The Codex of The Severine Protocol

She was floating in edgelessness. There was darkness in her eyes. Thick darkness, oppressive and absolute. Dense enough to appear less like a lack of light and more like a presence. A presence with weight. The weight had landed on her forehead, settled at her breasts, hugged her thighs, and decided to keep her. For a few moments, she did not know. She did not know her name. She did not know her age. She did not know whether she had been sleeping, dying, dreaming, or entombed beneath the last cold thought God had ever allowed her. Then she attempted to move her arms. She failed. Within the innermost part of her deepest mind, somewhere both ancient and childlike, terror swelled to a bubble. Slowly at first. A light quake beneath still water. Then stronger. Hotter. Sharper. She tugged harder at nothing, but her wrists struck stone. Her shoulders lifted less than two inches before the sidewalls barred them. Her knees refused to bend. Her back remained pressed flat against the floor underneath her. Something was holding her still. No. Not something. A box. The word arrived with terrible clarity. No. A coffin. That knowledge left a cold ache in her chest. She was in a coffin. A large rectangular box with no air. There were only a few inches between her face and the lid. Too close. Far too close. The darkness itself gave the impression of stooping and pressing against her ears, muffling any sound she tried to make, any thought she tried to hold, any memory of where she was or what had happened beyond this smothering chamber. Why? The question did not echo. There was no room for echoes. It stayed inside her skull and scraped there. Had her heart been capable of panic, it would have destroyed itself upon her frame in desperate, useless beats. Instead, it lay quiet. Still. Dead. Vampires did not need beating hearts to keep them afraid. They had darkness for that. Something else in her screamed. Not her mouth. Her mouth had not opened. Her lips were dry and parted only enough for the faintest snarl to form between them. The scream came from deeper. From the thing that had survived centuries. From the woman who had waltzed in the most elegant dresses from the finest designers, drawn blood from jeweled cups, and cut throats at a whim. She had walked through battlegrounds, plagues, palaces, cathedrals, and miles of icy bodies. From the woman who had never been meant to be caged. Her digits clenched. Her nails found concrete. They dug in. A noise escaped her then. Not a scream. Not yet. A breathless, vicious rasp scraped out of her throat as her hand twisted against the coffin floor. Her nails split the surface. Dust broke loose underneath the tips of her fingers. Stone complained. I have to get out. The thought came clean and savage. I have to get out. She shoved upward. The lid did not move. Something like disbelief flashed through her, bright and furious. No. She shoved again. Her palms slammed the underside of the lid with enough force to splinter bone, had her skeleton been made of anything so fragile. The impact shockwave vibrated through her wrists, locking her elbows and jarring her shoulders. White pain flashed behind her eyes. The lid held. For one impossible second, the terror of eternal, motionless burial nearly paralyzed her. Then rage found her. It rose through her body like a black tide, swallowing the panic, drowning the confusion, filling every dead vein with something more ancient than breath and stronger than prayer. Her lips drew back from her teeth. Her fangs extended with a wet, aching pressure. Who had done this? Who had dared? Her hands flattened against the lid. The coffin groaned. Above her, beyond the stone, beyond the dark, beyond however many years had been stolen from her, the world waited in ignorance. It had forgotten what it had interred. She had not. A tremor spread through the tomb. Dust sifted down over her face. Her silver-black eyes opened in the dark. This time, when she struck, she did not push like a woman trapped in a coffin. She struck as a god beneath the earth. An amber alert light shattered the darkness just as the gargantuan stone tomb began to slide open with an ear-splitting shriek of metal against stone. The lid exploded upward. Darkness fled beneath a sudden wound of light, and along arrived with it the first breath of the world above. She knew what she was. She knew the hunger. She knew the strength coiled beneath the weakness in her limbs. But the rest of herself felt buried under centuries of dust, as trapped as she had been beneath the coffin lid. She rose from the ruin slowly, the terror of her confinement hardening into a cold, lethal rage. Dust stuck to her hair. Fragments of stone slid from her shoulders. Her hands, pale and terrible, held the broken edges of the coffin as though the very earth had offended her. For a moment, there was silence. Then Severine lifted her face. And hell opened its eyes upon the earth.

For a few moments, she did not know. She did not know her name. She did not know her age. She did not know whether she had been sleeping, dying, dreaming, or entombed beneath the last cold thought God had ever allowed her.

Then she attempted to move her arms. She failed. Within the innermost part of her deepest mind, somewhere both ancient and childlike, terror swelled to a bubble — slowly at first, a light quake beneath still water, then stronger, hotter, sharper. She tugged harder at nothing, but her wrists struck stone. Her shoulders lifted less than two inches before the sidewalls barred them. Her knees refused to bend. Her back remained pressed flat against the floor underneath her.

Something was holding her still. No — not something. A box. The word arrived with terrible clarity. No. A coffin. That knowledge cut through her. She was in a coffin, a large rectangular box with no air, and it lay forcefully on her with an aggression she had not known stone could possess. There were only a few inches between her face and the lid. Too close. Far too close.

The darkness itself gave the impression of stooping and pressing against her ears, muffling any sound she tried to make, any thought she tried to hold, any memory of where she was or what had happened beyond this smothering chamber. Why? The question did not echo. There was no room for echoes. It stayed inside her skull and scraped there.

Had her heart been capable of panic, it would have destroyed itself upon her frame in desperate, useless beats. Instead, it lay quiet. Still. Dead. Vampires did not need beating hearts to keep them afraid. They had darkness for that.

Something else in her screamed. Not her mouth — her mouth had not opened. Her lips were dry and parted only enough for the faintest snarl to form between them. The scream came from deeper, from the thing that had survived centuries. From the woman who had waltzed in the most elegant dresses from the finest designers, drawn blood from jeweled cups, and cut throats at a whim. She had walked through battlegrounds, plagues, palaces, cathedrals, and miles of icy bodies. From the woman who had never been meant to be caged.

Her digits clenched. Her nails found concrete. They dug in. A noise escaped her then — not a scream, not yet. A breathless, vicious rasp scraped out of her throat as her hand twisted against the coffin floor. Her nails split the surface. Dust broke loose underneath the tips of her fingers. Stone complained.

I have to get out. The thought came clean and savage. I have to get out.

She shoved upward. The lid did not move. Something like disbelief flashed through her, bright and furious. No. She shoved again. The insides of her hands struck the underside of the coffin lid with enough force to crack bone, had she had anything so fragile. The impact slammed back through her wrists, her elbows, her shoulders. Pain sparked white behind her eyes. The lid held.

For one impossible second, fear nearly won. Then rage found her. It rose through her body like a black tide, swallowing the panic, drowning the confusion, filling every dead vein with something more ancient than breath and stronger than prayer. Her lips drew back from her teeth. Her fangs extended with a wet, aching pressure.

Who had done this? Who had dared?

Her hands flattened against the lid. The coffin groaned. Above her, beyond the stone, beyond the dark, beyond however many years had been stolen from her, the world waited in ignorance. It had forgotten what it had interred. She had not.

A tremor spread through the tomb. Dust sifted down over her face. Her silver-black eyes opened in the dark. This time, when she struck, she did not push like a woman trapped in a coffin. She struck as a god beneath the earth.

An amber alert light shattered the darkness just as the gargantuan stone tomb began to slide open with an ear-splitting shriek of metal against stone. The lid exploded upward. Stone cracked. Concrete split. Iron screamed. The tomb burst open with a crash that shook the chamber and sent broken slabs skidding across the floor. Darkness fled beneath a sudden wound of light, and along with it arrived the first breath of the world above.