“So,” Jeffrey said, “what’s the deal with that Alistair dude? Y’all seem pretty afraid of him.”
Victor glared at him briefly before looking forward, back at the doors. “For a time, he was the leader of the Black Hand.”
“I take it they’re like the vampire bad guys?” Jeffrey said. This was met with another glare. “Sorry. Fang bad guys.”
“Yes, they’re the bad guys,” Victor said as the doors opened and the three men boarded. He pressed the button for the roof and continued, “And Alistair is the worst of them. He wants nothing but the destruction of the White Hand and free rein over the night.”
“So, you guys are with the White Hand?”
“Technically speaking, yes, but we act separately from them.”
“What should we expect?” Derrek asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never met him myself. I’ve only heard tell of his brutality.”
“Well then,” Jeffrey said as he reloaded his pistol, “guess we’ll have to be just as brutal. What do you think, Derrek?”
Derrek gripped the hilt of his sword tight as he watched the number above the buttons slowly rise as they made their way to the roof. He was not prepared for the carnage he had witnessed that day. Nor did he ever think he would witness anything like it. But he knew there was no turning back. He looked forward at the doors as they reached the top before they opened, and with all the courage he had, he spoke.
“We’re going to save them, and we’re going to take him down.”
Under Jeffrey’s bushy beard, he smiled. He aimed his pistol toward the door while Victor lowered his stance and grew claws from his fingers as his mouth filled with teeth and his eyes turned yellow, prepared to fight.
As the door slowly opened, the men saw a volley of guns pointed at them, unmoving as they suddenly found themselves in a standoff where the advantage was clearly not in their favor.
“Shit,” Jeffrey muttered as one of the poachers stepped forward.
“Lower your weapons!” he called out.
Derrek counted twelve guns aimed at them. He knew from his training he could deflect the bullets, but he could tell Jeffrey and Victor would be in too much danger if he did that, so he slowly lowered his sword to the ground, then stood with his hands up in surrender.
“What are you doing?” Victor quietly yelled at him, his teeth and claws still bared.
“Surrendering. We can’t fight them like this.”
Before Victor could protest further, Jeffrey followed Derrek’s lead and laid his gun on the ground.
“C’mon, Victor,” he said with his arms up. “For now, this is our only option. Trust him.”
Victor snarled at the poachers, debating whether to attack, but reluctantly retracted his claws as well as his teeth and slowly raised his hands.
The poachers gestured for the men to move forward, and they were led to the base of the glass pyramid that topped the Schadenfreude, where they saw Mila and Sana, their arms tied behind their backs as they stood alongside a man whom Derrek recognized as Bernmore. Two guards were pointing guns at them, and a figure with its back to them was looking down into the lobby.
The figure turned around faster than they could see, and the men were now face to face with this figure’s thin, pale, emaciated face, its sunken in eyes, and its near hairless head draped in a black cloak.
“Ah,” the figure said with a deep, raspy voice and a heavy German accent, “the last of Mila’s lackeys.”
“It’s about time,” Bernmore said. “A lot of my men died for this. It had best be worth it.”
“I assure you, it will be,” the figure said. Derrek assumed this must be Alistair but saw no resemblance to Mila.
“Please,” Mila called out, “leave them out of this! This is between us!”
Alistair turned his head sharply toward her, letting out a loud crack as he did, and coldly said, “You decided this when you left me to die. You left our family, and they all perished. I’m simply returning the favor.”
Mila looked at the ground as Alistair snapped his neck back toward the men, fixing his gaze on Victor.
“Victor Dupont, the Belgian Butcher. I never had the pleasure of eating one of your meals, but I’ve heard nothing but praise sung of your culinary talents. A shame you waste it on humans.” He looked at Derrek and Jeffrey. “And whatever else drags its way into this abomination of a hotel.”
“Fuck you too, buddy,” said Jeffrey. Alistair snapped his fingers and one of the poachers standing behind him struck him in the back of the head with the butt of their gun, causing him to stumble briefly before regaining his balance.
“There’s no need for this!” Derrek called out. “We’re complying!”
“I will not be spoken to like this by a filthy Hauch Von Tod! Either learn your place or you will be shown it.”
Derrek bit his tongue as Alistair yelled at him and clenched his fists. He could tell protesting further would only serve to hurt those around him, so he decided to wait for Discord.
“Ah, the Hauch Von Tod,” Bernmore enthusiastically said. “I was worried you had left with the Frostbyte party, but I suppose freaks of nature like to stick together! Marvelous!”
“Stow your enthusiasm, Reginald,” Alistair said with a sideways glance. “You seem to forget our agreement.”
“Last I checked, the only names on your list belonged to fangs. The Hauch Von Tod was never your prey, so to me, it seems fair game.”
A brief, but tense moment passed as Alistair glared at him until he let out a long sigh.
“Fair enough. Have your fun.”
A wide smile crept its way across Bernmore’s mustached face, and he let out a slow, deep chuckle. He shrugged the rifle off of his shoulder, letting it clatter to the ground as he unbuttoned his jacket, tossing it as well as his extravagant hat aside with a flourish, revealing a wall of muscle where an ocean of fat was expected to be. He stretched each of his arms across his chest, then cracked his neck as some of the other poachers nudged Derrek forward, forming a half-circle around the two opposite to Alistair. He finished his stretches and reached behind his back, bringing it around with a large knife, which he pointed forward.
“Are you ready, dead blood?”
Derrek didn’t reply, as he wasn’t sure himself. He squared up, raising his fists and planting his feet as firmly as he could on the blood-soaked concrete. A tense silence hung in the air as the two men stared each other down, reminding him of his fights with Discord. He saw Bernmore blink, and in an instant, he was rushing toward the hulk of a man.
Bernmore couldn’t react before Derrek closed the distance and plunged his fist into his gut, forcing the air to leave his body before he moved behind him. His hand throbbed after landing the hit; it was like punching a brick wall, but he could tell Bernmore felt it.
“Ugh …” Bernmore said as he caught his breath and turned around to face him. “Nice shot, dead blood, but I’ve taken worse.”
He moved forward, slashing at the air around Derrek as he deftly avoided the attacks. He thrust the knife at him, but as he avoided getting impaled, he felt the air leave his body as Bernmore’s knee slammed into his stomach, and an empty fist crashed into his back, throwing him to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but a firm boot to the back made that impossible.
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“I’ve heard tell your kind were among the strongest humanoid creatures,” Bernmore said, lording over him, “and until now, I was inclined to believe it. My father fought one of you once, and it cost him an arm and a leg—literally. I’m starting to think he was nothing but a drunk old liar. No matter. A kill is still a kill.”
The boot was lifted from Derrek’s back, but he could only get to his hands and knees before it slammed into his side and threw him several feet away. Bernmore laughed as he struggled to push himself to his feet.
“I can tell there’s no quit in you. I like that. If you were human, I daresay you’d make a fine hunter. Perhaps even a—”
“Do you ever shut up?” Derrek asked as his eye glowed a piercing green.
Bernmore was surprised but quickly regained his composure.
“Like I said, a fine hunter.”
Derrek rushed at him, punching and kicking wildly, trying to hit something that would do some lasting damage, all the while avoiding the oversized knife, but his fists bounced off Bernmore’s muscles as though he were wearing a full suit of armor. He was getting tired, and he could feel it, but not as much as he felt the fist slamming into his gut, hitting him square in his wound. He keeled over, clutching his stomach until a hand wrapped around his neck, lifting him from the ground.
“I was so excited when I heard one of you was here, but you’re proving to be quite a disappointment.”
He tried to give a rebuttal, but he could barely breathe, let alone speak. Bernmore sighed and raised his knife, running the tip of the blade along Derrek’s face.
“Oh well, at least your head has some value.”
Derrek tried to scream as the blade cut deep into his left cheek, leaving a deep gash across his face, but all that came out was a muffled squeal and a series of coughs as his friends looked on in horror. Jeffrey called something out, but the blood rushing through his ears was too loud for him to tell what. All he could hear over the roar of his struggling veins was the deep laughter of the man gripping his neck.
He looked up at the sky as his vision began to narrow and saw the stars were out. The pain began to fade, but he could still feel the blade slowly slicing his flesh. The cold steel would have sent shivers down his spine if he could even feel anything below his neck. He thought of the nights he spent with Discord at that very spot, the conversation he had with Hadrian, the nights he spent there alone, doing exactly as he was now: gazing at the stars. They were beautiful.
Suddenly, he felt a surge of energy rush through his body while Bernmore bellowed with laughter, which was cut short by a swift kick to the chin as Derrek escaped from his grasp, back-flipped away, and knocked him to the ground. He breathed deeply as Bernmore pushed himself back to his feet and spit out the blood in his mouth.
“A strong kick—I’ll give you that much,” Bernmore said as he rubbed his jaw.
Derrek could breathe easy again, and although he could feel the warm blood dripping down his face, he paid it no mind and readied himself for another bout.
Bernmore was still rubbing his jaw when Derrek lunged, slamming his fist into his hulking neck, dropping him to his knees and leaving him gasping for air. He dropped the knife and grabbed his throat in pain, trying to get a breath in until he felt a heavy punch to the side of his head, whipping him around and laying him flat on his back.
Derrek pounced, pushing his knees into Bernmore’s chest as he began to repeatedly beat on his face. With every punch, his round face turned more and more into a bloody pulp; his nose had been shattered, he was missing several teeth, and both his eyes were nearly swollen shut. When Derrek was satisfied with his work, he stood and walked to retrieve the knife as Bernmore lay groaning in pain.
Derrek took hold of Bernmore’s extravagant mustache and yanked the broken man to his knees, ripping half of it out as he held the heavy knife against his tree trunk of a neck. He managed to force his eyes open, and to Derrek’s surprise, he was smiling up at him.
“Do it, dead blood. I failed my mission. Claim your prize.”
Derrek pressed the knife deeper into his neck, breaking the skin and spilling some blood as the half-mustached smile grew even wider.
“Go fuck yourself.”
With those words, Derrek took the knife away from Bernmore’s neck, slowly turned his back to the man, and began limping toward Jeffrey and Victor.
He didn’t see as Bernmore rose to his feet, his grin replaced with a murderous frown and a look to match in his eyes, but he did hear what sounded like a stampede as the mountain of muscle rushed at him and saw the look of panic in Jeffrey’s face.
Before Bernmore was upon him, Derrek spun around and slashed the knife, sidestepping him as he crashed to the ground, more than half of his neck cut clean through. He turned back to face the poachers, his face soaked in blood, both his and Bernmore’s, and saw fear in their eyes as their weapons trembled in their hands. One of them mustered enough courage to steady his aim, but as soon as he was trained on Derrek, his rifle was flung from his hands, clattering across the roof out of reach. Before anyone knew what was going on, the same had happened to the rest of the poachers’ firearms, and they all stood in confusion for a brief moment before fixing their eyes toward where Mila and Sana were being held.
In the confusion, they had escaped their bindings, and their guards laid on the floor dead, their throats cut. Mila’s skirt was splattered with blood, as was the dagger in her hand, and Sana stood by her side, her hands raised toward the poachers, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her eyes were locked in tight concentration. Derrek had wondered what Sana was capable of, and he seemed to have the answer:
Telekinesis.
A beat passed before anyone made any moves, but as soon as Jeffrey slammed his elbow into the mouth of the poachers who struck him, it was chaos. Victor’s hands were claws in an instant, and he was fighting side by side with Jeffrey against half of them. The poachers tried to draw machetes, but Victor had ripped out two of their throats, and Jeffrey had roundhouse kicked one of them out cold before they could even properly fight back.
Derrek joined Mila and Sana to deal with the other half, Bernmore’s knife in hand. The ones they opposed, however, were a bit quicker to the draw and faced them, machetes at the ready. Mila’s eyes were a piercing yellow as she sprang into action, throwing her dagger clean into one of their necks, throwing the one next to the fresh corpse off enough for her to grab him by the neck, raise him into the air, and slam him to the ground, crushing his windpipe, then seamlessly retrieving her weapon. Sana had jumped toward her share, moving like an acrobat as she wrapped her legs around one of their necks, loudly snapping it before she jumped away, hand springing and flipping toward her next opponent, where she did a handstand on their shoulders before swinging downward, landing cleanly on her feet as she slammed the poacher to the ground, headfirst. He did not get back up.
That left Derrek with two to fight on his own. Bernmore has taken most of the fight out of him, but to his relief, the poachers didn’t seem too thrilled about fighting him either. With all the strength he had, he brandished his knife and rushed at them, letting out a bellowing roar as he did in an attempt to scare them further. He raised the knife high and brought it down on one who was frozen in fear, cutting through his shoulder like butter, lodging the knife halfway through his torso, which Derrek decided to abandon. He ripped the machete from the dead poacher’s hand and slowly marched toward the one that remained.
The poacher had her machete raised in defense, which Derrek tested by slamming his own into it with all his strength, shattering her blade and throwing her to the ground. She scrambled back to her feet and produced a knife, but she hesitated, and before she knew it, Derrek’s blade sliced through her neck, and her decapitated body fell to the ground.
He looked around and saw everyone alive and well, save for the poachers, of course, although Victor was clutching a deep cut on his arm. The group all looked at each other, making sure everyone was in one piece, but they were interrupted by the slow sound of clapping, and they all turned to look at Alistair, who hadn’t moved an inch.
“Well done,” he said, continuing to clap. “Now I only have one mess to clean up.”
They had regrouped and now stood in a line opposite to Alistair, weapons at the ready.
Alistair slowly raised his hands palms up, and the blood that pooled around him began to move and shift, as if it were being stirred. The further he raised his hands, the more pronounced the disturbance was. The group looked on, mystified as the blood began to rise from the ground, forming countless thin, red tendrils.
“Keep your distance,” Mila said so Alistair couldn’t hear. “He can control blood.”
“We can see that,” Derrek whispered back. “But how are we supposed to fight him with claws and blades?”
As if on cue, a deafening gunshot cracked and Alistair’s right shoulder exploded, leaving his arm dangling by a thin thread as the tendrils of blood collapsed into the puddle they once were. Everyone whipped their heads around to find the source of the shot and saw Discord, revolver in hand, standing in front of the open elevator doors.
“Sup, Ali? Long time no see.”
“Discord,” Alistair struggled to say. “So … kind of you … to finally join us”
“You know me, always fashionably late,” he said as he took his place beside Derrek, “Gnarly wound, Havok. It’ll make a nice scar.”
“I hope it won’t be too bad,” Derrek said as he cracked a smile. “I’d rather not scare everyone away.”
“Scars make the man, my friend.” He then grabbed Derrek by the shoulder, leaned in close, and whispered, “Hold her back.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
He marched forward toward Alistair, who was still clutching his ruined shoulder. He raised his intact arm toward Discord, but it fell limp as another bullet ripped through, tearing a chunk from his arm.
“No!” Mila called out as she lunged forward, only to be caught by Derrek. “What are you doing?” she screamed as she clawed at Derrek’s back. He wanted to say he was sorry, but it was taking all he had just to hold her at bay. Suddenly, it felt much easier, and he saw Jeffrey, Victor, and Sana were all helping him, keeping Mila from interfering with Discord.
“So …” Alistair wheezed out as Discord approached him, “do we continue this game of cat and mouse you love so much, or—”
He was cut off by a crashing punch to the face, ejecting blood from his mouth. He leaned back against the spotlight and tried to stand back on his feet, only to be flung back with another punch. Discord grabbed him by the collar and began wailing on him, bashing his head against the glass with every hit, gradually cracking it more and more.
“I told her to kill you,” Discord said casually, still punching Alistair, “but I guess familial bonds are stronger than logic.”
As he continued beating on Alistair, tears rolled down Mila’s eyes while she struggled against her friends preventing her from moving. Derrek felt no joy in this, but he trusted it was necessary; otherwise, he doubted Discord would ask such a thing of him.
Discord reeled back for a heavy hit, shattering the glass behind Alistair, and toppled over the side with him, plummeting toward the lobby floor as everyone cried out in surprise.