Dust devils danced down Bittercreek's main street, kicking up clouds that choked what passed for civilization out here. The town looked like it had been dragged across the plains and left to die—weathered wooden buildings leaning against each other like drunk men holding themselves up. 1861 hadn't been kind to this place, and neither had the years before.

I stepped down from the stagecoach, my boots hitting packed earth that was more dirt and dried blood than actual ground. Three days of travel had left me with nothing but road grit and a burning desire for something stronger than water. The townspeople watched me—not with curiosity, but with a hunger born of desperation.

An old man sitting outside the saloon caught my eye. His hands shook as he lifted a whiskey glass, and I could see the fear etched deeper than the wrinkles on his face. Something was wrong here. Something beyond the usual miseries of frontier life.

"Might want to keep moving, miss," he muttered as I passed. "Ain't safe after dark."

I adjusted the leather coat draped over my shoulders, my fingers brushing the silver revolver at my hip. "Nowhere's safe these days," I replied, my voice as dry as the landscape around us.

The town square was a monument to emptiness. A broken wagon wheel. A dried water trough. Wanted posters that looked like they'd been torn and reposted a dozen times. In the distance, mountains cut a jagged line against the sky, promising nothing but hard country and harder truths.

A young boy approached, his eyes darting between me and the shadows. "You're the one they sent for," he said. Not a question.

I turned, taking in his pale face and the bruise healing beneath his eye. "Depends on what they sent me for."

He held out a crumpled piece of paper. My hand intercepted it before the wind could snatch it away. The message was short. Brutal. Six bodies. Strange wounds. Nights growing longer. Something hunting.

I'd heard this song before.

The saloon behind me erupted in sudden silence. The kind of silence that comes just before violence. I'd learned to read those moments like most people read books—quick, precise, with an understanding that came from survival.

"Miss?" The boy was still there, shifting from foot to foot. "They say you hunt... things."

My fingers traced the silver cross hidden beneath my shirt. "Not things," I corrected him. "Monsters."

A woman screamed in the distance. Not the sound of surprise, but pure, animal terror. The kind of scream that meant something was very, very wrong.

The boy disappeared faster than a prairie wind. Smart kid.

I checked my revolver. Wooden bullets. Silver-tipped. Holy water vial secured at my belt. Everything in its place, just like always.

Bittercreek had secrets. And I was going to drag every last one of them into the light.

The scream came again, closer this time. Echoing off the empty storefronts like a knife scraping bone. I moved without hesitation, years of hunting having stripped away any pretense of caution. Caution gets you killed out here.

The alley between the general store and the blacksmith's workshop was narrow, choked with shadows. Blood droplets marked the ground—not fresh, but not old either. Something had passed through recently, leaving just enough of a trail to follow.

My hand never left my revolver.

"Help me," a voice whispered from the darkness. Not the woman who had screamed. This was different. Weaker. A man, maybe.

I'd learned long ago that "help" in places like this rarely meant anything good.

"Come out where I can see you," I called back, my voice cutting through the stillness.

Silence.

Then movement. A figure stumbled from behind a stack of broken crates. He was pale—too pale. Fresh wounds marked his neck, barely scabbed over. Dark veins spider-webbed beneath his skin like something was crawling underneath.

"You're infected," I said flatly.

He laughed. A wet, broken sound that ended in a cough. "Infection's the least of my problems."

I'd seen this before. The early stages of transformation. Some survived. Most didn't. And those that did? They weren't human anymore.

"How many?" I asked. Simple question. Brutal answer.

His eyes—clouding over, losing focus—met mine. "Everyone," he whispered. "Everyone except me."

The lie was as transparent as mountain air. I'd heard this story a hundred times. In mining towns. Frontier settlements. Wherever darkness found fertile ground.

My fingers brushed the silver cross at my throat. A family heirloom. A reminder. A weapon.

The man took a step forward. Then another. His movements were wrong. Jerky. Like a puppet with tangled strings.

"Stay where you are," I warned.

He kept coming.

I'd give him one chance. Just one.

"I'm not asking twice."

The wooden bullet would be a mercy. Compared to what was coming, it was almost kind.

He moved faster than a man should. One moment he was swaying, the next he was on me—claws where hands should be, teeth already lengthening. I twisted, using his momentum to throw him past me, but he caught my sleeve. Fabric ripped. Skin burned where his fingers touched.

Not a man anymore. Not really.

I drove my elbow back into his face, feeling cartilage crack. He didn't even flinch. Infected ones never did. The transformation was already taking hold, pushing past human pain.

He lunged again. This time I was ready.

My boot found his knee. Not to disable—to create distance. He staggered, but recovered too quickly. These creatures learned fast, adapted faster. I'd seen men with decades of fighting experience fall to something that had been human hours before.

The alley was tight. Limited movement. Dangerous for both of us.

He came at me low, aiming to tackle. I stepped into the attack instead of away—counterintuitive, but it worked. My knee drove up into his solar plexus. He folded, but those lengthening claws raked across my side. Burning pain. Shallow, but it would leave a mark.

"Last chance," I growled. "Stop. Now."

Inhuman eyes locked onto mine. No recognition. No humanity left.

The wooden-handled knife came out of my boot in one smooth motion. Not silver. Not blessed. Just sharp and purpose-built for close quarters. I'd learned years ago that fancy weapons meant nothing when death was breathing down your neck.

He charged. I waited.

At the last possible moment, I dropped and swept his legs. He crashed into the wall of the general store, splintering wood. Before he could recover, I was on him. Knife found the base of his skull—quick, precise. Not to kill. To immobilize.

He convulsed. The transformation was fighting back.

I pulled the small vial from my belt. Holy water. Not a cure. Not even a long-term solution. Just a temporary reprieve.

One drop. Right where the infection began.

His scream wasn't human. Wasn't anything I could describe. The kind of sound that haunts you long after the echo dies.

When he stopped moving, I took a moment to assess the damage. Torn sleeve. Three parallel cuts along my side. Nothing serious. Nothing that wouldn't heal.

A shadow moved at the end of the alley.

I wasn't alone.

. . .

1844

I was seventeen that night. Young enough to be scared, old enough to understand that something was terribly wrong. The air felt electric, charged with more than just the storm. Pa's silver-handled revolver was in his hand—the one he never used except for special occasions. Never thought to ask him why it was special. Never got the chance.

"Katie," he said, using my childhood name. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear, stay hidden."

I nodded, slipping behind the false panel in his office. A sheriff's daughter learns all the hiding spots eventually. But this was different. This wasn't about surprising him at work or stealing candy from his desk drawer.

Thunder rolled. The front door splintered.

Through the crack in the panel, I watched a shadow enter. Not a man—something wearing the shape of one. It moved wrong, like water flowing uphill. Lightning flashed, catching its eyes. They glowed red, like embers in a dead fire.

"Sheriff Van Buren." Its voice scraped like rusty nails. "We meet at last."

Pa's revolver never wavered. "Been expecting you."

"Have you now?" The thing that wasn't a man smiled. Too many teeth. "Then you know why I'm here."

"My wife's research." Pa's voice hardened. "Marie's journals."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Ma had died five years earlier—consumption, they said. But her research... I'd never known about any research.

"Smart woman, your Marie." The creature circled the room. "Too smart. She was getting close. Very close."

"She was tracking you." Understanding dawned in Pa's voice. "All those stories about missing travelers. The strange attacks. She knew what you were."

Lightning illuminated the room again. The creature stood inches from my father. I hadn't seen it move.

"The journals," it hissed. "Where are they?"

Pa's answer was a gunshot.

The bullet struck true—right through the heart. The creature staggered back, looked down at the wound. Then it laughed.

"Silver?" It touched the smoking hole in its chest. "You'll have to do better than that, Sheriff."

What happened next burned itself into my memory like a brand. The creature moved impossibly fast. Pa got off two more shots, but it was like trying to shoot smoke. Then it had him by the throat, lifting him off the ground.

"I can smell your fear," it whispered. "Just like I smelled hers."

Pa's eyes met mine through the crack in the panel. Just for a moment. Then the creature's teeth tore into his throat.

I bit down on my fist to keep from screaming. Blood sprayed across the walls. Pa's revolver clattered to the floor. His body went limp, but the creature kept drinking. Drinking until there was nothing left to take.

When it finally dropped him, Pa looked... empty. Like something vital had been drained away, leaving just a shell.

The creature wiped its mouth, straightened its coat. "A shame," it said to my father's corpse. "You might have lived longer if you'd just told me what I wanted to know."

It left the same way it came—like a shadow fading in the dawn. I waited until I was sure it was gone. Until the silence became too heavy to bear.

Pa was still warm when I reached him. His eyes stared at nothing, his throat... I closed his eyes. Held his hand. Waited for the tears that wouldn't come.

Instead, I found myself opening his desk drawer. The one he always kept locked. Inside was a letter, addressed to me in his careful handwriting.

My dearest Katie,

If you're reading this, then what I feared has finally happened. I've failed, just as your grandfather failed in Vienna, and your great-aunt Isabel in Madrid. The silver cross you wear—the one passed down since your great-grandmother killed the demon of Bucharest—now falls to you.

Your mother understood the weight of marrying into our family. She embraced our purpose, using her scholar's mind to expand the knowledge accumulated in the journals of your ancestors. The leather-bound volumes in the cellar—seven generations of detailed encounters, tactics, and victories—are now yours. Your mother added her own discoveries, continuing our family's mission to understand these creatures that hide in shadow.

In the bottom drawer, behind the false back, you'll find the tools of our trade. The silver dagger was forged by your grandfather, blessed in the same church where he made his last stand. The vial of holy water comes from the Vatican springs, where our family first learned of these demons in 1693. Your great-uncle's journal details how to craft the wooden bullets that saved my life more times than I can count.

I should have trained you sooner, taught you everything I knew. But I wanted to protect you, to give you the childhood that was stolen from me when I first learned what lurked in the darkness. Perhaps that was my greatest mistake.

The symbols carved into your mother's locket—the ones you thought were just decorative—are ancient wards. Learn them. Use them. They've protected our family for generations.

Your blood carries the strength of every Van Buren who came before you. Trust in that strength. Trust in the skills that flow through your veins, even if you don't know them yet.

I love you more than life itself.

-Pa

P.S. Check behind the painting in my office. Your mother's notes on the Collector are there, along with the stake that ended the Budapest coven. The creature may have taken her life, but it never found what she discovered about its true nature.

The next hour passed in a blur. I found the hidden compartment. Inside was a leather-bound journal—Ma's handwriting filling every page. Detailed notes about vampire legends, weaknesses, hunting patterns. A small vial of holy water. A silver dagger with strange symbols etched into the blade.

I buried Pa the next day. Stood at his grave until my legs went numb. The town whispered about tragedy, about wild animal attacks. They didn't know. Couldn't understand.

But I knew.

I spent the next three years learning. Training. The journal became my bible. I learned to shoot with both hands, to fight in ways that would make my father proud. I studied every scrap of lore, every detail Mom had uncovered.

The vampire had been right—she had been close. Close to understanding what they were, how they thought. How to kill them.

I modified Pa's revolver, learned to make wooden bullets blessed by holy men. Studied the patterns of missing persons, tracking the creature's movements across the territory. Always moving. Always hunting. Always leaving broken families in its wake.

Some nights, when the memories are too sharp, I take out Ma's journal. Read her words about the vampire that killed her. The same one that killed Pa. The same one I'm hunting now.

She called it "The Collector." It didn't just feed—it gathered knowledge, secrets, power. Each victim made it stronger. Each death added to its centuries of experience.

But everyone has a weakness. Even monsters. Ma found its pattern, its obsession with certain types of knowledge. Dark magic. Ancient rituals. The kind of secrets people kill to protect.

Now I use that knowledge to track it. To hunt the hunter. Each town brings me closer. Each night narrows the gap between us.

The creature thinks it ended my family's legacy that night. Instead, it created something new. Something it never expected.

A Van Buren who knows how to kill vampires.

And I'm getting closer every day.

. . .

1861

The shadow solidified into a figure—tall, lean, moving with that same wrong fluidity. Not infected. Full vampire. The kind that creates others for sport.

"Impressive," it said, voice like silk over steel. "Most hunters would have killed him outright."

I kept the wall at my back, knife ready. The infected man lay still between us. "Most hunters aren't me."

"No." It stepped closer, moonlight catching its face. Handsome, if you didn't notice the predator behind the eyes. "You're a Van Buren. I can smell the bloodline."

My free hand inched toward my revolver. "Then you know how this ends."

It smiled. Too many teeth. "Your father said something similar."

The rage hit like a physical blow, but I forced it down. Rage makes you sloppy. Mom's journal had been clear about that.

"He died well," it continued, circling slowly. "Better than your mother. She screamed for—"

I threw the knife.

It dodged, but that wasn't the point. The motion covered my draw. Silver-loaded revolver cleared leather as I dove right, firing twice. The vampire blurred, but not fast enough. One bullet grazed its shoulder, sending up smoke.

Its snarl echoed off the alley walls. It launched at me, crossing the space between us faster than thought. I rolled under the attack, coming up by the infected man's body. The vampire's claws raked empty air where my throat had been.

"Quick," it hissed. "But not quick enough."

Its next attack drove me back, forcing me to block strikes that came too fast to dodge. Each impact felt like being hit with an iron bar. My arms went numb. It was toying with me, wearing me down.

Fine. Let it think that.

I let it push me back, step by step. Let it think it had me cornered. The whole time, my boot heel was dragging through the dirt, drawing a pattern Ma's journal had described. An old symbol. A trap.

The vampire pressed its advantage, moving in for the kill. Its foot crossed the line I'd drawn.

"Got you," I whispered.

The holy water vial shattered against the ground. Water hit the marked earth, and blue fire erupted in a circle. The vampire screamed as flames caught its legs, ancient magic responding to blood spilled on consecrated ground.

I didn't waste the opening. Three shots, center mass. Wooden bullets, blessed and carved with the same symbols that had trapped it.

It staggered but didn't fall. These old ones were tough. It lashed out with burning claws, catching my gun arm. Pain exploded through my shoulder as I hit the alley wall.

The revolver clattered away into shadows.

"Clever girl," it snarled, smoke rising from its wounds. "But not clever enough."

Blood ran down my arm. The symbol was breaking. I had seconds at most.

My good hand found the silver cross at my throat. The one passed down through generations. The one pa had died protecting.

"You want to know what my father's last words were?" I asked, yanking the cross free.

It bared its fangs. "Enlighten me."

I smiled. "Duck."

The silver cross left my hand just as the vampire turned. Standing behind it was the infected man—conscious now, holy water burning through his veins. He grabbed the vampire as the cross struck home.

Both of them went up like torches.

I didn't stay to watch them burn. Experience taught me to never assume a vampire was dead until sunrise. I retrieved my weapons and limped toward the street, arm throbbing.