The Strigoi, a Romanian vampire of the restless dead, stood on the cliffs of New Zealand. He had traveled far on the night winds. Moonlit Fleshshift. He shifted into a massive wolf, smelling life in the cove below. He saw a fleshy island floating in the surf. A whale?
Hungry, the Strigoi leaped.
He landed on rubbery, barnacle-encrusted skin. It wasn't a whale.
Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, the giant octopus pursued by Kupe, opened one massive, intelligent eye.
The Wet Grave
The Strigoi sank his fangs into the flesh. Nocturnal Soul-Siphon. He tasted nothing but brine and ancient magic.
Te Wheke lashed out. Tidal Webbing. Eight arms the size of tree trunks wrapped around the wolf-thing.
The Strigoi howled, turning into mist to escape. But Te Wheke released a cloud of black ink. Ink of Lost Bearings. The ink was magical, clouding not just sight but direction. The mist swirled, confused, unable to find the shore.
Te Wheke grabbed the confusion and dragged it under.
Down, down into the crushing pressure. The salt water burned the undead flesh like acid. The Strigoi thrashed, but he was pinned to the ocean floor by a creature that didn't need to breathe. Slowly, the vampire dissolved into the current, just another stain in the ocean.