CHAPTER 6: THE INFINITE CITY

  The carriage groaned to a stop, its wheels sinking slightly into the damp earth. The horses—gaunt, unnatural things with hollow eyes and breath that steamed like fog—stilled as if sensing something beyond the veil of the living. The air was thick with decay, the scent of damp stone and rotting wood filling Elizabeth’s lungs as she stepped down onto the uneven ground.

  Before them loomed the ruins of the Old Monastery, its skeletal remains swallowed by creeping ivy and mist. The spires, once proud and piercing the heavens, stood fractured, their jagged edges clawing at the sky. The great wooden doors, half-rotten and splintered, hung ajar, creaking softly in the breeze that whispered through the hollow corridors.

  The Evelyns stepped forward in unison, their boots barely making a sound against the moss-covered stone.

  "It still stands," Evie murmured, her fingers trailing over the weathered archway.

  "More or less," Eve added, tilting her head as if listening to the voices of the past embedded in the walls.

  Victor stood apart, his sharp eyes scanning the ruins, calculating. He adjusted his gloves, unconcerned by the chill that seemed to bleed from the monastery itself.

  "Charming place," he mused, stepping over a fallen pillar. "How many of your little hunters died here, I wonder?"

  Elizabeth ignored him, stepping into the yawning darkness beyond the doors. The floor was slick with moisture, the faint remnants of frescoes barely visible beneath centuries of grime. The once-sacred halls felt suffocated, heavy with something unseen. The whispers of the past clung to the walls, murmuring in languages long forgotten.

  A distant sound—like the echo of footsteps that shouldn’t be there—sent a shiver down her spine.

  "This place remembers," Evie whispered.

  "It doesn't forget," Eve agreed.

  Elizabeth turned, her gaze sweeping over the ruins, and tightened her grip on the notebook. "Then let's make it talk."

  The monastery swallowed them in its silence, the cold stone walls pressing in like a tomb. Their footsteps echoed through the vast, ruined halls as Elizabeth led the way, the Evelyns flanking her like silent phantoms. Victor followed at a measured pace, hands in his coat pockets, his presence unnervingly steady.

  Ancient pews lay shattered beneath the weight of time and faded murals of long-forgotten saints wept from the walls. Elizabeth trailed her fingers along the carvings, feeling something beneath the dust and decay—a presence, a memory. The air was thick with it.

  “This place stinks of old ghosts,” Evie muttered, rubbing her arms.

  “Not just ghosts,” Eve corrected, glancing toward the shadows pooling in the far corners of the chamber. “Something else lingers.”

  Victor studied Elizabeth, his sharp gaze assessing the way she gripped Dr. Chen’s notebook like a lifeline.

  “You sense something,” he stated, not a question.

  She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. Something was here—watching, waiting.

  They pushed deeper into the ruins, passing under crumbling archways and through corridors thick with the scent of damp stone. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. The monastery remembered its purpose. It remembered the pact.

  Elizabeth stopped abruptly.

  “There’s something under here.” She knelt, pressing her palm to the stone floor. The moment her skin met the surface, her vision blurred.

  A scream—centuries old—ripped through her mind.

  Her body convulsed as the monastery’s past surged through her, a tidal wave of suffering and betrayal. The pact. The hunters. The blood spilled here.

  Victor’s hand clamped onto her wrist, yanking her back. “Elizabeth.”

  She gasped, struggling for breath. The energy inside her twisted violently, raw, and uncontrollably.

  He was too close.

  The surge of power lashed out.

  A force like a hurricane exploded from her core, sending Victor flying across the room. He slammed into a pillar with a sickening crack, stone fracturing beneath the impact. Dust rained down as the ground trembled.

  The Evelyns flinched but did not move to help.

  Elizabeth staggered back, horror gripping her as Victor pulled himself to his feet. Blood trickled from his temple, but he wiped it away with a flick of his glove, his expression unreadable.

  She expected anger. Maybe retaliation.

  Instead, he smirked. “So, that’s what it feels like to be on the receiving end.”

  Her breath hitched. “I—I didn’t mean—”

  He waved off her words. “Next time, try aiming.”

  The ease in his voice unnerved her. No fear, no hesitation. He wasn’t shaken at all.

  She clenched her fists, the remnants of power still crackling beneath her skin. “Why did you help me?”

  Victor stepped forward, unbothered by the distance she put between them.

  “Because you’re no good to me dead.” His tone was casual, but his gaze held something deeper.

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

  Victor smiled—a slow, knowing thing. “Would you prefer a lie?

  The silence of the monastery shattered with a dry, rasping whisper.

  “Half-blood filth.”

  Elizabeth froze. The voice didn’t come from any of them. It came from ahead, where the corridor widened into a vast, crumbling chamber. The walls were lined with iron sconces, their wax-dripped torches long extinguished. At the far end, shapes stirred in the darkness.

  The stench of decay hit them first—then came the sound. The wet, unnatural squelch of flesh shifted where it should not.

  Figures shambled forward, their skeletal faces partially covered in rotted remnants of cloth and armor. Eyes hollow, yet burning with something unnatural. Their mouths stretched open, blackened tongues curling over jagged teeth.

  “Half-blood filth,” they hissed in unison, their voices overlapping in a dreadful chorus.

  Victor’s expression remained still, but something in his posture sharpened.

  “Vampire hunters,” he murmured, his tone almost amused. “How poetic.”

  The dead groaned, moving closer. The floor beneath them quivered as old bones scraped against stone.

  Then, without warning, they attacked.

  The first corpse lunged at Elizabeth, clawed hands reaching for her throat. She reacted on instinct—her power flared, an invisible force slamming into the creature’s chest. The impact sent it hurtling back, crashing through a pillar with a sickening crunch.

  Another leaped from the shadows. Elizabeth barely had time to lift her hands before it was upon her—only for its body to halt mid-air, limbs twitching uselessly.

  Evie twirled a single finger, holding the corpse in place. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

  Eve stepped beside her twin, raising her hand. “Allow me.”

  A flicker of crimson light pulsed through the chamber. A low, guttural whisper slithered from the walls. The shadows thickened, swirling like ink.

  From the depths of the monastery, the Melancholy Man emerged.

  His form was shapeless, shifting between mist and something more solid, more terrible. Crimson eyes burned in the darkness as his hands reached for the suspended corpse.

  The hunter’s undead mouth opened in a silent scream before the spirit dragged it into the abyss.

  The other corpses hesitated, their soulless minds registering something older, something greater than them.

  Victor exhaled a slow breath. “My turn.”

  He crouched, pressing a gloved hand to the stone floor. The ground shuddered. Cracks splintered outward, deep and jagged. Something moved beneath the surface—something massive.

  Then the earth ruptured.

  A monstrous snake burst from the ground, its body a grotesque fusion of ancient bone and fresh sinew. Its skull gleamed in the dim light, fangs dripping with unnatural venom. It coiled, its empty sockets locking onto the undead.

  Victor rose to his full height, dusting off his coat. “Eat.”

  The snake obeyed.

  With a horrifying lunge, it struck, sinking its fangs into the nearest corpse and shaking it violently before swallowing it whole.

  The remaining hunters snarled, but they were outmatched. One by one, they fell—torn apart by Elizabeth’s telekinetic strikes, devoured by Victor’s monstrosity, or dragged into the abyss by the Evelyns’ spectral wrath.

  When the last body crumpled into dust, the silence returned.

  Elizabeth steadied her breath, wiping blood from her lip. “That was…”

  Victor adjusted his cuffs. “Messy.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Evie laughed. “Fun.”

  Eve nodded. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

  Elizabeth ignored them, turning to Victor. “They called you half-blood.”

  Victor met her gaze, unbothered. “They did.”

  She studied him. “And?”

  He smirked. “And they’re dead.”

  The monastery stretched endlessly before them, its corridors a labyrinth of crumbling stone and whispered ghosts. The scent of damp earth and burnt incense lingered in the stagnant air, clinging to the cold walls. Their footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness as they pressed forward, past broken pews and faded murals of forgotten saints.

  Elizabeth moved ahead, her fingers trailing over the ancient carvings etched into the stone. Each symbol told a story—a history of blood, sacrifice, and secrets buried beneath time.

  Victor followed, his gaze unreadable. The way she traced the engravings, the way she studied them with quiet intensity—she wasn’t just searching for a way to break the pact. She was looking for something more.

  She was fighting for all psychics.

  A sudden shift in the air made them both freeze.

  Elizabeth turned, her instincts sharp. Victor was already moving, stepping into her blind spot, his back nearly brushing against hers.

  Something was coming.

  The Evelyns stood a few paces behind, their hands hovering just above their sides, waiting.

  The silence thickened.

  Then—

  A gust of wind howled through the monastery, carrying with it a deep, guttural growl.

  Elizabeth felt the shift before she saw it. A presence in the walls, seeping through the cracks like ink bleeding through parchment. She barely had time to react before the air around her warped—

  A shadow lunged.

  Victor moved first. He grabbed Elizabeth’s wrist and yanked her aside, narrowly avoiding the blackened claws that raked through the space where she had stood.

  She spun, eyes flashing. “I had it under control.”

  Victor didn’t let go. His grip was firm, grounding. “You hesitate.”

  Elizabeth wrenched her arm free. “I calculate.”

  “Same thing.” He turned, eyes scanning the darkness. “And calculations won’t save you if you’re dead.”

  Elizabeth’s teeth clenched, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out with her mind, feeling the presence curling around them like smoke.

  A wraith. No, not just one.

  Dozens.

  The dead were watching.

  The Evelyns stepped forward, unphased. Evie raised a hand, Melancholy Man’s presence flickering through the shadows. Eve tilted her head, her expression strangely calm.

  “This place is restless,” Eve murmured.

  Victor exhaled through his nose. “Of course it is.”

  Elizabeth rolled her shoulders. “Then let’s put it to rest.”

  They moved in unison.

  Victor surged forward, summoning Underworld. The ground cracked beneath him, skeletal arms bursting free, dragging forth creatures long forgotten by time. A beast of sinew and decay took form—a hound with too many eyes, its body wrapped in chains. It lunged, sinking its fangs into the nearest shadow.

  Elizabeth followed, her power manifesting in an invisible force that ripped through the wraiths, scattering them like dust. She barely needed to speak—Victor was already anticipating her next move.

  She dodged left—he covered her blind spot.

  He struck forward—she cleared his path.

  They fought like opposing forces caught in the same current, neither yielding nor truly leading.

  Victor found himself watching her between strikes, seeing the raw determination in her eyes. She wasn’t just fighting to live. She was fighting for everyone who had ever been bound to the pact.

  And for the first time in his life, he almost envied that kind of conviction.

  Elizabeth, in turn, saw something shift in Victor. He wasn’t just a weapon of the Ravenholms. He wasn’t just their enforcer.

  He was a man, standing between two worlds.

  And despite everything, despite his cold exterior, his calculated detachment—he had still chosen to help her.

  When the last wraith faded into the dark, Elizabeth straightened, catching her breath.

  Victor dusted off his coat, glancing at her with that infuriating smirk. “Try not to die before we finish this.”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “If I do, it won’t be because of hesitation.”

  Victor chuckled under his breath. “Good.”

  The Evelyns exchanged amused glances.

  Evie sighed dreamily. “Awww you argue like a married couple.”

  Eve nodded. “Very compelling.”

  Elizabeth groaned. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Victor followed with a chuckle.

  The air grew heavier the deeper they ventured beneath the monastery. The walls, once carved stone, gave way to a tunnel of shifting rock, slick with moisture and pulsing with something unnatural. A faint hum filled the space, an ever-present whisper that crawled beneath their skin.

  Elizabeth led the way, guided by something she couldn’t quite name. A pull, an instinct.

  Then, the tunnel widened.

  And the world changed.

  The ceiling stretched into infinity, vast and starless, an impossible sky made of swirling energy. Towers and bridges spiraled in every direction, forming a city that defied architecture, as if built by minds untethered to reality. Buildings stacked upon each other at unnatural angles, doors opened into nothingness, and staircases twisted into loops that led nowhere. The streets shimmered under an eerie glow, their foundations made of stone and glass and something else—something alive.

  This was not just a place.

  This was an idea, a memory of a city, a refuge built by the minds of those who had fled.

  The Infinite City.

  Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

  The Evelyns stepped closer, their expressions mesmerized. Even Victor, always so composed, hesitated at the threshold.

  Figures emerged from the alleys and bridges above—humanoid, but wrong. Some hovered inches off the ground, their feet never touching the streets. Others flickered in and out of focus, their bodies translucent, barely tethered to existence.

  And their eyes.

  Their eyes burned with knowledge they were never meant to hold.

  One of them stepped forward, an old man draped in tattered robes. His head twitched at unnatural angles as if listening to voices no one else could hear.

  “More lost ones,” he murmured, his voice layered—like multiple people speaking at once.

  Elizabeth straightened. “Who are you?”

  The old man’s lips twisted into a grin, teeth sharp, too white. “We are the ones who saw the truth.”

  Elizabeth exchanged glances with Victor. His hand hovered near his weapon. The Evelyns remained still, Melancholy Man’s presence flickering faintly behind them.

  Another figure shuffled forward—a woman missing half her face, the wound frozen in time, unmoving. She peered at Elizabeth with something between pity and hunger.

  “You ran, didn’t you?” she whispered. “We all ran. But there’s no running. No escaping.”

  A third voice, from somewhere above. “The Ravenholms take what they are owed.”

  Elizabeth swallowed. “You were all psychics?”

  A chorus of laughter. Dry. Bitter.

  “We are psychics,” the old man corrected. “But that is no gift.”

  One of the figures stepped too close, and Elizabeth felt it—a pulse of raw energy, unstable, uncontrollable. Their power had consumed them.

  Elizabeth’s heart pounded. These people had escaped. They had done the impossible.

  But at what cost?

  Victor’s voice was quiet but firm. “They’re not alive. Not really.”

  The old man turned his head toward him, slow and deliberate. “Neither are you.”

  The air crackled between them.

  Elizabeth felt her stomach twist.

  The Infinite City wasn’t salvation.

  It was a graveyard for those who had refused the pact.

  The old man’s grin widened, his too-white teeth glinting in the eerie glow of the city.

  “Stay,” he said, his layered voice echoing unnaturally as if the walls themselves were speaking. “You belong here. You’ve always belonged here.”

  Elizabeth took a step back, her boots scraping against the shimmering street. The ground beneath her felt warm, almost alive, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the hum that filled the air. She shook her head. “We’re not staying.”

  The figures around them shifted, their movements jerky and disjointed. The woman with the frozen wound tilted her head, her remaining eye narrowing.

  “You think you have a choice?” she rasped. “The City decides. The City takes.”

  Victor’s hand tightened on his weapon, his knuckles white. The Evelyns closed ranks, their expressions hardening. Even the Melancholy Man’s flickering form seemed to solidify, his shadow stretching unnaturally long across the ground.

  The old man’s head twitched again, his neck bending at an impossible angle.

  “You’ve seen it,” he said, his voice rising, overlapping with others. “You’ve felt it. The pull. The truth. You can’t unsee it. You can’t unfeel it.”

  Elizabeth’s breath hitched. The air grew thicker, heavier, pressing down on her chest. She could feel it now—the City’s pull, its hunger. It wasn’t just a place. It was alive. And it wanted them.

  “We’re leaving,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands.

  The old man’s grin vanished. His eyes, burning with that impossible knowledge, darkened.

  “No,” he said simply.

  The attack came without warning.

  The woman lunged first, her half-frozen face contorted in a snarl. Her hand shot out, fingers elongating into jagged shards of glass. Elizabeth barely dodged, the shards grazing her arm and drawing blood. The warmth of it was wrong, too hot, too bright against the cold glow of the City.

  Victor fired his weapon, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the impossible sky. The bullet struck the woman’s shoulder, but she didn’t falter. She didn’t even bleed. Instead, her wound shimmered, the edges of it folding inward as if the City itself were stitching her back together.

  Figures descended from the bridges above, their forms flickering, their eyes burning. One of them hovered just above the ground, his feet never touching the street. He reached for Elizabeth, his fingers brushing her cheek. She felt it—a surge of raw, unstable energy, like static electricity but deeper, darker. It crawled beneath her skin, threatening to unravel her.

  “Stay,” he whispered, his voice a chorus. “Stay and see.”

  Elizabeth stumbled back, her vision blurring. The Evelyns were shouting, their voices distant, muffled. Melancholy Man’s form flickered violently, his shadow twisting into something monstrous. He lashed out at the figures, his movements too fast, too fluid to be human. But for every one he struck down, two more took their place.

  Victor grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, pulling her toward the tunnel.

  “Run!” he barked.

  They ran.

  The streets shifted beneath them, the ground rippling like water. Buildings leaned in, their doors opening into voids that whispered promises of safety, of rest. Elizabeth forced herself to look away, to focus on the tunnel ahead. But the City didn’t want to let them go.

  The old man appeared in front of them, his tattered robes billowing despite the lack of wind.

  “You can’t escape,” he said, his voice a roar now, layered with hundreds of others. “The City is forever. The City is home.”

  Victor didn’t hesitate. He fired again, the bullet tearing through the old man’s chest. For a moment, the figure wavered, his form dissolving into a cloud of shimmering dust. But the dust didn’t fall. It hung in the air, swirling, coalescing, until the old man stood before them once more, his grin wider, his eyes brighter.

  “Run!” Victor shouted again, shoving Elizabeth forward.

  They reached the tunnel, its walls slick and pulsing. The hum grew louder, more insistent, as if the City were screaming at them to stay. Elizabeth’s legs burned, her lungs ached, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

  Behind them, the figures followed, their movements erratic, their forms flickering in and out of existence. The woman with the frozen wound was closest, her glass-shard fingers reaching for Elizabeth’s back.

  Melancholy Man appeared in a burst of shadow, his form solid for the first time. He grabbed the woman, his hands sinking into her translucent flesh. She screamed a sound that wasn’t entirely human and dissolved into a cloud of shimmering dust.

  Elizabeth didn’t argue. She ran… Victor and the Evelyns at her side. The tunnel narrowed, the walls closing in, the air growing heavier. The hum faded, replaced by the sound of their ragged breaths and pounding footsteps.

  And then, suddenly, they were back in the monastery, the tunnel behind them collapsing in on itself, the City’s pull fading into silence.

  Elizabeth fell to her knees, her chest heaving. Victor knelt beside her, his weapon still drawn, his eyes scanning the darkness. The Evelyns stood guard, their expressions grim.

  The air was still, the monastery silent. But Elizabeth could still feel it—the City’s pull, faint but insistent, like a whisper in the back of her mind.

  It wasn’t over.

  It would never be over.