Aiken's eyes flicked down.
The vampire he'd burned was still smoldering—blackened, smoking, half-curled on the floor. Nothing more than a corpse now.
But the magic still lingered.
He lifted his foot and stepped lightly onto the remains.
Just a touch.
A breath.
A shiver.
And then—
A rush.
Power surged into him, crawling up his leg like molten lightning. His muscles tensed. His senses sharpened. The haze of exhaustion peeled away like old skin.
Full again.
No—more than full.
A grin curved across Aiken's lips.
Let's see how far I can take this telekinesis of mine…
His eyes flared with power.
With a sound like cracking bone and ruptured glass, four of the charging vampires collapsed mid-run.
Their heads burst, one after the other—wet explosions of brain, bone, and blood painting the corridor in a grotesque fan.
Their bodies dropped limply to the ground, twitching.
Aiken's smile widened.
"Yep," he muttered. "That worked."
Two of them had fallen close.
Aiken stepped over the corpses and placed his palms on both.
Another pulse.
More magic.
It flooded into him like a tidal wave. Hot. Dark. Electric.
He inhaled deeply, eyes glowing now with the sheer weight of energy inside him.
Even stronger than before.
Down the hallway, the remaining vampires froze.
Fear rippled through them. One took a hesitant step back. Then another. Panic set in.
And they turned.
They ran.
"No!" the blonde vampire's voice thundered. "What are you doing?! GET BACK THERE! He's going to exhaust his magic soon!"
But none of them listened.
They bolted, wild-eyed, running from Aiken like sheep from a fire.
Aiken cocked his head.
"Oh, no," he said softly, raising his hand again.
The fleeing vampires froze mid-motion, suspended in the air like puppets with cut strings.
Their arms dangled. Eyes wide. Mouths gasping for breath they couldn't pull.
Aiken stepped forward, his boots echoing calmly against the blood-slick floor.
"You're not going anywhere," he said.
The vampires trembled, held by an invisible grip stronger than chains.
"I still have so many spells to test."
He raised one finger.
And it began.
...
No blood. No corpses. No signs of the massacre that had unfolded just minutes prior.
The once gore-smeared hallway was now pristine. The carpets unblemished. The walls wiped clean. Even the faint coppery scent of blood had been purged from the air.
Only silence remained—save for the faint, pained breathing of the last vampire.
In front of the hotel reception, bound tightly to a wooden chair wrapped in vervain-imbued ropes, sat the blonde vampire.
His hair was singed. His skin red and peeling where stray flames had licked him earlier. His fangs were bared—not in defiance, but in fear.
"Let me go!" the vampire shrieked, struggling uselessly against the ropes. The vervain burned at every twitch.
Aiken didn't even glance at him.
He was crouched near the front desk, carefully counting a set of large jars—each filled with crimson liquid. Bottled vampire blood.
Twenty vampires, five liters each.
A hundred liters in total.
Fifty jars.
He placed the last one down on the desk with a small clink. Behind him, black sacks filled with the carefully gathered ashes of the fallen vampires sat sealed, labeled, and tucked neatly into a crate.
He had cleaned the mess with surgical precision. Telekinesis had allowed him to extract every last drop of blood from the corpses, even from the burned ones. He'd then incinerated them fully—ashes only, nothing left—without setting a single wall of the hotel aflame.
The place looked untouched.
Immaculate.
Aiken finally turned.
The bound vampire froze.
Aiken opened his hand, slowly, and conjured a flame.
A fireball ignited in his palm—small at first, then growing with a sudden whoosh, burning hot and steady.
He smiled. He'd spent much of the earlier battle trying to imitate Bonnie's grandmother's fireball spell and had succeded. He had taken out at least five vampires with it.
Now, he added a twist.
The fireball hovered upward—floating, suspended in the air by sheer will.
Telekinesis.
He'd just thought of it, and it worked.
The blonde vampire's eyes widened in horror.
"What do you want to do?!" he asked, voice trembling.
The proud, haughty vampire from before was gone.
He'd heard them—the screams.
He had heard the wet pops of telekinetic pressure bursts crushing skulls.
The tearing sounds as skin was peeled like paper.
The helpless cries as Aiken had tested new combinations of spells—burning vampires from the inside, boiling their blood, gouging their eyes with unseen force.
He didn't want that.
He couldn't survive that.
"I just want to ask you some questions," Aiken said, kneeling in front of him.
The fireball floated gently upward, then to the side—its flickering glow dancing across the vampire's pale face.
Controlled perfectly by Aiken's telekinesis.
Magic still coursed through him, not as much as before—but enough. More than enough.
The vampire gulped.
"Sure. I'll tell you everything," he babbled. "I'm William Virell… I was the Count of Birmingham in the 15th century—"
The fireball drifted closer, humming, licking heat against William's cheek.
"A five-hundred-year-old vampire?" Aiken mused. "Interesting."
"Yes, I—!" William started to speak again—
HSSSSSSS
The fireball singed the edge of his face. A layer of skin crisped in an instant.
"ARGHHHHH!"
"But did I give you permission to talk?" Aiken said, eyes calm.
The vampire whimpered. Silenced.
Aiken made the fireball drift back, just slightly. Just enough to stop the burn. The flesh still sizzled faintly.
"Good boy," Aiken said.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gazed at William with dispassionate interest.
"Now…" he said, fingers flexing slightly. The fireball hovered obediently nearby.
"What can you tell me about this city?"
To be continued...
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I decided to listen to you, and I made him a bit stronger. Just a bit, not that much.