With a wet tearing sound, Blaez shifted, flesh ripping and sliding off his body, discomposing as it hit the ground with the wet thud of rotting meat. Blood slick muscles shone crimson wet, new skin growing in writhing sheaths across the thing's body. Its legs broke backward, knee joints reforming and lengthening, sweatpants bursting into bloody rags, fleshy strips hanging in decomposing tatters.
Throwing his head back, Blaez gave a scream of agony so profound it bordered on ecstasy, body tearing itself apart and reforming in the space of seconds. Nine feet of towering, brutal power, the werewolf glared across the field, stepping over the slaughter line with deliberate power. For all Cesare’s familiarity with the werewolf, it was a changed thing since the last time it had taken the field.
The scars that mutilated the man carried over to the werewolf, ropy canyons crossed the things muzzle, pink and gray, flesh new and leathery. Great waterfalls of melted skin flowed down its shoulders and chest with only mangy looking patches of hair sprouting through the hellish war zone of tortured flesh.
Hunching forward on kangaroo legs, his deep, vicious snarl sounded through the arena. Long claws gouged the earth, dripping steady streams of blood. The bare muzzle was crammed with twisted, serrated teeth, edges ripping through its lips in a show of unchecked deformity. Blood tainted drool slid down its bare, melted chest in a witch’s brew of slime.
The crowd sucked in its breath at the sight. They’d seen the facial scars, but no one had known the depth of it. There were few things that could scar a werewolf, hell, it was rare to see a werewolf with one, let alone the blasted landscape of tortured flesh Blaez wore. Considering looks rested on Cesare, students wondering what had happened in the fight between the two.
Anastasia stood ready with the kinetic stillness of a trained fighter. Black flame, dense and ravenous, flowed over her hands, devouring the innocent air as she held it back by the thinnest of margins. The Ebon Flames shone with distilled spite, a sadism that could never be sated, no matter the agony it gorged itself on.
Anastasia smoothly thrust her hands out. It looked casual but was as calculated as a whore’s smile. Black flame tore through the air in a greedy rush of unholy power, blacker than sin, meaner than a child’s hate. Caught between steps, the werewolf was balanced on one foot when it hit with the force of a semi going sixty. Tossed off his feet with a strangled scream, the flame batted him like a cat with a baby mouse. Rolling across the ground, the werewolf’s screams were devoured as eager flame flowed into his throat, clawing for tender meat.
Flesh charred under the stygian inferno, tongues of flame skinning the werewolf. Blood boiled and steamed beneath ravening heat, wet muscle burst, tendons blackened into strings of jerky. That was just the first wave.
Only those looking for it could see the subtle change in the flame as Anastasia switched to the second malevolent blast of power. She'd opened with Snake’s Flame and was effortlessly transitioning into her slower strike. She might have been able to wear Blaez down without the second blast, but Cesare wanted her to rule the fight. She needed to sear her name into the consciousness of the watchers, for them to see a goddess, not a thing of flesh, and that meant overwhelming its regeneration. It required a level of carnage she’d never been able to deliver, until now.
The second blast flamed through mucus like skin, organs rupturing in wet explosions of tortured meat. Withering under the holocaust of malicious flame, the wolf desperately clawed at the ground, trying to escape the black hell she’d buried him in. Bare bone showed along its paws and legs, massive thigh muscles flash fried under relentless flame, powerful claws charred and crumpled under the savage onslaught.
The flames diminished into cancerous traceries before guttering out. Hanging onto its life by the barest of threads, its belly quivered as the few organs that had withstood the malignant flame struggled to keep him alive. Arms and legs of charred meat and blackened bone, sprawled on the ground, voids were eyes had been stared at an uncaring world.
Awe gripped the crowd at Anastasia’s effortless annihilation of the werewolf. In a handful of seconds, she’d turned a killing machine into discarded meat. That the werewolf would be up without a scar in a few minutes didn’t diminish Anastasia's mastery of the fight or the lethality of her murderous heritage. Standing tall, black flames caressed her hands as she faced Jerold and the Thagirion with only the horror of mutilated flesh between them.
“Remarkable, I could see the changes when she trained over Winter Break and was shocked at how far she’d come. I’ve been alive since the birth of my people, and never seen a Harab Serapel come this far, this fast, not by a century. Where does her power leave off and your prana start?” Kali asked.
A spreading stain of frozen grass radiated from Jerold as he mastered his rage, glaring down at the girl that butchered his plans with ease. “My prana intensifies what’s already there. It’s a difference in caliber, not the gun used. Skill, training, instincts, and dedication, my prana ain’t that. Bullets don't win wars, guns do.”
Cesare shuffled through the garment bags until he found the one with Alexandra’s name on it. His breath caught as he pulled the zipper down, the glistening fabric unlike anything he’d seen before. It shone with a black radiance that captured the eyes, sunlight caressing the fabric with a lover’s hand into a waterfall of gleaming ebony. Pulling it out, he turned and faced the vampire.
Wonder filled her as she looked at the knee length jacket, even for her privilege jaded eyes this was something special. Woven into the back of the magical silk was the face of a lioness. The child of Bast was done in shades of gold, from buttery yellow to white, every nuanced detail from the stark white whiskers to the dark gold of its fur lovingly detailed.
It was the eyes that captured anyone brave enough to face them. Possessing a majesty that went beyond fabric and stone, the yellow orbs owned a spirit steeped in ancient wisdom, staring out at a world that bowed to their dominance. Lions were the top of the food chain, apex predators that devoured the meat of the land. Where they walked, they ruled. More than that, they were mothers, providers, and protectors of young, the blessed creatures of the sun. As wondrous as the lioness was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the sword that stood before Cesare.
Alexandra traced the cold metallic thread with trembling fingers. “Gold woven into thread, don’t ask me how they do it because they won’t share, but it’s the real thing,” Lady Kali said softly.
Cesare stilled, face flushing as Alexandra gasped in surprise. He was holding something that cost more than most cars. “I didn’t ask .…”
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“You didn’t have to,” Lady Kali said simply.
With the grace of a predator, Alexandra went down on one knee, bowing her head in the tradition of a knight awaiting anointment. Taking a deep breath, Cesare swung the heavy jacket around her shoulders. As the heavy coat settled on her shoulders, her words rang out with the clarity of church bells and the finality of a headsman’s ax.
I promise under the grace of God that I shall uphold my Lord
My sword shall smite his enemies
My body shall be his shield and refuge
I shall guard his life in war and his soul in peace
By my Lord God and his son Jesus Christ, I make this oath on my blood
He didn’t need to hear the sharply drawn breaths of the others to know this was something never seen before. All Cesare had wanted was give her the jacket and move on, instead he’d stumbled into this. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it had the feeling of something painfully permanent. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn her down, even if Cesare knew this would make everything harder.
Laying his hand on her head, Cesare luxuriated in the silky feel of her hair. There was no light in his words, he’d long ago sold any goodness he’d owned. He was twisted bits of bitterness intertwined with despair, a heart done in shades of midnight. Glossy evil impenetrably opaque, his evils wove his mind into a tapestry of tortured sorrow. Broken and shattered, the edges of his soul were fused together by a blind madman. He was the agonized screams of innocents and the grief of newborn graves. His touch could only defile her beauty, and yet, he couldn't hold himself back.
Until time stops and my blood dries
‘Till pain has lost its meaning and only my bones remain
‘Till my heart stops beating and my love is lost
I will stand by your side
Agony will be my blade against those that trespass against mine
My blood will forever offer you succor and my heart a home
The women had been surprised by Alexandra, but his offered blood brought a silence pregnant with hates child. But this moment wasn’t for them. It was for the girl who raised her head with a child’s vulnerability and searched his eyes for a truth she'd searched her life for. Whatever she saw, she drew strength from, shoulders firmed, eyes flared with purpose and devotion. Whatever this was, it meant the world to her.
Standing, she ran her hand over the liquid black material of her jacket as he turned to the bag with his name on it. It was the same gleaming river of midnight fabric. Turning it around, Cesare was hooked by the yellow wolfs eyes that glared back at him. Done in threads of gold, they shone in the light, vicious, cruel, possessing a wild, untamed dignity. Undulating in the wind like a sable waterfall, the light hit the fabric and the wolf’s head flashed into view. Shades of shadow, each thread a hair's breath off from the others, created a midnight wolf. Disappearing between one blink and the next, it was only seen when the light was right.
It was breathtaking, so deeply touching he didn’t know how to process the feeling. He’d wanted something, someway, to honor his companion over Winter Break. But this was so much more than that. It reached down and pulled a truth from his soul, primitive and primal, the wolf was no more or less than the mirror of his soul.
He was the wolf, and the wolf was him. Glaring out at the world with brutal, cruel intentions, it disappeared in the masks he wore and the words he mouthed. But truth never changed, no matter how many lies you wore or hollow words you gave. This was him in all his sinful, black hearted glory.
Draping the heavy jacket over his school uniform, he felt the power of acceptance. The wolf would prowl the shadows and tear down those that attacked its pack. It would drown the world in blood and torn flesh, fulfilling the dreams of the women he loved. The school would learn as he savaged their world around them and pushed their faces into the sewer of shit he called home.
Riding his shadow, Alexandra fell into place beside him. Elizabeth and Lady Kali following slowly, ready and willing to step in but holding back, knowing this moment had to be owned by the three of them. The two powers could get them in the game, but the trio had to take what they wanted.
Jerold mastered himself, anger, frustration, and bone deep disgust, receding from his face as he reached for the black Thagirion jacket Pantagruel held out to him. Starbursts of frost skittered across the lawn as Jerold’s feet hit the ground. Neither teacher nor Thagirion spared a look for the blackened meat trembling in the throes of agony that had been the werewolf.
“Well done, Lady of Ruin.” The words came in plums of white, his breath tearing at the air. “We welcome you back to the Thagirion. I hope you’ve learned where your loyalties are,” he said, laying the jacket in her arms.
Alexandra slipped away from Cesare, taking up a spot on Anastasia's left and one step behind. Following her example, he bracketed Anastasia between them, leaving the akatharton as the tip of the spear.
The arena held its breath as she held the Thagirion’s badge of office in her arms. With a whoosh of flame, the jacket disintegrated in an orgy of fire and blasting heat. Jerking back, Jerold’s face hardened with cold fury. “I know what’s important to me,” Anastasia said in the face of his deadly rage.
Stepping forward, Cesare draped the new jacket around Anastasia. Shrugging into the weight, she let it settle around her shoulders like the mantle of authority it was. Cesare’s eyes traced the scarlet flame dominating the back of the jacket. Done in faceted ruby threads, the solitary flame danced with a life of its own, cutting the light that dared to caress its hard edges.
The icy man’s eyes swept over the three of them, finally taking in their new jackets. Horrified understanding filled the man, control tearing under the rage that possessed him. Color fled his skin, leaving it white as a maggot’s belly. Milky, translucent hair broke out of the horrors ruthless control, growing to its shoulders and cascading down Jerold’s back and chest, strands dead straight and motionless.
Eyes of arctic blue crackled as a sheet of ice froze them, dulling them with winter's ruthless apathy. Lips pulled back in a snarl of jagged white teeth, a sharp hiss cut through Jerold’s lips, the sound of black ice creaking under you on a moonless night. His face warped into something primal and atavistic, starvation on a long night, the horror of things that walked the earth when death came cold and certain.
Rippling under its skin, muscles mounded, straining the seams of the perfectly tailored suit. Hands knotted with leathery tendons, delicate fingers thickening, clear claws sheared through flesh, frozen smears of blood streaking their length. The earth cracked as bitter cold sliced across the field, tendrils of frost spider webbing over the lawn in an expanding corona of chill death.
A rush of searing cold washed over the three as they stood in the face of the naked lethality of winter. Cold had owned the world long before meat crawled. Endlessly patient and supremely deadly, it waited for the time to reclaim its kingship over a sterile white earth. “I’ll kill you before I see you defile my school,” Jerold hissed.
“You will stop this unseemly behavior.” The rush of cold swirled, torn from the world by a force older than winter. Wind rushed in a vortex that ended at the Mistress, plucking at their coats and hair.
With a low whine, Jerold turned to the Mistress, hunching his shoulders in submission. The radiating cold streamed toward the Mistress in white tendrils, disappearing on touching the white sheath she called skin. Only Jerold’s lifeless hair remained untainted by the fey gravity well of the Mistress.
“They are a cancer eating at the foundations of Primrose! Better to cut it out now before it spreads,” Jerold snarled.
“I created this school. It is mine and no others. Know your place, Child of the North Wind.” Her tone carried no hint of anger or concern, only the throbbing hunger that never left, straining every syllable.
Shuddering, Jerold bowed, taking a careful step back. Turning away from the cruelly cold thing, the Mistress settled dead eyes on the three of them. “Explain yourself.”
This wasn’t his place, and Cesare knew it. If Anastasia was going to lead, she had to do it now. She had to face the most powerful thing in the school, right now, right here, in front of the entire student body.