The clown is not afraid.

So he says, in the safety of his own head. So he reminds himself - not stubbornly. That would imply he is scared. That he needs to convince himself he is not.

He is not speaking to himself, like a loon. He is, quite possibly, the sanest member of his kiss.

Former kiss. The others are dead. That is why he is runni- retreating.

Seeking better ground for an ambush. That is it.

It is refreshing, for lack of a better term, to be finally, truly alone in his own mind. The leader of his kiss...had been an obsessive vampire (weren't they all?).

The clown didn't know whether the circus master had possessed some gift to read and shape thoughts. Even if he hadn't, he'd always been able to spot what the members of his kiss thought. No gossip or unsubtle movements needed. Intuition had seemingly been enough.

Not enough to avoid death, a corner of the clown's mind whispers with the malicious amusement that comes with spiteful vindication. Did he see that coming?

"That" being less the death itself, and more the person responsible for it. The man with the guns...he hadn't smelled human. He'd moved like one of them...no, faster.

The clown shudders as he leaps between the gutted remains of the amusement park, always keeping to the shadows.

If they can even keep that freak off my trail, he thinks bitterly.

He has no idea what the coated man is, and less of a desire to learn. He must run. Run and feed, and hide. Build or find a new kiss, far, far away.

Tch. The future will bring what it will. He can't change that, only met it with open claws, like the other vampires had tried with that grinning freak.

For now, he relishes the disappearance of the ringleader's shadow, that sensation of a shadow always hanging over him, like eyes behind his shoulder. Like shrugging off a burden whose weight he hadn't noticed before shedding it.

In a way, he enjoys the fact he died, too: had only the other vampires perished, he'd have been made to answer for retreating, and his former master's anger makes him cringe almost as much as the sight of the slaughter in the circus.

It had started so well...so much food, gathered in one place. Then, what had seemed like a mage. Not their target, not the hunter of monsters, but still, better than the usual cattle.

The kiss had known mages, in every sense of the word. They were powerful, but frail, often driven mad by the powers and beings they employed, their bodies being twisted and hollowed out even as the resulting shells were strenghtened.

But the man with the guns hadn't fought like a mage. When he'd reacted to the kiss' movements and hit them back, he'd done so without a whiff of magick, even though the movements should've shattered his body beyond healing.

Oh, he'd done...impossible things, but his physical prowess was, so to speak, natural.

The vlown crouches, clinging to the underside of a rollercoaster. Even upside down and obscured by derelict machines, his sight is far sharper than a human's.

Their intended prey approaches, tall and muscular, shaved and goateed. He is wearing boots, pants and a shirt as dark as his beard, or his eyes-for camouflage? Hiding from vampires?

The clown wants to scoff, but the day hasn't given him many reasons to bet on his vampirism. Maybe the clothes are to hide the blood? But why would anyone want to...?

Ah, yes. Humans. Always pretending to turn away from their 'base' nature.

The occult bounty hunter is not alone, which sours the clown's mood further. Already unsure he can take Chalk by himself, the presence of the priest oozing hateful holy power and the armed werestoat makes him even less eager to try his luck.

The clown would've liked to break and drain Chalk, purely for the joy of the death and the feeding, if not in an attempt to make up to the memory of his kiss for his retreat-

He catches himself at the ridiculous thought, blinking. Why the hell would it be his fault if, after seeing they were too weak to even scratch the gunslinger, the fools hadn't even tried to run? They'd deserved it.

The clown shakes his head, a movement that would've been imperceptible to humans even if he'd been standing in broad daylight. Their deaths must've really shaken him...

And now...Chalk is here too, as are his lackeys. And that monster is still behind him, almost certainly preparing to give chance, if not tracking him already.

Hmph. If nothing else, the clown can take joy in the fact that, with most of his kiss dead, Chalk will only be able to collect a feaction of the money he needs to buy or craft the trinkets he needs to kill those he deems monsters. Without them, he is almost as frail as any helpless, mewling human...yessss~

The clown grins slowly, lazily, mouth closed. No need to show his fangs and give away his position.

What if Chalk is here to take down the monster with the pistols, not the clown's kiss? Or maybe he's on one of his ridiculous charity cases...no matter.

The clown knows he can't kill either Chalk or that coated bastard by himself. But maybe, once they're finished beating each other bloody, he can pick off both? That would be bound to make vampires flock to him in search of guidance and protection, nit to mention remove an old boogeyman, as well as a new one.

As the clown watches Chalk and his toadies walk past him, the thin were nervously, suspiciously glancing at everything except what's above him (why do they never look up? Not that he's complaining. The stoat must be as shaken as he is, if he can miss a vampire, for all his animal senses), he begins crawling backwards along the roller coaster, intending to find a spot from where he can safely observe the two freaks tear each other to shreds.

He hears the gunshot moments after he feels the silver bullet pulp his eye, passing through the socket and into his brain, shattering half his skull. The hand reaching out to grasp freezes in a dead man's grip.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

As he's feeling, unlife flowing out of him, the clown notices Chalk's gun is pointed away from him, and he's looking straight ahead. How...had he noticed him? And how the hell had he made that shot without looking?

Before the vampire can sneer, the werestoat turns and, with a superhumanly fast, jittery movement, throws the wooden stake he's holding through his other eye.

Goddamn rodent-

* * *

Deacon

I allowed myself a tiny smirk, almost entirely hidden by my goatee, as I heard the vamp hit the ground. Soon enough, there wasn't going to be anything left of him-one of the few joys of the job was that some monsters clean up after themselves.

It had been a good shot, almost as good as Sully's throw. Not that he had been more accurate, but I'd been shooting for as long as I'd been able to hold a gun, while I doubted the were had ever thrown anything, except cigarettes into the trash.

He's not smoking any of his cancer sticks now, to avoid giving the other vamps a heads-up. The werestoat-I hadn't known what the hell that was before I'd met him-didn't look like much: thin and bowlegged, he had a swinging step that looked faintly ridiculous with his combat boots. Like a kid in his dad's uniform, playing at being tough.

His mug didn't help. Sully had one of those faces that would always look forty, even though he was only in his twenties or thirties. Between his narrow, pointy chin, the mustache only slightly less thin than the lips under it and his bead, dark eyes, he looked like the designated shifty, shady character in some sitcom. Central casting for a two-bit hood.

But he'd made sure the bloodsucker was dead, for real this time. Perks of were senses and strength, I suppose. He was goid for mire than you'd have thought, at first glance.

He'd actually been the one who'd found Fallene, the little werebat this kiss of vampires had nearly killed, infecting her with some sort of unnatural rabies even her healing couldn't overcome.

According to Sully, the kid had fallen in front of his car from the sky, likely dropped by some vampire looking to have a laugh and kill her while they were at it.

The werestoat, who'd been driving to a friend's house, had brought the werebat to the clinic my associate Larson runs. Still, couldn't let Sully get too big a head. He'd told me I wasn't that bad, and I couldn't let shit like that slide.

Supernaturals are too damn powerful and-in the case of many-unhinged to he allowed to run around as they pleased. As I'd told him while letting him get a good look at my gun, I was the death sentence that awaited anyone who messed with humans.

Larson, who'd been left in a wheelchair following a dumb attempt to play bampire hunter, had gotten acquainted with supernatural biology recently, and, having treated many weres, knew they could heal from most wounds by themselves, provided silver was not enough, and couldn't get sick.

He'd helped me recognize the bite marks for what they were, which had resulted in me, Father Mulcahy and Sully, who acted like almost as much of a third wheel as he was, heading to this grisly excuse for a carnival.

Mulcahy, a head shorter than me but almost as heavy, and just as muscular-and I'm well over two hundred pounds, but at six foot three, I don't look almost as wide as I'm tall, unlike him-had taken point, his hands gripping an axe almost as long as he's tall. The priest has fought in wars he still refuses to talk about; he's a better shooter than me, so I was a bit surprised when he picked the axe. Still suits his build, though.

As we walk closer to the obvious lair, I narrow my eyes. My senses are pretty crappy by supernatural standards: I'm still human, in the ways that matter. I'm not relying on my human senses, though, but in the sixth one I received when an Angel of the Lord brought me back to life with an infusion of her blood, ichor, whatever.

The Nephilim who'd been holding her captive for use as a breeding sow had been led by Slaine, the same bastard who'd ritualistically murdered my wife and children. I'd...put an end to them.

And gotten a second chance. At living in a world I could make better. Infinitely more than almost everyone gets. I'll never forget the hand God extended to me that night.

This angelic sense is linked to my power, letting me know not only where supernatural beings around me are located, but also what they are. Vampires cause a sensation like a flock of bats beating their wings inside my skull. That was how I'd nailed that fucker in the clown costume without letting him know I'd spotted him until it had been too late.

Must've been off his game not to notice me aiming, but I'd take it.

But now, as I approached the circus tent, I couldn't sense any more vampires. Instead, there was a power like-

I grit my teeth, holding back a growl as I remembered my son begging for me to come home on the phone, the walls painted with blood. I hadn't sensed Nephilim then, I'd been purely human, but since, I'd learned to feel their aura, like lightning striking dust and glassing the soil underneath.

What I felt was even worse, somehow: it was like a slimy tentacle snaking its way inside me, wrapping around my spine and brain. So cold it burned.

Holding up a hand, I gestured for Mulcahy and Sully to get behind me as I entered the tent, guns at the ready, just like my power.

I can override other supernaturals' abilities. Forcing weres to shift and catching them between forms, making mages blast themselves, and so on. If I have time.

As the slim, dark-haired pasty guy in the rainbow coat turned to face me, so fast he blurs, I doubted I will, if he was as nasty as his power (s?) felt.

"Huh," he said, eyes focusing somewhere behind me as the other two entered, the tent flap closing behind them. "So, that's where he went."