THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES IS MORE DEADLY THAN THE MALE

 

In the shadowed heart of Victorian London, where gas lights flickered like dying stars and the fog clung to the cobblestones like a lover’s curse, Eleanor Blackwood walked alone. Her boots clicked with purpose, her crimson cloak billowing behind her, a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin and the raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders. She was no delicate flower, no damsel awaiting rescue. Eleanor was a hunter, forged in blood and vengeance, her heart a furnace of rage against the creatures that prowled the night. The world whispered of her in terror, for she was proof that the female of the species was deadlier than the male.

 

Her story began in tragedy, as all such tales do. Ten years prior, her family had been slaughtered by a cabal of horrors—monsters who wore the faces of legend but bled as freely as men when steel met flesh. Dracula, the vampire king, had drained her mother dry, his lips smeared with her life’s essence. The Frankenstein Monster, that wretched patchwork of stolen lives, had crushed her father’s skull with a single blow. The Wolfman, savage and ravenous, had torn her brother apart under a blood-red moon. And the Mummy, ancient and relentless, had cursed her sister’s soul to wither in eternal torment. Eleanor alone survived, spared by some cruel whim of fate—or perhaps by the monsters’ desire to see her suffer.

She had not crumbled. Instead, she sharpened herself into a blade. Trained by occult scholars and hardened by years of hunting lesser fiends, Eleanor wielded a silver rapier etched with sigils, a revolver loaded with blessed bullets, and a mind as unyielding as iron. Tonight, she hunted the icons themselves, drawn to London by whispers of their unholy reunion. They had gathered in the abandoned Blackthorn Manor, a rotting edifice on the city’s edge, to perform a ritual that would plunge the world into eternal night.

***
 

The manor loomed like a corpse against the storm-wracked sky, its windows black as the void. Eleanor slipped through the rusted gates; her breath steady despite the stench of decay that hung in the air. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of blood and something older, fouler. Her boots crunched on shattered glass as she moved through the grand hall, where chandeliers swayed like gibbets. The icons were here—she could feel their malevolence, a chorus of malice that vibrated in her bones.

The first to greet her was the Wolfman. He burst from the shadows, a hulking beast with matted fur and eyes like burning coals. His claws raked the air, and his howl shook the walls. Eleanor dodged, her rapier flashing as she carved a line across his chest. Black blood sprayed, sizzling where it struck the floor. The beast lunged again, jaws snapping, but Eleanor was faster. She drove her blade through his heart, twisting until the sigils glowed white-hot. The Wolfman’s scream was cut short as his body collapsed, fur sloughing off to reveal a pathetic, human husk beneath. She kicked the corpse aside, her lips curling in disgust. “One down,” she whispered.

Deeper into the manor, the air grew colder, the shadows thicker. A groan echoed, and the Frankenstein Monster shambled into view, his stitched flesh glistening with unnatural vitality. His eyes, mismatched and haunted, fixed on her with a mix of rage and sorrow. “Why?” he rasped, his voice a graveyard echo. “Why hunt us?”

“You took everything,” Eleanor spat, drawing her revolver. She fired, the blessed bullets punching through his chest, each impact bursting with holy light. The Monster roared, swinging a fist that splintered a column. Eleanor rolled, her cloak catching on jagged debris, but she was undeterred. She leapt onto a table, unloading the rest of her clip into his skull. The Monster staggered, brains oozing from shattered bone, but still he came. With a cry, Eleanor drove her rapier through his neck, severing the spinal cord. He fell, a mountain of flesh crumbling to dust, and she spat on the remains. “Pathetic.”

 

The manor trembled, as if the house itself mourned its fallen guardians. Eleanor pressed on, her senses sharp. In a candlelit chamber, she found the Mummy, Imhotep, his bandages yellowed and reeking of ancient spices. His eyes glowed like desert suns, and his voice was a dry hiss. “You cannot stop eternity,” he intoned, raising a hand. The air thickened, and Eleanor’s limbs grew heavy, cursed by his sorcery. She gritted her teeth, fighting the spell’s weight, and hurled a vial of holy water. It struck Imhotep’s chest, and his bandages erupted in flames. He shrieked, a sound like sandstorms and despair, as his form unravelled. Eleanor slashed through his burning body, her rapier cutting until only ash remained. She coughed, wiping soot from her face. “Eternity ends tonight.”

The final chamber awaited, a vast ballroom where the air pulsed with unholy energy. At its centre stood Dracula, the vampire king, his beauty a cruel mockery of humanity. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement, and his lips parted to reveal fangs stained with centuries of slaughter. “Eleanor Blackwood,” he purred, his voice silk and venom. “You’ve come to dance with death.”

“I’ve come to end you,” she snarled, drawing both rapier and revolver. Dracula moved like smoke, his claws slashing her arm before she could react. Blood welled, hot and bright, but Eleanor didn’t flinch. She fired, the bullets grazing his shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain. He lunged, pinning her against a pillar, his breath cold against her throat. “You’re exquisite,” he whispered, fangs grazing her skin. “Join me.”

Eleanor drove her knee into his groin, breaking free. “Never.” She slashed, her rapier carving a gash across his chest. Black blood sprayed, and Dracula’s composure shattered. He transformed, his body twisting into a bat-like monstrosity, wings tearing through his cloak. The ballroom became a battlefield, chandeliers crashing as they fought. Eleanor’s revolver clicked empty, and she tossed it aside, gripping her rapier with both hands. Dracula’s claws raked her side, tearing flesh, but she countered, plunging her blade into his heart. He screamed, a sound that shook the manor’s foundations, and dissolved into a swarm of bats.

Eleanor staggered, blood soaking her cloak, but she wasn’t done. The bats reformed, Dracula’s face pale and furious. “You cannot kill me,” he spat, lunging again. But Eleanor was ready. She drew a hidden dagger; its blade coated in consecrated silver and drove it into his eye. He howled, clawing at his face, and she seized the moment, hacking at his neck until his head rolled free. His body collapsed, crumbling to ash, and the manor fell silent.

Eleanor stood, panting, her body a map of wounds. The ritual was undone, the icons slain, but the cost was heavy. Her blood pooled on the floor, mingling with the ashes of her foes. She stumbled outside, collapsing under the dawn’s first light. The world was safe, for now, but she knew other horrors waited in the shadows.

And Eleanor Blackwood, the deadliest of her kind, would be ready.