League of Light

The damp cellar stank of mildew and rot. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood, and the faintest whisper of movement crept just beyond the threshold.

Vivienne Braddock steadied her breathing. The scent told her there were three of them — vampires — though one was injured. The coppery sharpness mingled with something faintly bitter, like burned herbs. Wounded, likely feeding on a nearby victim.

Vivienne’s grip tightened on her silver-plated knife. Her fingertips brushed the hilt of her broadsword slung across her back, but she’d wait before drawing it. The knife was quieter.

“Three,” she whispered. Her voice was barely a breath, but her companions heard.

“Three?” John Harker’s voice murmured from her right. He always trusted her senses.

“Yes,” Vivienne confirmed. “One injured.”

“To your right or left?” asked Father Tristan Greene, the League’s priest and exorcist.

Vivienne turned her face slightly. She couldn’t see the darkness surrounding her, but her ears caught the faint shuffle of boots on stone. “Left,” she said. “Near the barrels.”

John moved silently into position, his wooden stake coated in holy oil. Vivienne felt his presence shift, and she knew Tristan had withdrawn his silver-plated cross, prepared to drive back whatever emerged.

The injured vampire struck first.

It lunged from the shadows, snarling. Vivienne reacted faster. Her knife shot upward, sinking into its shoulder. The vampire shrieked — a high, reedy sound — and stumbled back.

“Got him!” John rushed in, pinning the creature’s arm. Vivienne darted forward, ignoring the flash of pain from her right shoulder — her wolf side flaring under stress. Her heightened senses buzzed with heat and motion.

The second vampire rushed her from the right. Its cold hand gripped her wrist — too strong — twisting her knife away. Vivienne spun into the motion instead of resisting, grabbing the dagger at her hip and slashing upward. The blade struck true, cutting deep across the vampire’s chest.

“Tristan!” she barked.

“On it!”

The priest’s voice rang out in Latin, sharp and clear. The words carried force, pushing the vampires back like a blast of wind. The third vampire, still hidden, hissed from the shadows.

Vivienne knelt low, knife at the ready. “Come on,” she muttered.

The third one leapt — but Vivienne heard it. The rustle of its coat, the sharp intake of breath. She turned and slashed upward. The blade found the vampire’s throat.

A spray of cold blood hit her cheek.

“Go to dust,” she growled.

The vampire crumpled, its body dissolving into ash.

John staked the second vampire through the heart, and Tristan pressed his silver cross against the injured one’s forehead. It screamed as its skin burned away, turning to powder.

The room fell silent but for their ragged breathing.

“Vivienne…” Tristan's voice was tight with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious,” she replied, wiping her blade. She flexed her shoulder; her wolf blood always healed her quickly.

John gave her a smile — one she couldn’t see but felt in his voice. “Three vampires, and you still called the last one.”

Vivienne grinned. “They’re predictable.”

“Predictably lethal,” Tristan muttered, sheathing his cross.

The League of Light met at their safehouse that evening — a crumbling stone cottage nestled between two alley walls in Dublin’s old quarter. The hearth fire crackled low as they regrouped.

Vivienne sat at the far end of the table, head tilted slightly. Even here, her senses stayed sharp. She could hear Michael’s heavy boots on the floor upstairs, and Katrina flipping through her notebooks on the opposite end of the room.

John set a mug of tea in front of Vivienne. “I know you hate chamomile,” he said. “This one’s peppermint.”

“You’re learning,” Vivienne murmured with a smile.

He chuckled. “I’d better.”

The door creaked open, and Father Tristan entered with a solemn face.

“Bad news?” Vivienne asked.

“Worse,” Tristan muttered, sliding a worn map across the table. “This wasn’t just a nest of stragglers. The vampires are gathering in numbers. The Patrick Clan of Dublin is rallying under a new leader — someone powerful. The old rumors say they’ve been stockpiling blood… and worse.”

Vivienne ran her fingers across the parchment. She knew the city’s layout by heart, her fingers tracing streets and alleys like old friends. “Where?”

“Near the docks,” John said. “An abandoned warehouse.”

“Then we strike before they’re ready,” Vivienne said firmly.

“That’s suicide,” Katrina warned.

Vivienne smiled grimly. “Not if we hit them fast.”

The League struck just before midnight.

Vivienne moved like smoke through the warehouse’s narrow halls, her footsteps silent. She could hear the heartbeats of her companions — Tristan’s steady thrum, John’s quickened pulse, Katrina’s tense breath.

The vampires were gathered in a large, open chamber. Vivienne counted the breathing, the scraping of boots — at least nine.

“We’re outnumbered,” John whispered.

Vivienne smiled. “I’ll thin the herd.”

Before they could stop her, she slipped inside.

“Hey!” a vampire snarled. “Who’s there?”

Vivienne let out a low growl — a wolf’s warning.

“Wolfblood,” another hissed. “You’re brave.”

“You’re doomed,” Vivienne shot back — and drew her sword.

The vampires lunged, but Vivienne felt them move before they struck. She twisted away, her sword sweeping in a wide arc. The silver-plated edge caught one across the ribs, sending him howling back.

John and Tristan followed in her wake, driving stakes and fire into the room. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh.

Vivienne spun, parrying a blade aimed at her throat. She ducked low, hearing the scrape of boots behind her. She pivoted, driving her knife up into her attacker’s chest.

“Vivienne!” Tristan’s warning came too late.

A vampire tackled her, slamming her to the ground. Cold fingers wrapped around her throat.

Vivienne’s world narrowed to her heartbeat — pounding in her ears — and the faintest smell of burned herbs.

“Not today,” she whispered.

She grabbed a silver needle from her belt and jammed it into the vampire’s eye.

The creature shrieked and stumbled back. Vivienne seized her sword and drove it deep into the vampire’s heart.

The last of the creatures turned to ash, leaving only the heavy silence of victory.

Back at the safehouse, Vivienne sat by the fire. John wrapped a bandage around her arm — a shallow scratch, already half-healed.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“Effective,” Vivienne corrected with a grin.

Tristan approached, holding a silver medallion — their League’s symbol — and pressed it into her palm. “For courage,” he said. “You earned this tonight.”

Vivienne smiled softly, her fingers closing over the medal’s cool surface.

“We keep the light alive,” she whispered.

And in the dark, the League of Light would burn bright.

Epilogue

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls of the safehouse. John Harker leaned against the worn wooden table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Vivienne as she cleaned her sword. The silver-plated blade gleamed in the firelight — sharp, cold, and deadly. 

“You know,” John began, his voice hesitant, “I’ve been meaning to ask... how is it that you’re not affected by silver?” 

Vivienne paused, her sharpening stone halting mid-stroke. “I’m half-werewolf,” she said simply, as though that answered everything. 

John frowned. “Yeah, but... half is still half. Shouldn’t silver burn you, even a little?” 

Vivienne smirked. “I don’t break out in hives if I wear a silver necklace, if that’s what you’re asking.” She set her sword down carefully. “But I’m not like my father’s kind. My mother was human — Irish through and through. Whatever wolf blood’s in me... it’s dulled.” 

“But you still heal fast,” John pointed out. 

“And my senses are sharper than yours,” Vivienne added with a grin. “Perks of being a half-breed.” 

John chuckled softly, but his gaze lingered on her face, thoughtful. “So… what’s your story?” 

Vivienne leaned back in her chair, fingers tracing the worn leather grip of her sword. “You really want to know?” 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” 

She sighed and stared into the fire for a long moment before beginning. 

“In my father’s pack,” she said slowly, “there’s a superstition — an old one — about pups born under a full moon.” Her fingers tightened on the hilt. “They say those pups are cursed... and always born blind.” 

John’s expression shifted — surprised, then troubled. “That’s not your fault.” 

Vivienne shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. A blind werewolf is no good to a pack. Can’t hunt, can’t fight.” She swallowed hard. “So they’re left at the edge of the forest to die.” 

John’s breath hitched. “They left you?” 

Vivienne nodded. “I was barely a week old. My mother begged my father to spare me, but tradition is tradition. He carried me out himself and left me under a hollow tree.” 

John stared at her, horrified. “How did you survive?” 

Vivienne’s smile was faint and humorless. “My mother followed him. She waited until he was gone, then snuck back and took me.” 

“She risked her life for you.” 

“She did,” Vivienne said softly. “We ran. Ended up in a tiny village near the coast. My mother raised me there, kept me safe. Taught me how to fight, how to listen, how to smell when someone’s lying to you.” 

John shook his head. “You’ve been fighting since you were a kid.” 

“Had to,” Vivienne said with a shrug. “The pack never stopped hunting us. They wanted to ‘correct’ my father’s mistake.” 

“And your mom?” John’s voice lowered. 

Vivienne’s fingers brushed her sword again. “They found us when I was fifteen.” Her voice wavered slightly. “She didn’t make it.” 

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. 

Vivienne gave a weak smile. “Don’t be. I’ve been taking wolves down ever since. Seems fair.” 

Silence hung between them for a long moment. The fire popped, sparks dancing against the stone. 

“You know,” John said, “they say wolves are stronger in packs... but you? You’re stronger on your own.” 

Vivienne’s smile softened. “Maybe.” 

“You’re still not getting out of dishes tonight though,” John added with a grin. 

Vivienne laughed — a quiet, genuine sound. “Fair enough.”