"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 was 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 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.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  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.

  ____

  Maisie and Igor arrived just in time for Jack’s grand entrance.

  The crowd erupted as the leader of the White Angels bounded onto the stage, jogging forward with theatrical energy. He raised his arms high, soaking in the roar like a cult leader basking in his myth.

  “Are you ready for this?!” Jack bellowed, voice sharp, electric.

  “YEAH!” the crowd roared back—humans and Alucards alike, fists raised, bodies buzzing with anticipation.

  “Then let’s do this!” Jack slammed a fist into the air.

  The audience mirrored him. The energy was wild—zealous. Dangerous. It crackled in the air like a live wire.

  Jack leaned into the microphone, eyes glinting.

  “Are you tired of the upper crust bleeding you dry, humans?!”

  “YES!”

  “Are you tired of the rich humans enslaving you, Alucards?!”

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then, hesitant murmurs: “Yes. We do...”

  Jack’s smile twisted. He smelled the uncertainty like blood in the water.

  “OH, COME ON! SPEAK YOUR MIND!”

  This time, the response rolled through the crowd like thunder.

  “YESSS WE DO!”

  Jack’s teeth gleamed under the lights. The puppets danced. The strings grew tighter.

  “Well then!” he shouted, “Let’s get moving and shaking!”

  Another uproar. Chants swelled to a frenzy.

  Igor sat stiffly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t hear the words anymore—only noise. The speech was a performance. Hollow rhetoric recycled for the desperate and the angry.

  Maisie, though, stared wide-eyed at the stage. The chants pulsed in her veins. The fire. The promise of justice. It was intoxicating. For a moment, she believed Jack might be the answer. The White Angels—so fierce, so righteous. It all felt right.

  But beneath the heat of the crowd, a chill tugged at her ribs. A shadow of doubt.

  Why did his words feel so... wrong?

  She had believed once. She needed to believe.

  “He’s the leader we’ve been waiting for,” her friend had insisted. Someone close. Someone she trusted. “He’s fighting for you. For all of us.”

  And Maisie had listened. She wanted to believe.

  But now, standing in the center of it all, the illusion unraveled. Jack wasn’t leading a revolution—he was orchestrating a trap.

  The truth twisted inside her.

  “Maisie.”

  Igor’s voice pulled her back. His face was calm, but his eyes flicked with warning.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. The roar of the crowd faded into a quiet panic in her mind.

  She had been used.

  “Get in the vans!”

  Jack’s voice boomed again.

  “If you want to change the world, White Angels are waiting! Step into the vans—we’ll take you to our facility. You’ll learn everything there.”

  A lie.

  Igor frowned. Maisie stood frozen, just feet away.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are they—why are you—?”

  “I didn’t know,” Maisie said quickly, her voice tight, broken. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

  Igor’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought they were helping us,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.”

  Her eyes shifted to the uniformed White Angels. No longer allies.

  She stepped between them and Igor.

  “I can’t let you take him.”

  Jack appeared from the edge of the stage, calm, arms spread. “Maisie, you don’t understand. This is bigger than you. You’ll see—we’re protecting you.”

  Maisie’s eyes narrowed. “You used me. All of us.”

  Jack’s voice softened. “You think this is betrayal. But it’s salvation.”

  Maisie wasn’t listening anymore. Her fists clenched.

  “You never cared about Alucards,” she hissed. “You just needed weapons.”

  A White Angel moved behind her—quick, efficient. Not to strike, but to restrain.

  Maisie struggled, twisting in his grip.

  “No!” she screamed. “This isn’t right—”

  The man pressed a small device to her neck.

  Her eyes widened. A wave of exhaustion crashed through her. Knees buckled. Vision blurred.

  “Igor…”

  Her body slumped, limp in the man’s arms.

  “Maisie!” Igor lunged—but another White Angel caught him, shoving him back.

  Jack’s voice was low, almost apologetic. “We don’t want to hurt her. She’ll be fine.”

  Igor froze. Shock rooted him in place.

  Maisie had protected him, and now she was unconscious, taken.

  He didn’t have time to grieve.

  “Get in the van,” one of the men ordered, grabbing his arm.

  Igor’s voice was cold. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Another grip landed on his shoulder, rougher this time.

  “Get in. Or we’ll make you.”

  Igor tensed, ready to strike. But more men were closing in.

  A sudden jab at his side. Sharp. Burning.

  A needle.

  His vision reeled. Limbs went slack.

  The van door hissed open. The White Angels dragged him inside.

  The logo on the door gleamed—an angelic figure etched in silver, halo shining. A lie.

  Inside, the air was heavy. Too quiet.

  “Hey.”

  The voice came from across the van.

  Igor turned sluggishly. An Alucard sat slouched beside him, short, stocky, with brown hair, amber eyes. A slight hunch in his back. Deformed wings.

  “Me?” Igor asked, wary.

  “Obviously.” The stranger grinned. “I’m looking right at you.”

  Igor wasn’t in the mood.

  “I’m not here to chat.”

  The guy laughed. “Charming. First time at one of these?”

  Igor didn’t answer.

  “My master’s kid shoved me into this van like it was a joyride. With that music playing.” He shivered. “I hate cheerful music. So fake.”

  Igor grunted. “I got drugged into coming. Don’t think I’m staying long.”

  The stranger leaned back, unbothered.

  “You’re kind of standoffish,” he said with a smirk.

  “And you’re chatty for someone who’s been kidnapped.”

  “Touché.”

  A beat.

  “I’m Tak,” the stranger said. “Tak Jagger.”

  “Igor.”

  They shook hands, wary but respectful.

  Then the van lurched.

  The lights flickered. The engine groaned.

  They weren’t following city routes anymore.

  Something was wrong.

  Tak said, “They don’t just drive. They vanish.”

  Igor’s blood ran cold.

  Outside, nothing looked familiar. No traffic. No noise.

  The pressure in the air shifted. He’d felt this before—in high-security transports. But this wasn’t a standard route.

  No GPS. No signal.

  Then—a shimmer. A forcefield passed through the van’s walls like a ghost.

  Impossible tech.

  Tak flipped a switch on the wall. The van jerked again—hard.

  “We’re not going to a safehouse, are we?” Igor muttered.

  Tak didn’t answer.

  The van plunged downward, down some kind of slope. A tunnel?

  Eventually, it screeched to a stop.

  The music died mid-note.

  Silence.

  Hissss.

  The doors opened.

  Figures stepped in. Identical suits. Sunglasses. Neon-blue hair. Skin is smooth and synthetic.

  They weren’t normal White Angels.

  They weren’t normal anything.

  Igor tensed. Too late.

  A needle struck flesh.

  Thud. A body dropped.

  Another.

  Then—

  Tak.

  “Wha—?” Thud.

  Darkness.