Frankie’s head snapped up.

  Camella stood beside her.

  The girl’s form faded in and out of the dim light. Her 1940s dress rippled. Her wide, sorrowful eyes stared down at Frankie.

  “Get up,” Camella said. No warmth. No comfort. Just command.

  “I can’t.” The words scraped Frankie’s throat. “I tried. I—”

  “You did not try hard enough.”

  Frankie’s fangs slid out. Heat flared in her chest. “The hell I didn’t! I—”

  The air shattered.

  Pain spiked in Frankie’s skull. Blindness. Her stomach dropped. The corridor vanished.

  She wasn’t on the ship.

  No—she was still on the ship. Just not now.

  Music.

  Brass horns blared. A trumpet wailed, cutting through a haze of cigarette smoke.

  She stood in a ballroom. Couples spun across the waxed floor. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, catching the glitter of sequined dresses. The S.S. Wistaria. Glory days.

  The air smelled of champagne and expensive perfume.

  It didn’t last.

  A scream.

  Frankie spun.

  A woman collapsed near the buffet. Her throat torn open. Blood sprayed across the white tablecloths. Red on clean white.

  A man clawed at his chest. Something invisible drained him. His face collapsed inward.

  The chandeliers flickered. The music died. Notes bent wrong.

  Panic.

  Bodies surged toward the exits. Something sealed the doors. Brass handles melted into twisted lumps.

  Camella’s voice cried out. “Mama! Papa!”

  Frankie’s vision lurched. She wasn’t watching Camella. She was Camella.

  She looked through fourteen-year-old eyes.

  Her parents lay crumpled near the grand staircase. Pale. Lifeless. Blood pooled beneath them, spreading across the wood.

  Around them, passengers ran. Screamed. Died.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  And there—in the center—Vondra hovered.

  A skinless nightmare. Wrapped in living fire. Her dress of flames shifted. Orange. Blue. Sickly green.

  She laughed. Too many voices layered over each other.

  “No,” Camella whispered. Frankie felt the word vibrate in a throat too small. “No, no, no—”

  Power surged through the girl’s body.

  Frankie felt it. Magic buried in blood and bone. Camella’s veins burned. Blue fire crawled under her skin. Her hands crackled.

  She couldn’t save them.

  I can’t save them.

  She couldn’t bring them home. Couldn’t turn back time.

  But she could trap it here. Stop it from reaching land.

  The decision formed. Hard. Cold.

  Camella’s life force tore free.

  Frankie screamed. She felt the spell. Every second. The girl’s essence ripped loose, twisting into a cage of pure will. Mist erupted around the ship. Silver. Thick.

  The pocket dimension snapped into place. Crack.

  The pain was unbearable. Nerves on fire. Bones turning to molten metal. Her heart stuttered. Stopped. Restarted.

  Defiance.

  The vision ended.

  Frankie collapsed forward. Gasping.

  The corridor reappeared. Solid. Rusted. Damp.

  Her hands shook. Her fangs ached. Her body trembled from the aftershock. She tasted the spell—ozone and copper and burnt sugar.

  The spirit knelt beside her. Her face close. Frankie saw the details now. The small mole beside Camella’s left eye. The finger waves through her dark hair.

  “She feeds on fear,” Camella said. Her voice rang with strength. “It fills her belly. Sharpens her power. But hope… hope starves her.”

  Frankie’s breath hitched. Her lungs burned.

  “He is not gone yet, Frankie.” Camella’s eyes held hers. Dark. Old. “The boy you love is in there. Fighting. I sense him. His will pushes against her. Small. Weak. But there.”

  She leaned closer.

  “Fight for him. Fight for yourself.”

  The words punched through the darkness.

  Something shifted inside Frankie’s chest. The despair cracked.

  Underneath it, something cold coiled.

  Rage.

  Not the panic she’d brought to the ship. This was different. Controlled. Focused. Colder than the ocean outside.

  Damon was still in there.

  And she had let him go. Collapsed on the floor. Let the monster win without making it work for the meal.

  Her hands curled into fists. Her claws bit into her palms. Blood welled.

  She tasted the death-stench in her mouth.

  No.

  No more.

  If a fourteen-year-old girl could trap a demon, Frankie could get off the floor.

  She pushed herself up. Her legs wobbled. Ribs screamed. But she locked her knees. Straightened her spine.

  Her green eyes blazed in the dim light. Red flickered at the edges. The hunger rose.

  Camella stood beside her. Faint. She smiled. Small. Sad.

  “Now you understand.”

  “Yeah.” Frankie’s voice was low. A growl. “I do.”

  She turned toward the corridor where Damon and Vondra had disappeared.

  Darkness swallowed the passage. Somewhere in there, the Soucouyant waited. Gloating. Feeding.

  But Frankie wasn’t despairing anymore.

  She wiped the tears from her face. Smearing blood and salt across her cheekbone.

  Her jaw set. Her claws extended.

  She’d failed once. Not again.

  Camella had given everything to build this cage. Frankie would finish the job.

  And if Damon was still fighting inside that puppet, he deserved backup.

  Her fangs grazed her lower lip. A predator’s smile curved her mouth. Sharp. Feral.

  “Okay,” she breathed.

  She stepped into the dark.