Al’s eyes lingered on the penthouse door, a heavy slab of dark mahogany, its surface smooth but scarred with age. Ornate carvings framed its edges, their once-crisp details softened by time. The brass handle caught the dim light with a garish gleam.
In the center, bold, jagged letters disrupted the door’s polished surface, gouged deep as though by a desperate or furious hand. The grooves were uneven, filled with dark red that bled slightly into the wood.
DO NOT INTERRUPT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OR I WILL PERSONALLY KILL AND EAT YOU.
“Charming,” Al muttered, his newly acquired shotgun aimed ahead. He let out a humorless laugh. “You think that applies to us?”
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
The penthouse doors creaked open, revealing a vast, dimly lit room that oozed both menace and luxury. Silence hung thick, a claustrophobic hush that pressed down like a hand around your throat.
“Where the hell is he?” Al muttered, his shotgun raised and ready, knuckles white. His voice sounded too loud, even though he whispered.
The penthouse sprawled out like a beast lounging in its den—powerful, unapologetic, and cruel. Rich mahogany lined the walls, carved with intricate patterns that twisted under the muted amber glow. There were stories in those carvings, tales of predators and prey, and I had a gut feeling we weren’t walking in on the right end of the story. Thick rugs, red as arterial blood with veins of gold, muffled our steps across the black marble, inviting us into a place where secrets were made, bartered, or buried.
The leather armchairs, massive and heavy, crouched around a low obsidian coffee table. The table bore a single crack—thin, deliberate, like a scar you show off in a bar fight. It somehow made the space more dangerous, as if the crack had witnessed something awful and survived.
The air carried the scent of cigars, rich and stale, clinging to the past, mingling with the underlying tang of old violence. From across the room, a light pitter-patter rain slid down a massive wall of glass, floor-to-ceiling, the city laid out below like a gleaming carcass under a storm-streaked sky. Lightning threw everything into stark relief.
What’s it been—a day, maybe two, since the rain last fell? Frank asked.
The city’s thirsty for it, I replied. How else is it supposed to wash the blood off its hands?
In front of the window stood a grand piano, its glossy surface catching the flickering light from the fireplace to the right. The flames cast long, skeletal fingers across the piano, almost reaching the ivory tusks mounted above the mantel. They arced inwards like two pale sickles, too large, too perfect to have come from anything ordinary—trophies.
I glanced towards the sliding doors, leading out to the rooftop. The wind pressed against the door, rattling it faintly, carrying the sound of something low and sickening—a chant, muffled yet insistent, like the city’s heartbeat slowed to an unnatural rhythm. A faint crackle accompanied it, something that sounded like fire but carried no warmth.
“You hear that?” Al jerked his chin towards the doors. The sliding glass panes framed the terrace, their brass handles tarnished from too many hands and too much history. Beyond, the sky was a swirling mass of darkness, thunder rumbling in the distance.
Cracking the door open, the air hit me like a sharp slap, carrying the tang of magic—ozone, biting and electric, mixed with the acrid scent of burning sulfur. The chanting grew louder, rising and falling as we stepped onto the expansive rooftop patio.
And then I saw it. My breath hitched, caught in my chest like a snare, and I froze.
Al swore under his breath but followed. We were in the beast’s belly now, and the beast was very much awake.
The night sky loomed above, a murky indigo canvas where stars flickered faintly, dimmed as though they dared not shine too brightly in this place. The ground beneath us glistened, slick with the remnants of soft rain that clung like a sheen of unease. The storm had paused just long enough to reveal the moon—bright, stark, and watchful, casting its pale glow across the rooftop like a spotlight on a dark stage.
Seven casters in dark crimson robes formed a wide circle, chanting in a guttural, ancient tongue that twisted around my mind like a thorned vine, sending a shiver down my spine.
I’ve heard those words before… somewhere, Frank said, his tone laced with a quiet unease that seeped into me, filling me with a gnawing sense of dread. They don’t belong here, Jack. They don’t belong in this world. But… but I can’t seem to remember where, or what… it’s like a dream, Jack—just out of reach.
In the center, Catigan stood—hulking, a mass of muscle and malice, his tailored suit hanging in tatters, an acrid smell of burnt fabric and sweat emanating from him. The moonlight caught his features, making his eyes glimmer with an unnatural light.
Suspended above him, bound to a makeshift pulley, was Aylin. Ropes bit deep into her wrists and ankles, leaving angry red marks that bled with her every struggle. She thrashed, her scream muffled by a dirty gag, her eyes wild and wide. Her panicked gaze locked on mine. The chanting continued, the robed figures lost in their own ritualistic fervor, oblivious to anything else.
Catigan held two blood-red gems, each pulsing like a heartbeat, their rhythm matching the tempo of the chanting. The air around him shimmered with an otherworldly energy, and the ground beneath him ran dark with pooled blood. Whatever ritual they had begun, no one seemed to notice or care about the new guests arriving to the party.
So this is where the casters were hiding. I knew Cat had a few—anyone like him would. But seven? That was extravagant, even for Cat, considering what they cost.
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Good casters were rare, and they weren’t the type to fall in line unless the money or the fear made it worth their while. They were tough to find, tougher to kill... when they were paying attention. Lucky for me, they weren’t. Whatever this ritual was, it was taking everything they had to not break concentration.
“What do you say?” Al murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind and the chanting. “Shall we thin the herd?”
I glanced at Aylin, her eyes frantic. Then back to the casters.
“Thought you’d never ask,” I said, voice cold.
We opened fire, the deafening roar of our guns cutting through the chanting like a knife through flesh.
Bullets ripped through the night, tearing into the chanting casters. Blood sprayed, and they dropped in sudden heaps, their dying murmurs trailing off into the night, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and charred flesh. Not one stopped chanting when their brethren fell—the ritual was everything. We moved with precision—swift, methodical, relentless—ensuring none of them would rise again. The circle broke, but the blood—thick and dark—crept towards the center like it was alive, crawling to finish what they had started.
I turned my gun towards Catigan, emptying the magazine into him, the bullets ripping into his chest only to be swallowed by the pulsing energy surrounding him. Aylin spat the gag free, her voice raw as she screamed.
“Jack! Stop! No!”
It was too late. Al’s shotgun roared, dropping the final caster in a spray of crimson. The dark pool of blood quivered, coalescing into a single, creeping tide as it slithered toward Catigan.
He should have been dead—riddled with holes, his body collapsing, but instead he stood tall, untouched by the wounds, his grin growing wider. Catigan threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and cruel, reverberating through the night air, chilling me to the bone. His eyes, black as midnight, rolled back, then returned to something almost human.
“Good show, Jack,” Catigan said, voice smooth as silk. “Didn’t expect the help, but I’ll admit, it saves me some time.”
“You idiots!” Aylin screamed, her voice raw. “You did his job for him! He needed the unwilling blood of his followers.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know?” I snapped, glaring at her, feeling the weight of her panic.
“Bullets will do nothing. He’s part Elder Blood now. Only magic can hurt him.”
Catigan stood, monstrous and grotesque, his muscles bulging as his skin tore, revealing veins glowing with an unnatural, crimson light. His laugh had changed, deepened, growing into a roar that seemed to come from the depths of the earth.
He just smiled wider, teeth glinting with firelight, as the blood surged upwards—liquid veins feeding the gems, which now pulsed like living hearts.
The gun slipped from my grip, clattering to the ground as I drew my sword in one smooth, deliberate motion. Al and I charged in, but the damn gems ignited—a flash so white-hot it turned everything to ghost. Then came the blast, pure kinetic rage, flinging us like ragdolls.
My chest met concrete, a brutal smack that ripped the air from my lungs. The sword slipped away, lost to the chaos, and I caught a glimpse of it spinning, sliding off the roof’s edge, gone before I could even reach out. Al groaned somewhere to my left—alive, I hoped—but I had no time to check. The world spun in a chaotic haze, colors smearing together like a runny painting. My ears buzzed with a relentless ringing.
“This power,” Catigan boomed, his voice echoing with a malicious glee, “belongs to those who bled for this city, who killed for it. Not outsiders. Not the likes of you and your kind.” He turned and spat on Aylin. “And definitely not the likes of him.”
My mind reeled, trying to grasp what had just happened. I stared at him, something shifting in the air, something fundamental. His name—it no longer fit. The part of his name I’d once grasped was gone, torn from my hold like smoke in the wind. I could feel it unraveling, his true name slipping away, dissolving into the ether, replaced by something alien, something monstrous. Something that no longer belonged to the man he had been.
Al struggled to his feet, his shotgun still clutched in his hands, blood streaming down his face. He fired, the blasts echoing through the night, but Catigan didn’t even flinch. With a sharp swing of his hand, blood from the ground surged upward in a violent wave, crashing into Al with brutal force. The impact hurled him across the roof, his spine colliding hard against a metal vent. He slumped to the floor, motionless.
Rage boiled in my veins. I charged, fists clenched, a scream building in my throat, but Catigan unleashed another wave of energy, a searing force that slammed into me. I flew back as pain exploded within me, stars dancing in my vision as I gasped for air. He moved faster than I could react, knocking me off the edge of the roof. My fingers scrambled, catching onto a pipe, my legs dangling in the open air, the city a dizzying blur below.
Above, Catigan loomed, his monstrous form outlined against the dark, lightning splitting the sky. His voice echoed over the rooftop, drowning in the storm’s fury.
“You still with us, Jackie?”
“Hanging in there,” I shot back, my voice shaking as much as my grip on the ledge. My muscles burned with each desperate pull, my breath ragged and shallow. The world below spun in dizzying spirals, the sickening drop making my stomach churn.
Why did it always have to be heights? I turned my head, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
I heard Aylin cry out, her words lost in the wind.
“You’ve been a thorn for too long, Jack!” Cat, or whatever he was, called out, his laughter rolling with the thunder. “I’m not done with you yet. But I’ll enjoy feasting on your friend first.”
Wind lashed at me as I clung to the crumbling facade of the penthouse, fingertips gouging into cracked concrete. Frank coiled tighter, his threads flexing with each movement, a live serpent of fabric keeping me tethered as I dragged myself up. Each pull scorched my muscles, the weight of exhaustion trying to claw me back down. Above, Aylin’s screams ripped through the night, her voice a broken plea swallowed by Catigan’s deep, monstrous laughter.
“I think it’s time to send your father a message,” Catigan said, his voice booming. “Cat fears no one—not you, not him, not all of the Elder Demons combined. They will all bow before me.” There was a pause and then, “Now, let’s seal the deal… with a little blood.”
Almost there, Frank’s voice vibrated in my skull.
Desperation tightened around my chest. My fingers ached, but I couldn’t let go—not now. I had to move. I had to—
The rooftop came into view, and I pulled myself over the ledge, rolling onto my back, chest heaving like I’d been punched by God. My eyes snapped to the scene—and my blood ran cold.
The next scream was so deep, so terrible, it stabbed into what remained of my heart.
Catigan struck, his claws slicing Aylin’s throat in a swift, brutal motion. Her blood sprayed out, crimson against the storm, her eyes wide with shock as her body went limp. He laughed as he drank, the power surging into him, transforming him further into a monstrous, grotesque caricature of what he once was.
Catigan staggered back as crimson energy tore through him, raw and unrelenting. It wasn’t just pain—it was annihilation, remaking him molecule by molecule, shredding what was left of the man beneath. He hit the ground hard, the slick stones doing nothing to cushion the fall, and his scream ripped out like a wounded animal’s—raw, primal, wrong. The gems slipped from his clawing hands, scattering across the floor, their glow flickering like dying stars.
When he rose, it wasn’t Catigan anymore. What stood in his place was a grotesque nightmare, the kind of thing that clawed its way out of bad dreams and straight into the real world. His body was a warped mountain of muscle and sinew. Horns twisted from his skull like gnarled roots, too big, too jagged, as if they’d been forced through bone by something that enjoyed the sound of death.