And it’shungry.
Screams erupt around us like thunderclaps. The crowd turns into chaos. Children cry. Adults trip over hay bales and vendor carts, fleeing in all directions. Someone drops a tray of cider, the mugs shattering like bones. A mother screams for her son. A man pisses himself and doesn’t even stop running.
The creature lifts a hand—five too-long fingers tipped in claws like rebar—and swings.
A hayride cart flips. Metal screeches. Someone screams.
Enough.
I tear off the illusion.
The spell burns off me in a flash of heat and light. My skin darkens, thickens. My shoulders swell. My jaw cracks into its rightful shape, tusks bared and glistening. My chest plate slams into place from the ether, summoned by blood and will. My boots split as my feet return to form, claws gouging the dirt.
Someone screams louder at the sight of me.
But I’m not here for them.
I am the storm now.
“GET DOWN!” I bellow, voice like a warhorn.
The Vorfaluka’s heads snap toward me. Recognition lights its grotesque features. Its lower mouth—if it can be called that—spits bile onto the ground, which sizzles and smokes as it hits the grass.
Olivia’s voice crackles through the speakers. “METAL. NOW!”
The blues fades. The distortion thickens.
And then—metal.
Heavy. Relentless. A 12-bar rhythm born of violence and bad decisions.
The beast recoils, shrieking again, but not retreating. Not yet. It’s learned. It’s adapting.
“Come on, ugly,” I growl. “Let’s dance.”
I charge, spear in hand. The Spiritslayer hums like it’s been waiting for this, the green Khallumite tip glowing like a sun trapped in crystal. The sound of the crowd fades. All I hear is the music, my breath, and the wet snarl of the Vorfaluka as it meets me halfway.
We clash like titans.
It slashes. I parry. Sparks fly.
The beast’s skin is molting mid-fight, sloughing off like wet bandages, revealing tendons shot through with black fire. Its top head screeches ancient curses while the bottom mutters frantic gibberish. Both hate me.
Good.
I slam the butt of my spear into its chest and twist. The beast screeches and flails, stumbling back—but not down. Not yet. The music pulses louder, pushing it. Weakening it.
“KEEP THE MUSIC GOING!” I roar over my shoulder.
Olivia’s already working the AV board like it’s a weapon. Her fingers fly across dials and sliders, face tight with focus. Sweat glistens at her temples. She’s not just scared—she’s furious. And brave.
Booger appears beside her, dragging a propane tank.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yells.
“Improvising!”
He tosses her a lighter and starts dousing the perimeter of the dance floor with a trail of gasoline, looping it in a wide circle around the creature. Burnout appears behind him with two more tanks and a look on his face that saysthis is either gonna work or kill us all.
