𝐃𝐀𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐀 | volturi kings

chapter four | blood moon

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rumors spread like wildfire through the province of tuscany and beyond. the san francesco massacre is on everyone's lips. whispers in markets, hush mutters in chapels, feared in every home. people in neighboring towns tremble, knowing that whatever creature slaughtered the faithful of volterra is still roaming the land.

word is, there was only one survivor—a young girl, barely a woman, pulled from the wreckage of the easter mass. out of fifty three attendees, she alone lived.

theories multiply like flies.

some say it was a pack of ravaged bears. others claim a demonic cult. whispers of the devil or demons take the lead.

sympathy for the girl runs short. suspicion, however, thrives.

"she's a vampire!"
"she's a witch!"
"she's the antichrist!"

the doctors at the clinic and even some of the patients try to pry open her silence, desperate for answers. but amaris remains mute. even to herself.

the longer she refuses to speak, the deeper the fear grows. the most she is seen not as a victim, but as a harbinger.

meanwhile, in the heart of volterra, three ancient kings and their conclave deliberate from their thrones—fury etched in their marble eyes.

"those wretched fiends!" caius roars, his grip cracking the stone armrest. "how dare they draw blood at our doorstep?"

"brother, calm yourself," aro soothes, his voice silky and cold. "we'll find them. they won't get far. but we must tread carefully. eyes are everywhere now—more alert than ever."

the raging blond sneers while aro turns to demitri. "track the scent. they likely fled northeast, into the mountains. we'll deal with the survivor later. first, we clean up their mess."

demitri bows and vanishes into shadow. aro dramatically exhales and turns back to the other kings. "and to think we believed we had a handle on the children of the moon." he drums his fingers. "letting one slip through our borders has made us look foolish. that ends now."

caius grins darkly. "with great pleasure."

still, aro's mind drifts back to the lone survivor. children of the moon do not leave survivors, not unless something is wrong. they're mindless creatures—lost of all sense of rationality and consciousness. rabid.

so why spare her?

the report said the lumberyard crew found her unconscious at the foot of the alter, clinging to a bloodstained bible. she should be dead. torn to pieces. and yet, she isn't.

he presses his fingers together, curiosity ever so piqued.

what happened that night?
who are you little survivor?

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aris lies on her bed, nose buried in her bible. her chapped lips part with a long sigh as she finally sets it aside. she shuffles to the window and peers out, catching her reflection in the glass—flinching as phantom flashes of blood stab through her thoughts.

did that all really happen?

she presses her palms to the cold windowpane, watching the cows and sheep graze in the distant field. south lies volterra. the idea of escaping has crossed her mind more times than she'd like to admit.

she wants to go home.

to see momma. to hear marianna laugh and love bomb about boys. even to find leonardo chasing after her hand.

who would be there?

she leans her forehead against the window, eyes fluttering shut.

"denial won't make it easier, miss manarino."

that's what they say. the longer she's here the more they seem right. she pulls back, climbing into bed and staring at her bible beside her. her fingers reach for her necklace, spinning the small silver cross with slow anxious turns. her haunted eyes fix on the blood-stained pages.

"come to terms with what happen. talk about it. let out everything you think. you will feel better."

her jaw tightens.

she hears the growling, the tearing—the blood filled pews. she closes her eyes. she sees momma—

her eyes snap open.

she swallows thickly. she won't come to terms with that. never.

twilight envelopes across the meadow. she covers herself in the thin wool blanket, but it offers no warmth. mindlessly, she stares up at the wooden rafters.

she was so stewed in turmoil over leonardo and his proposal—her lips quiver. she never would have ever thought death was lurking in the shadows. she never would have thought that it would be the last time she'd ever see anyone she loved ever again. that stupid proposal—that aching feeling of rejecting the man—she remembers thinking, what could be worse?

her stomach clenches.

she closes her eyes again, hoping she'll be graced by a dreamless, thoughtless sleep. the chirping crickets and the occasional faint moo of a cow filled her ears.

her heart races to a painful beat. she gnaws on her lip and her eyes draw back to the window.

dear lord, what shall i do?

perhaps that's how she found herself running barefoot through the dark. shards of glass pierce her feet. blood mixes with mud and she sprints south, her bible clutched tightly against her chest. hot tears stream unchecked. every step burns, but she doesn't stop.

it doesn't matter after all.
pain isn't real.
this isn't real.

she's going home.

momma will be there. marianna too. she'll be fluttering lashes at giovanni and leonardo will be in celina, sipping his family's wine.

she gasps for air, her lungs burning. home is so close. she just has to get there. then the nightmare will end.

but her body betrays her. she stumbles, crashing into the dirt path. she lies there sobbing, her cut bloodied hands trembling as they grip her book.

she leads in silence.

please.
please.
please.

let it be a dream.
let them be alive.
let me wake.
please, lord. please have mercy.

her sobs rise as memories overwhelm her. the blood, the screams, crunching, and tearing—
momma's final cry.

she curls into the dirt, the weight of it all pressing her in.

please. please! make it stop!

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