The Knights of Maenara Collective (3 of 10)
Grace’s hands found the stick shift like it was a foreign language she’d never studied. The car lurched, stalled, died with a cough that sounded accusatory. “Damn it,” she muttered.
Nicola cracked one eye open from the passenger seat, her face half-shadow in the porch light’s sickly glow. “You’ve got to seduce her, not fight her.”
“I don’t seduce stick shifts.”
“Your loss.” Nicola’s voice was rough, pain threading through each word like copper wire. “Reverse is a trick. Pull up while you ease left. She’ll catch if you’re gentle.”
Grace tried again. This time Rougarou rumbled to life, indignant but cooperative. “She’s ridiculous.”
“She’s …fine,” Nicola corrected, then winced as the car jolted forward.
They rolled down the narrow drive, branches scraping the windows like fingernails on glass. Behind them, the Knight house watched them leave with windows dark as closed eyes, patient as stone. The road unwound through cane fields gone to seed, through stretches of black earth that looked like it could swallow you whole if you stood still too long. Grace gripped the wheel, trying not to notice how quiet it was, how the Spanish moss hung from trees like something mourning.
“Follow Canal Street until it dead-ends,” Nicola said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then take the left fork. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Grace did. The buildings changed first, sagging warehouses with rusted siding, fishing nets draped like funeral shrouds, crab traps stacked in skeletal pyramids. Street lights flickered and died in sequence as they passed, like the neighborhood was shutting down around them.
“This place feels wrong,” Grace said.
“It’s just empty.”
“Empty and wrong aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Nicola didn’t argue. The warehouse materialized from the dark like something conjured: three stories of weathered steel and stubbornness, a faded sign hanging askew that read **Guidry Shrimp Co.** in letters half-eaten by salt air. Grace killed the engine. The silence that followed felt holy in the wrong way, like a church built on cursed ground.
Nicola pulled a remote from the glove box and clicked. Nothing happened. She clicked again, harder, like anger could fix electronics. The garage door shuddered awake with a groan that sounded almost human, rising inch by reluctant inch.
“Pull in,” Nicola said. “Watch the left. That column’s angled oddly.”
Inside was cavern and workshop and crime scene all at once. Concrete floors scattered with shells and sawdust. A half-assembled engine on a tarp. Tools arranged with obsessive precision on a pegboard that looked like it had been salvaged from a ship. And on one wall, a cork board dense with photographs and red string, a cold case stitched together in silence and stubbornness.
Grace stepped out slowly, taking it in. The gym equipment, free weights, a punching bag hung from a beam, bloodstains on the mat that had been scrubbed but not erased. The “living area” that was barely that: a couch that had given up, a bed too small for comfort, filing cabinets made from shrimp crates. And in the corner, a chair. Plush, elegant, completely out of place. A sweater draped over the back, dust coating it like snow.
“You lived here?” Grace asked.
“We tried.” Nicola’s voice was flat, facts without feeling. “Didn’t finish.”
Grace’s eyes lingered on the chair. “Your wife?”
“Ellie.” The name came out careful, like Nicola was testing its weight after years of not saying it aloud. “She had plans. But we ran out of time.”
The silence stretched. Grace wanted to say something, anything, but the right words didn’t exist. Nicola moved toward the back, limping slightly. “Come on. It’s better upstairs.”
The freight elevator waited in the corner like a trap. Old, industrial, the kind of machinery that looked like it could kill you if it felt like it. Nicola hauled the gate open with a screech of protesting metal.
“Is this safe?” Grace asked.
Nicola nodded, not really saying one way or the other. They stepped inside. Nicola hit the button and the elevator groaned to life, lifting with jerks that made Grace grab for the railing. Halfway up, it stopped.
“Shit,” Nicola muttered, already kneeling. She popped a panel open, reached into wiring that sparked. Her collar fell open as she worked, revealing the sigil burned into her collarbone, twisted lines that looked like language from before language existed.
Grace stared. Couldn’t help it. The mark pulsed faintly, like it had its own heartbeat. Nicola caught her looking. “It’s a scar,” she said, not quite meeting Grace’s eyes.
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s a family brand.” Nicola’s hands moved through the wiring with practiced efficiency. “Long story.”
“I like long stories.” The elevator lurched back to life with a sound like breaking bones, then smoothed into motion.
“Maybe later.”
Grace held the railing tighter. Nicola stood, rolled her shoulders, didn’t button her collar back up. The sigil stayed visible, lines catching what little light filtered in. They rode in silence until the elevator dinged and shuddered to a stop.
A massive door waited, thick as a bank vault, keypad glowing softly in the dark. Nicola punched in a code fast enough that Grace couldn’t track it. The lock clicked. The door swung open on hinges that whispered instead of screamed. Warm light spilled out. Cedar and old paper and something softer, something that smelled like safety.
“I think you’ll like this,” Nicola said, and there was something in her voice that might have been vulnerability if you listened close enough. “Ellie’s work, mostly. She believed in finding beauty even in ruins.”
Grace stepped through and stopped. The third floor was a different world. Soft rugs over scarred wood. Tapestries in deep jewel tones filtering light from windows that looked out over the bayou. A bed that could swallow you whole, draped in quilts that looked handmade, each one telling a different story in fabric and thread. Books everywhere. Stacked in towers, lined on shelves, piled beside the bed like they’d been read and reread until their spines gave up.
“Damn,” Grace breathed.
Nicola moved to a dresser, pulled out clothes, faded pajama pants, a t-shirt with a cartoon character Grace recognized from childhood. She held them out. “They’re clean and loved until they were comfortable.”
Grace took them, unfolded the shirt, and laughed despite everything. “Taz? How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better.” But Nicola’s expression shifted, something flickering behind her eyes. Pain, maybe.
Grace saw it. Didn’t press. “These Ellie’s?”
“No, mine.” Nicola gestured toward the bathroom. “Towels are in the basket. Take your time.”
Grace paused at the threshold. “You going to hover?”
“I’ll be close,” Nicola said, and there was something in the way she said it that made Grace pause, breath caught. Grace disappeared behind the divider with a small smile.
The shower was almost too hot, and Grace leaned into it like prayer. Water beat against skin that felt too sensitive, too aware. The bandage on her neck pulled and itched and finally she just ripped it off, letting it fall. Then the heat shifted. Became oppressive. The steam curled into her lungs wrong, thick as smoke. Her heart stuttered, too fast, then too slow, then thundering hard enough to hurt. She grabbed the wall, gasping.
Cold water. She needed cold water. Her hands fumbled with the handle, dragging the temperature down. The shock hit like a slap but it worked. Barely. She pressed her forehead to the tile, breathing hard, trying to remember what normal felt like. Something was wrong. Not shock. Not blood loss. Something else. Something that didn’t have a name yet but was moving through her like wildfire through dry grass.
—-
Nicola sat behind the screen in a chair with her gun resting heavy in her lap. The holster strap had torn during the fight, hanging by threads. She turned it over in her hands, not happy to be seeing the damage. The sound of water changed. Hesitated. Resumed.
Nicola listened without meaning to, counting heartbeats, breath patterns, signs of life. Still alive. Still moving. Still there. She stood, crossed to the windows, drew the curtains. Checked the locks twice even though she knew they were secure. Paranoia and caution were the same thing these days.
When she turned back, Grace was emerging from the bathroom. Barefoot. Pink-cheeked from heat. Drowning in Nicola’s clothes in a way that made something twist in Nicola’s chest. Grace looked… good. Better than she should. Flushed and alive and wrong somehow, but Nicola couldn’t put her finger on why.
“I’m starving,” Grace said, voice rough. “You have food?”
“Uhhh…Maybe. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Grace laughed, adjusting the collar of the oversized shirt, and that’s when Nicola saw it. The bite. Four perfect punctures in neat pairs, upper and lower. Too clean. Too precise. Like something had been placed there instead of torn. Nicola’s blood went cold.
But Grace was still talking, still smiling, oblivious. “These pajamas are criminally soft. I feel like I should be curled up, eating cereal on the couch at 2 a.m. I’d kill for a burrito, but I’ll take anything.”
Nicola forced words out. “I’ll find you something.” She turned before Grace could see her expression.
Grace followed her down to the second floor. Too close. Nicola could feel her presence like heat at her back. Then, a sound. Nicola’s heartbeat. Grace could hear it. Clear as a bell in her ears, steady and strong and somehow loud in a way that shouldn’t be possible. And underneath it, a smell. Leather and sweat and soap and something else. Blood.
Her mouth watered. Her tongue swept across her teeth automatically, checking for something she didn’t understand.
“You should change,” Grace said, and her voice came out smoother than it should. “Your shirt’s covered in blood. Needs to go in evidence.”
Nicola looked down. Right. Her clothes were still streaked with blood from the fight. From both of them.
“I’ll clean up,” she said quietly. “Make yourself at home.”
She headed back upstairs, moving carefully, aware of Grace’s eyes following her the whole way.
—-
Grace turned to the kitchen. Opened cabinets one by one, finding nothing, expired pasta, something greenish and suspicious in a jar, a single bottle of water in an otherwise empty fridge. She grabbed the water. Started to twist the cap. That’s when she heard it. A scratch. A scuffle. Something small and frantic. A mouse darted out from behind the fridge, gray as smoke, eyes like black beads.
Grace yelped, couldn’t help it, and jerked back. The mouse froze. Then disappeared under a cabinet.
Upstairs, footsteps stopped. “You okay?” Nicola called down.
“Fine!” Grace’s voice came out higher than intended. “Just… a mouse.” But she wasn’t fine. She could hear it. The mouse. Not just its movement. Its heartbeat. Tiny. Rapid. Fragile as spun glass. It thrummed against her senses, too loud, too clear, and her stomach clenched with something that felt like hunger but wasn’t.
Then another sound. Heavier. Slower. Nicola’s steps on the floor above. The rhythm of it swallowed everything else. Deep and steady and somehow intoxicating. Grace swayed slightly, hand pressed to her stomach.
Nicola appeared in the doorway, barefoot now, hair still damp. Clean shirt that fit her better than the blood-soaked one had. Their eyes met. Grace felt something twist in her chest, attraction, hunger, confusion, all tangled together into something that had teeth.
“Coffee?” Nicola offered.
“Yes. Please.”
—- –
The coffee maker sputtered to life. Nicola poured two cups, steam rising between them like ghosts.
Grace wrapped both hands around hers, brought it to her lips. The first sip tasted like ash and copper and wrong. She forced it down anyway. Set the mug carefully on the counter.
“Not a fan?” Nicola asked.
“Lost my taste for it, I guess.”
But even as she said it, something shifted. Her hand drifted to her stomach, pressed there hard. Then pain. Sharp and sudden, radiating from the bite on her neck down through her chest. Electric and wrong and hungry. She staggered. “Grace?” Nicola was moving before Grace could answer.
“I’m fine, “ But her knees buckled.
Nicola caught her, hands warm on her arms, and the effect was immediate. Grace jolted like she’d been shocked. Her pupils dilated. Her breath caught in her throat. Nicola pulled back fast. “Let’s sit. Come on.”
She guided Grace to the couch, hand hovering near her back. Grace moved like she was wading through deep water, each step an effort. On the couch, Grace pressed a cold cloth to her face that Nicola had retrieved. Her hands shook. Her breath came short and shallow.
Nicola’s phone buzzed. She stepped away to answer, but not out of sight.
“Knight.”
Warren’s voice crackled through. “No sign of the guy. We’re still searching. I assume you arrived safely.
“We made it,” Nicola said, watching Grace.
“Victim’s file came back with something weird. I’ll call when I know more.”
Nicola’s stomach dropped. “Copy that.” She hung up and turned back.
Grace was watching her with eyes that looked bruised and sharp at once. “Victim’s file,” she said quietly. “Which victim?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Grace’s hands curled in her lap. “Derek was twenty-one. He wanted to write horror novels. Said grief was the only true ghost story.”
Nicola moved closer, sat beside her on the couch. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Walk me through it.”
Grace opened her mouth to answer. Then her heart stopped. Not skipped. Not slowed. Stopped. Her eyes went wide. Her hands flew to her chest. No sound came out. She collapsed sideways.
“Grace!” Nicola was on her knees instantly, fingers searching, neck, wrist, nothing. No pulse. No breath.
“No, no, no…” She tilted Grace’s head back, started compressions. Hard and fast, counting under her breath.
“One, two, three…” Blood trickled from Grace’s mouth. Her body was limp. Nicola bent down, pinched her nose, breathed for her. Back to compressions. “Come on…”
She fumbled for her phone. “Call Warren.”
It rang. And rang. Then…”You’ve reached…”
“Fuck!” She kept compressing. Kept breathing. Grace’s lips were cold. “Don’t you dare,” Nicola hissed. “Don’t, “
Grace gasped. Horrible, wet, choking. Her back arched off the floor. Her eyes flew open, wild and unseeing. She grabbed Nicola with desperate strength, fingers digging into her shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” Nicola breathed. “You’re okay, “
Then Grace shoved. Nicola flew backward, hit the coffee table hard enough to crack wood. Pain exploded through her spine and she saw stars for a moment. When it cleared, Grace was standing. Eyes blown black. Mouth open. Breathing like she’d forgotten how. And her teeth… Sharp. Too sharp. Wrong.
“Grace?” Nicola’s voice came out wary.
Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. Her fingers pressed against her lips, pulled away slowly. Then she felt them. Fangs. Real. Solid. Sharp. She made a sound, half sob, half scream, and staggered backward. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no, “
Nicola pushed herself up slowly, one hand on the broken table. The sigil at her collarbone burned. “Grace, “
“Did I kill him?” Grace said, voice breaking. “Derek. I think I killed Derek… “
“Stop.”
“I was attacked! I didn’t want this!” Her voice climbed higher. “Do you think I wanted this?”
Nicola’s expression hardened. “What kind of stunt are you pulling?”
Grace’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Nice fangs, Grace.” Nicola’s voice was flat, dangerous. “Really convincing.”
“Are you insane?” Grace’s hands were still pressed to her mouth. “This isn’t, I’m not, “
“You expect me to believe you just grew fangs? After tonight? After Derek? After that perfectly staged attack?”
“Staged?” Grace’s fury ignited. “That man tried to kill me! And you, you just saved my life and now you’re accusing me of what exactly?”
“I don’t know yet.” Nicola’s jaw was tight. “But something about this stinks.”
They stared at each other. The air between them crackled, fear, anger, something else neither wanted to name.
Then Grace’s eyes fixed on Nicola’s neck. The sigil was spreading. Red lines creeping across her collarbone, down toward her chest. Thin tendrils like living fire beneath skin.
“What are you doing to me?” Nicola demanded, hand flying to her throat.
“I’m not doing anything!” Grace sounded distant, dazed, mesmerized by the pattern spreading across Nicola’s skin. The lines moved faster now. Nicola tried to step back. Couldn’t.
Grace’s hand shot out, wrapped around her wrist with inhuman strength.
“Let go,” Nicola said.
Grace didn’t hear her. She was moving closer, drawn by something she couldn’t name or fight.
“Grace… “
But Grace was already there, stepping into her space, crowding her back against the counter. Grace’s free hand came up, fingers tracing the burning lines. The touch was gentle. Reverent. “I can hear it,” Grace whispered. “Your heart. It’s so loud.”
Nicola’s breath hitched. The brand pulsed beneath Grace’s fingertips.
“This is wrong,” Nicola said.
“I know.” Grace’s lips were inches from Nicola’s throat. “I can’t stop.”
“Try harder.”
Grace laughed, broken. “You don’t understand. I can smell you. It’s overwhelming.”
Nicola’s pulse jumped. Grace felt it, made a soft sound. “Don’t,” Nicola said weakly.
Grace’s mouth brushed the sigil. Not quite kissing. Not quite biting. Just there. The brand flared. Nicola gasped. “Please,” she whispered.
Grace’s tongue traced one burning line. Tasted salt and copper and power. Nicola’s knees went weak. Then Grace’s fangs found purchase. Tips pressing against marked skin. Not breaking through. Not yet. Just promising. Power surged between them, wild. The brand exploded into light, patterns racing across both their bodies, interconnected, binding.
Grace moaned against Nicola’s throat.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Nicola knew this was dangerous. Knew she should fight. Instead she threaded her fingers through Grace’s hair and pulled her closer.
Their lips met, more teeth than tenderness. Grace’s fangs scraped Nicola’s bottom lip, drawing blood. They both shuddered. Nicola’s hands found skin beneath the oversized shirt. The glowing lines pulsed beneath her palms. Grace made a desperate sound and pushed Nicola harder against the counter. Their bodies aligned, every point of contact burning.
“This is insane,” Nicola gasped.
“I know,” Grace breathed back.
They stumbled sideways until Nicola’s back hit the wall. Grace followed, pressing her there.
The brand pulsed in time with Nicola’s heart.
Grace’s mouth found her throat again. Her fangs pressed harder, finding where pulse met magic.
Nicola’s breath caught. “Grace, “
“I need, “
“I know.” Nicola’s hand tightened in Grace’s hair. Not pulling away. Holding her there. “I know.”
Grace’s fangs sank in.
Everything detonated. Power didn’t surge, it exploded. The sigil burst with light, patterns racing across both their bodies in brilliant, burning lines. And beneath it all, blood. Hot and alive and humming with magic that neither of them understood but both recognized as older than memory, older than names, older than the house that had marked them both and sent them here to find each other.
In the dark beyond the windows, the bayou whispered secrets. The moon hung low and satisfied. And in the warehouse where Ellie’s ghost still lived in the walls, two women tangled together found something that might have been doom or salvation.
They wouldn’t know which until morning came.
If it came at all.
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