted with her, it went deeper than blood.
To be continue