Lucius

The shovel scraped against something unyielding, a blunt, sickening 'ting' echoing in the dead of night. Veronica, breathless and sweat-soaked, felt her heart lurch. Her black tank top clung to her, a grim testament to the grim task.

"Move," her father, Rodger Cooke, grunted, snatching the shovel. He was already on his knees, brushing dirt from what was unmistakably a coffin.

Panic flared. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, pinning them. The graveyard caretaker, a bulky silhouette, yelled, "Hey! What the hell are you doing over there?"

"Help me, Veronica," Rodger hissed, grappling with the coffin lid. It was old, shoddily assembled. The caretaker was closing in, his voice rising in alarm.

Veronica seized the crowbar. The wood splintered, a man's face, perfectly preserved despite years underground, stared back from the shattered coffin. No stench of rot, just an eerie, death-like sleep.

"Hayekh mu tasa'la fasikmu'ta lamiskh," Rodger chanted, squeezing a small hex bag. The caretaker lunged for him, bewildered and terrified.

Just as Rodger finished, the man in the coffin opened his eyes. They met Veronica's, a wave of cold dread washing over her. He rose, a dark silhouette against the fractured moonlight, and with a horrifying swiftness, tore into the caretaker's neck. The man's scream was cut short, replaced by a sickening snap.

"You were foolish to come here," the newly awakened man, Lucius, rasped, blood on his lips.

"I own you, Lucius," Rodger declared, holding up the hex bag. "And you will help me with what I need."

Veronica met the vampire's chilling gaze, a terrifying certainty settling in her gut: they had just unleashed something they would deeply regret.