The Knights of Maenara Collective (6 of 10)
The Crimson Blade, a Vampire Heart, and a Quiet Kiss.
The war for the Collective just got personal, political, and sickeningly messy.
In this explosive sixth installment of The Knights of Maenara Collective, Nicola Knight confronts the treasonous Stephen and the price of victory is steeper and far more gruesome than she could have imagined.
We have a supernatural brawl, a shocking revelation about Victoria’s ancient bloodline, and an ancestral blade that burns crimson. But the real horror comes after the kill: a ritual so visceral even the unflappable Nicola struggles, forcing Grace and Delphine into a moment of shared trauma and unexpected connection that changes everything for the people in Nicola’s orbit.
Relationships are being forged in fire, both literally and figuratively, as Nicola navigates the intense, complicated needs of Victoria, the raw emotional pull of Grace, and the surprising new chemistry between her two anchors, Delphine and Grace.
A Note on Delphine Guidry:
Delphine Guidry is Nicola’s childhood best friend, described as “trouble with a smile, fire wrapped in denim and leather.” She is fiercely loyal, quick to anger, and speaks her mind. She is the solid, earthy anchor to Nicola’s ghost-chasing intensity.
The warehouse door slammed behind Nicola. She had her prepped, gathering her grandfather’s knife, a coat, and her body vibrating with adrenaline, ready to head out and deal with the threat Vârcolac posed. Just as she reached the door, headlights cut violently through the marsh fog. The tires screamed, spitting gravel as Delphine’s truck slammed to an aggressive halt. Delphine was out immediately, her face a mask of furious, concentrated concern.
“What in God’s hell, Nix?” Delphine’s voice was a low growl, tight with controlled rage. “I leave you for five minutes, and now I’m hearing rumors about vampires and werewolves and some ancient bloodlines in the same breath. You haven’t said a damn thing! Who is Vârcolac, Nix?”
Nicola sighed. “It’s complicated, Del. I’m handling it. Now is not the time.”
“It always is the time when you’re strapped. I’m here. And I’m not leaving you to chase another ghost, living or dead.” Delphine’s shoulders were set with a fierce, unbreakable resolve. A figure emerged from the shadows deeper in the warehouse. It was Grace, her eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of awe.
“Wow,” Grace whispered.
Delphine turned, her expression softening instantly. “And who are you, firefly?” she asked, a faint, wolfish grin touching her lips.
Grace giggled. “I’m Grace. You must be Del. Nicola talks about you a lot.”
Delphine winked at Grace. “Well, Grace, since Nicola seems determined to get herself killed tonight, I guess one of us is sticking around to be the voice of reason.”
Nicola watched the easy, immediate connection form. A deep, quiet sense of relief washed over her, replacing the fear of the coming fight. “Alright, Del,” Nicola conceded, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. “You’re with me. But you stay in the truck until I say so.”
—-
A call came through, cutting through the low thrum of the air conditioning like a broken wire. Nicola answered instantly, her body tensing as she picked up the receiver. “Knight.”
The voice on the other end was Detective Warren, thin and hurried. “Vârcolac’s making his move. Right now. They’re going to secure Victoria before a coup vote. I’m giving you a head start.”
Nicola froze. “What are you talking about? Secure her how?”
“His lieutenants are rolling now. They’re taking the Queen into custody. You have ten minutes before the perimeter’s sealed off by his loyalists.”
Warren hung up. Nicola moved. She grabbed her coat, checked her hidden blades and they were all out the door in less than ninety seconds. Victoria’s primary residence, a Creole townhouse in the Garden District, was six minutes away. Nicola drove Del’s truck, her two-seater wouldn’t cut it. She pushed it past every limit, the engine screaming a protest that was drowned out by the cold fear rising in her.
This was Vârcolac’s political opening night, a swift takedown to either cage Victoria or force her out into the open ahead of the coup attempt. Warren’s tip was a chance to sort this out.
She arrived to see the unmistakable dark shapes of Vârcolac’s allies… already crawling over the property. Nicola made Grace and Delphine swear to stay in the car while she gathered their vampire. She found Victoria in the parlor, standing utterly still in a pool of moonlight. She was surrounded by six men. Vârcolac stood in the center, perfectly composed.
“Nicola,” Vârcolac greeted her. “Here to save the day.” He glanced at Victoria. “I told you, Queen, she’s useful, but so predictable.”
Victoria’s chin remained high. “Predictability has its uses, Vârcolac. Loyalty, for one.”
“It’s not personal, Nicola,” Vârcolac said, turning back to Victoria, “She’s just obsolete. The old ways are finished. The future needs a clean slate.”
Vârcolac smiled over his shoulder and stepped closer to Victoria. Nicola didn’t waste time on a reply. She lunged.
The first two enforcers moved to intercept. She drove her elbow into the side of the first man’s jaw with enough force to shatter bone. He dropped. The second man aimed a knife. Nicola parried with her forearm, ignoring the sting of a shallow cut, and twisted his wrist, breaking his radius, then drove his own blade into his carotid artery. He collapsed, gurgling.
She was through the first line. The four remaining men converged. Nicola fought with a savage necessity, the brutal hand-to-hand her language. She was powered by an adrenaline mixed with something sharper, something electric that coursed under her skin.
A heavy-set man caught her from behind, locking his arms around her chest. She stomped hard on his instep, head-butted him, and threw herself sideways, using his bulk as a shield when another guard fired a suppressed pistol. The round caught the heavy-set man in the shoulder.
“Run!” Victoria’s voice was a command, tight and cold.
Nicola kicked the man away and grabbed Victoria’s wrist, dragging the Queen through the shattered window.
They tumbled onto the lawn. Victoria was quickly on her feet, a dark stain of blood spreading across the silk of her dress where a bullet had grazed her arm. Nicola was bruised and shaking with an unknown energy. They sprinted into the maze of overgrown service alleys, then slipped into the relative cover of a large oak tree just a few feet from Delphine’s 1997 Ford F150, obscured by the deep shadow.
“You let him stay at your side,” Nicola snarled, her voice low and venomous, slamming Victoria against the brick wall that bordered the alley. “You knew he was ambitious. You had me protect him.”
Victoria didn’t reply with words. Instead, she reached up, grabbed Nicola by the lapels of her coat, and pulled her in, crushing their mouths together. The kiss was immediate, primal, and fierce, a brutal communion of panic and power. Nicola, rage instantly melting into a desperate need, kissed her back just as savagely.
They broke apart, both breathing raggedly, their eyes locked. Victoria’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied, almost chilling smile.
Inside the truck, Grace gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, while Delphine’s jaw simply dropped.
“An experiment that almost cost you your life, your kingdom, and me my sanity!” Nicola rasped, still shaking from the impact of the kiss.
Victoria’s smile vanished, her eyes flicking with vulnerability before snapping back to command. “Don’t. Don’t talk about sanity now. I… I need you, Nicola. We need you. More than ever. We are not going to headquarters. Vârcolac will anticipate that. We will go to Grace’s house instead. It’s at least the second place he’d look, and that could buy us the time.”
The name silenced Nicola’s lingering desire, replacing it with cold panic. Grace’s house, Nicola’s old family home, had been the scene of Derek’s murder. Though the crime scene had been cleared, the place felt cursed.
The drive back in the truck was agonizingly tense. The old bench seat was designed for two, maybe three, but Nicola was pinned between Grace and Victoria, with Delphine driving. Victoria cleaned her wound with a spare scarf. Grace, avoiding eye contact with everyone, subtly leaned her shoulder further into Nicola’s side, seeking the stability of her presence amidst the chaos.
Delphine broke the silence first, a low whistle cutting through the air.
“Well. That’s one hell of a stress reliever, Nix. You two been practicing that routine?”
Victoria chuckled softly, clearly satisfied, but Nicola silenced them with a single glare. “Drop it. Both of you. Now.” The memory of their last desperate sexual encounter… the raw, brutal comfort they sought in the face of political crisis… was a sharp, dangerous reminder of the bond that existed between them, a bond Grace knows about, and that Nicola couldn’t yet sever.
—-
Grace’s house was dark when they arrived. Too dark. They moved immediately, slipping out of the truck and creeping toward the secondary entrance near the overgrown side garden. Nicola, Victoria, Delphine, and Grace clustered together, movements low and synchronized, the silence absolute, heavier than the quiet of an empty house. It was the silence of a house where violence had recently happened, but amplified.
Nicola’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was scanning the shadows, waiting for the signs of an arrival, but the air felt stale, settled.
Victoria stopped dead just before the garden gate. “He’s here,” she whispered, her voice tight with cold realization.
“He’s waiting,” Nicola finished, spinning around, her hand instinctively going to her knives.
The next voice was Vârcolac’s. It was deep and venomous, carrying easily across the quiet lawn. “A touch late, my Queen. Did the Knight stumble?”
He stepped out of the shadow of the massive oak in the center of the yard, dressed in black clothing. He was flanked by three heavy hitters, not two. Victoria, Grace, and Delphine were instantly surrounded, cut off from the street and the house.
“The Knight. The Queen. The Extra. And a snack…who are you? Wait. It doesn’t matter.” Vârcolac said, his smile wide and venomous.
Victoria took a sharp, protective step toward the center of the yard, shielding Grace. “It was foolish to expose yourself, Vârcolac. You could have run.”
“Run? My allies are already preparing to announce my ascension. I don’t need the throne; I need the future. You are weak. The Collective needs a leader with more teeth.” He pointed at Grace. “She’s leverage. The new breed. I take her, I win. It’s that simple.”
Vârcolac gestured. The three new enforcers split off, moving to flank Victoria.
Nicola planted herself directly between Vârcolac and Grace.
“Try it,” Nicola said, her voice a low, throaty challenge. “See how fast I cut your throat.”
“It’ll take more than that for death to take me.”
—-
The house erupted.
Victoria immediately engaged Vârcolac’s two allies, fighting with the disciplined ferocity of a queen. The focus, however, was on Nicola and Vârcolac.
Vârcolac moved first, a blur of unnatural speed. He struck with a sweeping kick, a move designed to disable. Nicola brought up her knee in an instinctive, trained block, a reflex hammered into her during her NOPD street-fighting and martial arts training, but the force was impossible. She only partially absorbed the impact, sending her stumbling backward, gasping for breath.
“Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t, Knight,” Vârcolac mocked, circling, his supernatural agility making him impossible to track. “But your cop tricks are too slow. And I’m not human.”
He attacked again, a series of quick, brutal blows. Nicola deflected, using the bone of her forearm to parry, relying on her physical conditioning. But she couldn’t match his raw, inhuman velocity. She tried a counter-punch, a sharp, street-level hook, but his head snapped back an inch before impact.
Then, the brand activated. The shallow cut on Nicola’s forearm, which she had ignored earlier, tore slightly under the violent, jarred movement. Instinctively she wiped a few drops of her own blood, dark and viscous, onto the brand at her collarbone. The contact was immediate and explosive. The brand flared, burning with a searing, internal heat, a pain that was instantly channeled into a violent, impossible surge of power. It wasn’t just strength; it was preternatural awareness. The pain of the flare fused with her muscle memory, magnifying her training a hundredfold.
Vârcolac’s next punch, though impossibly fast, seemed to be moving in slower motion to Nicola’s newly heightened senses. Her muscles, acting on instinct honed by years of street fights and Academy practice, exploded into a counter-attack. She ducked under his next swing, pivoted, and drove her elbow into his floating ribs with the hyper-focused force of the whatever power waking in her blood.
The blow landed hard. A sickening sound of splintering bone followed. Vârcolac staggered, his eyes widening in shock and pain, unable to process how this human tool suddenly matched him.
The fight became a dizzying flash of action: shattering glass from framed family photos, a dining table splintering as Victoria slammed a thug through it, and metal scraping on the wood floor. Nicola moved with a brutal, almost elegant efficiency, her trained precision now layered with devastating force.
Grace, driven by a sudden, protective impulse, shouted and picked up a heavy metal bar. She swung it wildly at Vârcolac’s back.
Vârcolac caught the bar one-handed and threw Grace aside with a flick of his wrist, sending her sprawling against a stack of empty crates.
“Pitiful,” Vârcolac hissed, turning back to Nicola. “The Knight is merely a tool, a battery, a necessary sacrifice. I’m doing you a favor, Nicola. I’m ending the misery of servitude.”
His words only fueled the fire in her brand. The red heat spread down her arm, pooling in her dominant hand.
—-
Nicola, powered by the flaming brand, lunged at Vârcolac, but he was too fast. He sidestepped her assault, forcing her to miss widely, and immediately diverted his attack. Vârcolac became a dark streak aimed at Victoria, who was busy holding off his remaining allies. His face twisted in a cold snarl of intent to deliver a lethal blow.
Victoria saw him coming but was already grappling with one of the thugs. She prepared to take the hit, bracing herself against the wall.
Suddenly, Marcus, a Collective enforcer Victoria was fighting, threw himself directly into Vârcolac’s path.
“Stop, Vârcolac!” Marcus roared, pushing past Victoria and looking desperately at the werewolf co-leader. “You can’t kill her! You can’t!”
Vârcolac stopped his momentum abruptly, fury warring with confusion. “She’s obsolete, Marcus. Move!”
“It’s not about the throne, Vârcolac! It’s the blood she carries! She’s the last of an ancient line,” Marcus yelled, his voice cracking with fear. “The Collective doesn’t protect her just for power, she’s part of the covenant! A necessary piece of a structure bigger than any of us. If you destroy her, you break the whole foundation, and for what purpose? You can’t undo this!”
Vârcolac’s eyes finally flickered, a primal fury replacing the cold ambition as the massive implications hit him. “Lies! She feeds you lies!” He looked from Marcus to Victoria, the moment of pure, blinding ambition dissolving into panicked doubt. The momentary pause, the sheer shock of the truth, was all Nicola needed. The curse… her family… the brand… it all clicked into a terrifying new context. The fire in her brand surged one final, violent time, feeding power directly into her hand.
Nicola, driven by desperation and the strange new power, reached down and drew the blade from its sheath secured on her ankle. The dagger of black metal instantly began to glow with a fierce, crimson light that perfectly matched the burning color of her brand.
“The heart of a Knight is in the weapon,” her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind. “It is the key. When the blood calls, the blade answers. Channel it.”
It was pure, primal instinct. She was no longer Nicola Knight; she was a Knight and possibly the only Knight. Vârcolac, still reeling from Marcus’s revelation, turned to face Nicola again, the fight resumed, but the conviction had fled his eyes. Nicola stood her ground. She sidestepped his charge, her weapon arm moving with impossible clarity.
She plunged the crimson blade forward with the full, inexplicable force of her power. The metal met Vârcolac’s chest, puncturing the clothing and driving deep into his heart. He stopped dead, suspended mid-lunge. His eyes, fixed on the glowing blade, were wide with shocked incomprehension. He gasped, a wet, rattling sound.
“You… you don’t even know what you are…” he choked out, the words dying in his throat.
Nicola twisted the blade, extinguishing the light. Her voice was flat and devoid of emotion. “I know I’m done with you.” Vârcolac’s body went slack, collapsing with a heavy, final thud onto the concrete floor.
Victoria’s fight immediately ceased. Vârcolac’s remaining allies, seeing their leader dead, hesitated for a single moment, then broke rank and fled. Victoria strode over, her face pale but resolute, ignoring the blood spreading on her silk dress. “It’s not finished, Nicola! You pierced him, but that only buys us minutes. You have to remove his heart now and burn it. It’s the only way to stop him.”
“Burn his—what are you talking about?” Nicola spat, pulling the blade free. The wound instantly began to seal, though Vârcolac remained inert. “I killed him!”
“You wounded his current form,” Victoria insisted, her voice dropping to a desperate rasp. “He’ll regenerate. His heart is his anchor. Cut it out. You must.”
The visceral horror of the task hit Nicola, but she looked at the rapidly fading crimson light of her own brand and understood: a half-measure now meant a full battle later. She looked at the blade, then at Vârcolac’s chest. Grace, already shaking, watched the exchange, then let out a choked sound of utter revulsion when Nicola knelt beside the corpse. Delphine, however, simply watched, her expression reserved, curious, but not completely shocked.
“Del, help Grace inside. Please,” Nicola commanded, not looking up as she reached for Vârcolac’s chest with the knife.
Delphine nodded once, placing a firm, steady hand on Grace’s back and steering the girl away. “Come on, firefly. You don’t need to see this.”
Victoria watched them retreat into the house. “You didn’t spare a thought for my sensibilities,” she muttered, adjusting her blood-soaked sleeve.
Nicola paused in her gruesome task, rolling her eyes with a heavy sigh that was half-disgust, half-exhaustion. “You have none, Victoria.”
Victoria almost smiled, but the sounds that followed Nicola’s work were even unsettling for her now. They had been connected for hundreds of years, her and Vârcolac. Their time of coexistence had expired, thanks to Nicola.
The act was quick, brutal, and sickeningly messy. Nicola used the ancient blade, her mind blessedly numb from the adrenaline and the residual power of the brand. When the organ was finally free, black and glistening, Victoria was already dragging a pile of dry leaves and splintered wood to the center of the garden path. Together, they quickly built a small pyre. The moment Victoria tossed the heart onto the flames, the fire roared, turning unnaturally hot and intense. In seconds, the heart was reduced to a scattering of grey ash, the smoke a thick, acrid promise that the danger was truly, finally gone.
The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the shallow, ragged breaths of the survivors and the faint crackle of embers. Victoria, bloodied but regal, looked down at Vârcolac’s corpse, then across at Nicola. There was no warmth, only cold, hard acknowledgment of the deed.
Inside the house, Delphine had steered Grace to the relative safety of the kitchen island. Grace’s breathing was still ragged, her body trembling not just from fear, but from the chilling reality of what Nicola had done outside.
“I can still smell the burning,” Grace whispered, burying her face against Delphine’s shoulder.
Delphine simply held her tight, a grounded, steady weight. “It’s okay, firefly. It’s over now. Nicola knows what she’s doing. She always does.” Grace tilted her head back, her eyes huge and searching in the dim light. They were close, the kind of closeness born of shared trauma. Grace needed anchoring, and Delphine was solid. Delphine leaned in, their lips meeting in a soft, quiet, lingering kiss. They broke apart quickly, the distant sounds of a clean-up crew arriving keeping the moment secret, but the mutual interest was palpable, electric, and quietly acknowledged.
Nicola and Victoria emerged from the garden as the rest of the Collective’s crew began to handle the bodies and the official cover.
Grace, still shaken, scrambled up and ran straight to Nicola, holding her tightly. Nicola’s energy crashed, the burning in the brand receded, leaving profound exhaustion. She clung to Grace, the softness of the her hug an essential physical anchor.
“Grace, are you hurt?” Nicola murmured.
“Just… winded. I saw the knife. The light. What was that, Nic?” Grace pulled back, her eyes shining with frightening intensity.
Victoria stepped between them. “The clean-up crew is here. We need to secure the assets and prepare for the inevitable fallout from the coup.”
Nicola pushed past Grace. “I don’t trust you, Victoria. You almost got us all killed playing political games.”
Victoria met her gaze. “Then don’t. But we’re not done. Vârcolac was a threat; the power you just used is an existential mystery. We need each other to survive even the next week.” A fragile truce was formed, sealed by shared survival.
The house was quiet, but the brutal evidence of the struggle remained. Victoria and Nicola’s relationship remained intense and deeply complicated. They still had secret rendezvous, explosive encounters driven by adrenaline, power, and mutual need. However, Victoria was staying longer and longer after each meeting, sometimes until dawn, and their covert meetings shifted, happening at both her place and Nicola’s. Their private time was increasingly dominated by sparring and fighting workouts, an intense, physical language where Victoria pushed Nicola to master the power of her brand, yet Nicola still didn’t fully trust the Queen.
Grace and Nicola were closer than ever, their boundaries emotionally nonexistent as they worked to define their bond after years of shared history and recent trauma. Nicola felt an undeniable, electric chemistry with Grace, but she also noticed the shift in Grace’s focus. The easy, deep connection between Grace and Delphine was now evident, a shared glance, a hand resting too long on a shoulder.
Nicola pulled Delphine and Grace aside a few days later. “Whatever this is,” Nicola said, gesturing between them with a weary hand, “I’m happy for you both. But you are now both inextricably linked to a political war and a vampire Queen. Look ahead. It won’t be easy.”
Grace looked at Delphine, whose expression was already guarded but resolute. “We know, Nic,” Grace murmured. “But we’re together. We’ll be ready.”
Grace looked at Nicola, her eyes huge in the dim light.
“What happens now?” Grace asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Nicola felt the sigil pulsing, still whispering faintly to her about power and knowledge, “Next we figure out what I am.”
What Happens Next? Your Questions Answered.
We’ve reached a pivotal moment: Stephen is defeated, but the consequences—political, romantic, and supernatural—are just beginning to unfold. Nicola has killed a powerful foe, used a terrifying new ability, and is now at the center of a very dangerous web with three people she cares about.
What are your burning questions about this chapter?
What do you think Delphine‘s reaction (or lack of shock) to the heart removal tells us about her past?
Now that Grace and Delphine have kissed, how do you see that relationship developing amidst the chaos?
How will Victoria’s shifting boundaries—staying longer, training Nicola—change the dynamic of their relationship?
What is Nicola, and what does the blood-activated brand truly mean for the Collective’s?
Leave your questions and theories in the comments below!
Catch up on: The Knights of Maenara Collective
Seduction and Politics
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