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She sags to the floor one last time, twitching and keening as the last drops of blood dribble onto the floor. Then she stops moving. This time, hopefully forever.
I WISH I had time to mourn Asha’s death, but I cannot risk any further delays, especially not since I do not know which way to go to reach Cor and the Norseman. Maybe I have hit my head once or twice too often, but nothing looks familiar anymore, and I have to turn around multiple times when I run into dead ends. Luckily, the building is not as sprawling as it could be, and there are very few choices left.
The path ahead is eerily still, with no sign of the previous chaos and violence that had filled the area. The only memorabilia left are the casualties. Bodies, both human and inhuman, lie scattered and broken, some reduced to mere pools of blood and charred remains, while others are nothing more than unrecognizable chunks of flesh and severed limbs. The upper levels and storage rooms seem to have been cleared out, leaving a quiet and empty space.
The stench of death and burnt flesh hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of smoke from earlier explosions. It's a sickeningly sweet combination that fills the nostrils and crawls down my throat. I try not to swallow too often as I charge down another hallway that looks vaguely familiar. Three doors lead away from it, all of them broken out of their hinges. Stairs lead up at the end, but I ignore them. Or try to, at least.
A trio of cultists in singed robes appear at the end of the hallway, stopping in their tracks when they notice my very much non-robed presence. I veer off with a curse and use the stairs as cover, barely dodging a sizzling, purple-ish lightning ball that roars down the hallway and makes my hair stand up with electricity.
I’ve only ever seen magic being cast once, and that was by a fire mage who showed us how to recognize the signs of magical fire instead of normal arson for a very specific case. He had to strain himself to produce balls of fire. These cultists throw magic projectiles like they won’t ever run out. Must be one damn strong pact with hell for them to draw this much power. Makes me wonder how they could have flown under the radar for so long.
I can hear them sneak closer, whispering to each other as they close in on my hiding spot on the stairs. Guess I’ll have to try my luck one level up, maybe find another way down or get to one of the balconies overlooking the main factory floor. Everything is better than facing three cultists with cuffed hands. Each step creaks under my weight, a treacherous symphony that announces my every move. I'm about as stealthy as a parade float here, but options are limited when it comes to survival tactics in my current state.
The cultists stomp after me, throwing another sizzling projectile of cold-hot energy after me and barely missing my head as I throw myself into the stairwell on top. And right at the feet of a towering woman with white-blond hair and a very big broad sword in her hands. A flash of recognition goes through both our faces before her attention snaps back to the cultists following me. There is no time for me to roll out of the way; she stomps onto my back as she draws her arms back, swinging the heavy, cruel looking weapon in a half circle towards the surprised cultists.
My ribs roar in pain, one of them cracking loudly as my body bears the full weight of the woman and her weapon. The sound of metal hitting and cutting meat and the clatter of falling bodies behind me lessens the torment in my chest somewhat. Cultist corpses tumble down the stairs as I roll around, coughing for air that won’t come.
The vampiress stares down at me, the tip of her sword clacking against the concrete floor next to my head as her lips twitch with contempt. ‟The Hunter in the flesh. And in such a predicament,” she smirks, but her mirth is short-lived. ‟If I had not seen your partner dragging you in here and selling you to us, I would kill you now,” she says coldly, then purses her lips. With a shake of her head, she sighs and reaches down to grab my arm, ignoring my grunt of pain as she pulls me to my feet.
‟Thanks,” I say breathlessly, careful not to breathe in too deep. Wouldn’t do for my broken rib to pierce my lung, just as things take a turn for the better. ‟You don’t happen to have a key for handcuffs, do you?”
Instead of answering, she grabs the cuffs and yanks hard enough to rip the skin off my wrists. The handcuffs break with a whining metal clink, chain links falling to the floor in a short-lived hail of iron. ‟There,” she grunts and shoulders her sword. ‟If you make me regret helping you, I will take my revenge, Hunter, or no Hunter.” And with those words, she fumbles at the small of her back and pulls a small gun. She hands it to me handle first and nudges her chin towards a door off to the side. ‟They are over there, being unreasonable. Try not to let my lord die.” Then she turns around and strides off purposefully, probably looking for more cultists to disembowel.
I stare after her for a few seconds before I check the gun for ammo and the safety switch. Time to save my vampire.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I FIND MYSELF on a catwalk that spans the length of the factory's main floor. Through gaps in the railing, I glimpse the battlefield below—broken machinery and shattered corpses mixed together a truly spectacular fashion.
The fighting is still ongoing, but to me, it is starting to look like the vampires are gaining the upper hand. From my vantage point up in the rafters, I can see slices and flashes of two blood-soaked figures whaling at each other, their supernatural speed drained from them by now. Biting my lip is all I can do to keep myself from yelling Cor’s name; the knowledge that he is still alive lifts a weight I didn’t even know was there off me.
Unfortunately, they are not alone down there: Half a dozen cultists are closing in on them, hidden from view by the machines and boxes strewn around the room. And no vampire goons around to stop them. Right, because this night just needed more of a horror show aesthetic. It's like the universe peeked into my brain, saw my worst nightmare, and said, ‘Hold my beer.’ At least they haven’t noticed me. Yet.
I press closer to the shadows, effectively blending in with the dust and spider webs that seam the catwalk. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my rib cage, each beat screaming at me to turn tail and run. But, you know, heroism, emotion, and stupidity. I will not use the L-word though, absolutely not. There is no L-anything anywhere around here, thank you very much.
Below, the cultists move with a kind of practiced precision that screams of years of practice. They fan out in a semicircle, trapping the two vampires who are too busy trying to rip each other's throats out to notice the new threat. I'm not one to place bets, especially not on a vampire-versus-cultist brawl—too many variables and my luck has been questionable at best lately. But if I had to guess, my money's on the vampires. They have the home field advantage, so to speak, given that they are absolute beasts and we're practically in their supernatural bastion of power.
The cultists are basically hoping to get lucky somehow, and risking everything on a thin layer of optimism and hope. Well, not somehow. Their plan was actually ingenious, or would have been if they had done more research on their bait.
This whole disaster poses an interesting possibility though: If I can get Cor away in time, the cultists might be able to kill Ove. Cor will then be free, and we will still destroy the cultists before the world gets a close-up view of what a demon looks like. The question is, how do I get Cor away without warning Ove as well?
When the cultists finally step out of their hiding spots—way too close to my vampire, but warning him would have only caused him harm—it doesn’t take the vampire opponents long to notice them. I step to the railing, ready to call out to Cor and get him to flee, but a dizzy spell makes me hesitate, and then it is already too late.
The moment Cor spots the cultists, he lets go of the bleeding heap of meat that is Egil and turns to face them. He steps between them and his tormentor, eyes blazing out of the blood-crusted, gash-covered mask that was once his face. The idiot is actually getting ready to fight the cultists, rather than let them kill his captor, tormentor, master. Talk about skewed priorities. And just when he was about to actually win the fight…
I can’t let this happen, not like this. I aim the gun at the cultist closest to Cor and shoot him, praying that the gun will shoot straight. It does, but I still just clip the man across the shoulder instead of killing him instantly. My vision gets blurry every few seconds, and my hand is going up and down when it should stay straight. It’s a wonder I hit the man at all, with how damaged my body is.
The second cultist goes down without as much trouble, and while I aim at the third one, Cor has already killed his own share of cultists. He doesn’t look up to see who is helping him, which is the smart thing to do.
And if I were paying more attention to my immediate surroundings as well, I would have noticed the man behind me a little earlier. Instead, he almost hacks off my hand with his machete as he tries to disarm me. The machete bites into my flesh and splits my ulna like it’s butter. I stumble back just in time to avoid losing the whole hand, the gun clattering to the ground as I hit the banister, trying to stop the spray of blood shooting out of my mangled wrist.
Arzel bares his teeth in anger, giving his face an even more skeletal look. He lifts the machete again as he runs, barely missing my head as I scramble backwards and fall to the ground. He charges after me, aiming for the upper part of my body as he brings down his weapon.
I do the only thing my instincts can come up with: I kick up, hard.
My boot meets his skull right under the jaw and snaps it back with a crack that makes me remember how my grandmother wrung a chicken’s neck once and made me hold it down. Arzel stumbles back with buckling knees and the machete falls to the floor, slicing my pants open at the upper thigh and giving me another razor-sharp cut before it tumbles off the catwalk, closely followed by Arzel’s still twitching body. I remember all too well how the chicken’s neck cracked when it broke. And I know without checking that Arzel won’t get up anymore.
I drag myself closer to the banister, clutching my bleeding arm in a steel grip. The wound is not fire-hosing the place with blood, which means he missed the major blood vessels by some miracle. I will survive. I’ll need surgery if I want to keep my hand, and soon, but at least I will make it to the hospital alive. So I am back to the big issue of Cor surviving the fight.
