"Haven't you had enough already?" I said sharply.
Tunde was still feeding—locked onto the last surviving man, who barely had the strength left to struggle. At my voice, Tunde finally pulled away. He straightened, wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and exhaled slowly, like someone coming out of a trance.
"So," he said calmly, "what do we do about the mess?"
I stared at him. "You should've thought of that before you ripped them apart. Besides, we're in the middle of nowhere. I doubt the hunters will bother with this."
He glanced down at the bodies. "So we just leave?"
"We take the car," I said, nodding toward it. "It looks decent enough. Can it get us to Ibadan?"
Tunde circled the vehicle once, assessing it like a predator sizing up prey. "Toyota Camry," he said. "It'll do the job."
"Great," I replied, already moving toward the passenger seat. "You're driving."
I climbed in, but Tunde remained outside, standing still, staring at what was left of the men. I leaned out of the window.
"It's a little late for guilt," I said flatly. "And they were trying to take advantage of me."
He didn't respond.
"Can't you at least burn them?" he asked quietly.
I groaned. "Arggh."
Sinking back into my seat, I fixed my gaze on the pile of corpses. Heat gathered behind my eyes—ancient, obedient, alive. The air shimmered. Then the ground erupted.
Flames roared upward in a violent bloom, devouring flesh and metal alike. Fire wrapped around the bodies like a living thing, crackling hungrily as smoke twisted into the sky. The stench of burning lingered thick and heavy.
"Can we go now?" I said coolly. "We've got miles ahead of us, and I'm not running all the way to Ibadan."
Tunde finally got into the driver's seat and started the car. We drove off, leaving nothing behind but scorched earth and drifting ash.
An hour passed in silence, the radio murmuring softly in the background. Then Tunde spoke.
"So… how's the fledgling?"
I turned toward him. "The what?"
"Fledgling," he said. "Young bird."
"He has a name," I replied. "Daniel."
"I'm surprised you didn't bring him along."
"I'm not his keeper."
"Well," Tunde said casually, "he did kill on his first hunt."
I looked at him sharply. "How do you know that?"
He chuckled. "That's like asking a girl how she got pregnant. I'm basically your bodyguard. Your business is my business."
"That's creepy," I said. "And unnecessary. I'm stronger than you."
"Two heads are better than one."
I sighed and said nothing.
"I still don't understand why you turned him," Tunde continued. "He's weak. Unworthy of that kind of power."
"He isn't weak," I said quietly. "I saw something in him. Pain. The kind that either destroys you—or makes you strong. He can carry this burden."
"If your father finds out about him," Tunde warned, "you're both as good as dead."
"And that," I said coldly, "is why he will never find out."
I reached forward, turned off the radio, and climbed into the back seat.
"I'm going to sleep," I said. "Don't wake me unless it's necessary."
The road rocked me into darkness.
"Oga, who is that girl sleeping in your car?"
The loud, grating voice snapped me awake.
I opened my eyes. The car had stopped.
"That's my younger sister," I heard Tunde say smoothly. "We're traveling to our hometown."
I sat up slightly and saw road safety officers standing beside the car. The one with the loud voice glanced at me briefly, then focused back on Tunde.
"Where is your hometown?"
"Ibadan."
"Bring your papers."
"Officer," Tunde said calmly, slipping out a folded stack of naira, "just manage this small change."
The officer studied us both suspiciously, then took the money.
"Move!" he ordered.
"Thank you, officer," Tunde replied.
The engine roared back to life, and we drove on—leaving the world none the wiser.
"Where are we now?" I asked, my voice still thick with sleep.
"We crossed into Kogi State a while ago," Tunde replied.
I frowned. "Wow. I've been asleep that long?"
"You do know this is a car, not a coffin, right?"
"Oh, shut up," I muttered, stretching. "We should've flown instead—if someone wasn't scared of heights."
He scoffed. "You should be afraid of airplanes. Very unsafe. One crash and you burn alive."
"You're such a baby."
I leaned back again, though sleep didn't return this time. We stopped briefly at a filling station for fuel, and within seconds we were back on the road. Seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into hours. We were stopped a few times by road safety officers—and soldiers—but money smoothed everything over, as it always did.
Then, suddenly, Ibadan unfolded before us.
I rolled down the window.
The city stretched across rolling hills, layered and alive. Rust-colored rooftops clustered tightly together, rising and falling with the land like waves frozen in motion. Old colonial buildings stood beside modern structures, history pressed tightly against the present. Markets buzzed in the distance, horns echoed faintly, and the warm air carried the scent of dust, food, and life. Ibadan was chaotic—but beautiful in a stubborn, enduring way.
"You still have his address?" I asked quietly.
"It's all in here," Tunde said, tapping his head. "We're close. He lives in Olorunkemi Estate. I don't know the house number, but I know the way."
"Good," I said. "We'll wait until nightfall before we move."
I leaned back again, my chest tightening.
Guilt crept in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.
I was about to kill my brother.
He had done nothing wrong, other than being born into a terrible prophecy. A prophecy said to one day end our vampiric race. For practicing dark magic as a child—magic my friends later pursued on their own, magic that led to their deaths—my father banished me. Only after Tunde, my royal bodyguard and oldest friend, begged on my behalf did my father agree to take me back.
On one condition.
Find his son.
Kill him.
Tunde agreed to help me. For fifty years, we hunted. Fifty years of false leads, dead ends, and silence. And now—finally—Tunde had found him.
After tonight, we could go home.
"We're here," Tunde said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I sat up and studied the estate. Wide, clean roads. Tall fences. Well-kept lawns. Quiet wealth. I felt an unexpected flicker of pride.
"There," Tunde said, pointing two houses to our left.
The house stood proudly—two stories, cream-colored walls, dark brown roofing, wide windows glowing faintly from within. It looked warm. Lived in. Safe.
Too safe.
"We wait until midnight," I said, my voice cold—but cracked underneath by guilt.
And this time, even immortality felt heavy.