Silva doesn't manage to get far before she falls to her knees.Her every attempt to properly conjure the spells she seeks in an attempt to relieve herself of the pain and suffering fail. If nothing else, the steadily thrumming beat of her heart resonates with something more powerful and personal.
The angel finds herself clutching her chest. As she touches her breastplate, she realizes it's wet with blood over her heart. Briefly, the images of her fallen comrades superimpose over her true vision. Some of them point at her as if blaming Silva for her fate. The excrutiating pain of impalement from the inside out slowly overtakes her as her spear pushes itself from within her chest. Likewise, her wrist gushes liberally as the bow and arrow slide out from her veins.
Once both weapons are out, the agony finally ceases. No more visions. No more screaming. No more pain.
Only the fatherly image of the Vampire Lord Dracula remains at the forefront of her mind, and it is glorious. Her mind awash with bliss. Desire, even. Relief from all worldly pain and regret.
Dracula spares not the rod lest he spoil the child. But what he leaves in the wake of his pain is peace she never really knew besides her peers.