Slashing with his claws and striking out with his fangs, he had the brown skinned man on the defensive. While he attacked, he willed his body to regenerate his sliced off fingers.
His body did no such thing.
Samuel’s attack faltered. His body wasn’t repairing itself from the wounds of the blade this man carried. Shock stole his momentum, and the man didn’t hesitate.
Slashing out with the blade, he cut across Samuel’s arm and leg, tearing scales and scoring bone. Samuel went again on the defensive, wishing he had his own sword with him to counter these attacks.
Again, he tried to will his body to respond, to fix the damage done to it, to no avail. Cold dread seeped into him. His attacker was unnaturally fast and wielded a weapon stunting his healing ability. If he didn’t drop this man soon, he might die.
The man jabbed at him with the blade and Samuel arched his body to the side, avoiding the attack. With his strike not meeting its mark, the man’s arm extended past Samuel and he brought his own arm down hard against it and was rewarded with an audible snap of bone.
The man cried out in pain but didn’t drop the weapon. Instead he rolled with the impact and spun his body around slamming his opposite elbow into Samuel’s head, knocking him back.
Samuel staggered a few steps and the man took advantage and moved the blade to his other hand, the other arm hanging limp and angled awkwardly, much to Samuel’s satisfaction.
His satisfaction was fleeting as the man spun the blade with his offhand, not seeming at all at a disadvantage using his left. Once again, his attacker moved on him and Samuel retreated.
As fast as Samuel was, he was on equal footing with the other man. The blade gave the man the advantage. Samuel’s natural weapon attacks were at risk of being turned against him by the blade. Every strike he made he risked having something amputated, and it made him wary and on the defensive.
Not where Samuel wanted to be. At this point, he hoped to at least delay the man long enough for one of the others to arrive and together they could finish this assassin. For what else could the man be? An assassin sent to kill Weres. Who else would wield a weapon like this?
The assassin caught Samuel’s glances at the doors behind him and must have realized his time was running out. If he meant to kill Samuel, he would have to do so quickly, or risk being trapped between two powerful Trues.
The man pressed his attack. The strikes were panicked now, quick and sloppy, and Samuel found them easier to counter. After effortlessly blocking one vicious strike toward his face, he managed to punch him hard in the chest, buckling the vest and shattering ribs. He staggered back, his breaths coming in pained gasps.
Samuel smiled. Now there was fear in the man’s eyes. As there should be. Samuel launched into a fierce attack. Slash, slash, slash, strike. The flurry of blows came quick and the assassin could barely get the blade up to block, or to move out of the way.
He backed away, closer to the doors he had strode through. Samuel began to wonder if he surrendered ground on purpose. Getting close to the doors so he could make his escape, realizing now he would be unable to finish off Samuel before help arrived.
Samuel was tempted to let him go. But if he did, the man would be back. He would strike out at them again when they least expected it, and with that blade he could kill any of them.
The man retreated farther, and Samuel continued to press the attack. The man made a lunge for him and Samuel backstepped, but it had been a feint. Instead he turned and made for the door.
Samuel spun and lashed out with his tail, sweeping the legs.
As if gifted with preternatural vision, the man jumped up and came down upon Samuel’s tail. The sudden tug, as the tail was yanked downward, sent Samuel stumbling forward, turning as he went.
As the man spun toward him, Samuel realized it had all been a ploy. The retreat, the attempt at an escape, all meant for Samuel to lash out again with his tail.
Before Samuel could stop his forward movement, the man, the assassin, struck. Extending his arm forward, he rammed his dark jade blade deep into Samuel’s chest.
In all of Samuel’s long years of life he had suffered many wounds. He was so in tune with his body. So familiar with every aspect of it, he had repaired almost everything at one point or another, so now, with every attack he felt precisely what damage it did.
So, when the blade pierced his heart, he felt every inch of it slide through his right atrium and ventricle. Could feel the organ flex once, bathing his chest cavity with blood. Blood meant to pass to his lungs.
There was pain. No. There was agony. Searing white hot pain lanced through not only his heart, but also his entire body.
With a roar, he slammed into the man with a powerful backswing of his arm, sending him flying through the doorway, the blade tearing its way back out of his body as the man refused to let it go.
Bones began to break all throughout his body, and he recognized the familiar sensation of his shift. A shift he had not initiated. His heart continued to coat his insides with blood.
With every ounce of his will he tried to heal his shredded heart.
Nothing.
He was fading fast. Returned to his human form, he felt frail. Weak. After all this time. Waiting so long for his mistress to return, only to die when she again walked this Earth. He dropped to his knees; head bowed.
For the first time in over a millennium, tears fell. He would not see Cirrus again. He had hoped. He had hoped that one day, when all this was over, he would be reunited with his son. Show him the world he had helped create. Help shape, with Kestrel.
He was not a sentimental man. And yet, he longed to hold his boy. Now that he thought about it, he had never embraced the boy. Not once. Never held him when he had skinned a knee or banged his head.
Cirrus had never truly known love. Samuel had never shown him any. He had never been a good father. Not even close. He had shown the boy how to survive in this world, but not how to care enough to try.
He hoped Cirrus would find someone to care for him one day. Care for him as Samuel should have done. He hoped Cirrus would never meet Kestrel. Would never experience this war or be forced to be a part of it.
He could feel his heart slowing, the blood which should have been returning to it no longer came. Thoughts began to turn sluggish, like being drunk or from a deep sleep.
He brought the image of Cirrus to his mind. His comely face and intense eyes. He focused on the image. Held it for as long as he could. Till it faded, as did Samuel.
Chapter Thirty-Two
With his arm and body extended to make the killing blow, Hector had no way to avoid the devastating backswing. He felt more ribs break and the pain, a ravaging fire all along his chest. The impact from the Weresnake’s arm sent him flying through the doors behind him and into the lobby.
The ground came up quickly to meet him and Hector found himself in a painful roll. He released the blade for fear he would stab himself, maybe kill himself as he rolled. The blade bounced and clanked across the tiles before disappearing behind a bank of cushioned chairs.
His body ached. Something had snapped in his leg when he had landed, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. He took a mental stock of his body. Ribs broken? Yep. Possible punctured lung? Judging from his labored breathing and pain in his chest. Check. Broken leg? Quite probably. He would have to take a better look at it to be sure.
He had other problems though.
His roll had taken him almost to the feet of the Wereboar who had made his way into the lobby. The beast was covered in blood. Red and dark black marred his coarse, bristling hair and he had a fevered look in his eyes as he stared down at Hector.
A sound from the hallway drew the beast’s attention away and Hector managed to look as well. His flight through the doors had knocked them off their hinges and they each lay broken to the sides of the doorway. Lying prone within, was the body of the former Weresnake, unmoving.
A low growl emanated from the Boar as he turned
his attention back down at Hector. Desperately, he tried to get to his feet, but the pain in his leg shot through him like lightning and he collapsed.
Large, beefy clawed hands grabbed him and lifted. As if Hector weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, the Boar raised Hector before him. The scent of blood and death wafted out from the creature’s mouth to set Hector’s stomach roiling.
“You killed Samuel?”
It seemed like more of a rhetorical question, so Hector didn’t try to answer. Though he wasn’t sure if he could talk right now anyway.
With a roar, the Boar threw Hector across the room. He slammed into a pillar, his body spinning from the impact. He landed behind a lounge sofa with a thud and all went black.
Samuel was dead. The idea barely registered in Blain’s mind. Samuel was dead. The man had been alive for millennia. Had survived the first war and countless other dangers, and yet, somehow, this ordinary man had killed him.
True, Blain had never cared for Samuel, but he had respected him. Respected his power and cunning. His ability to survive. Now. Now he was dead. One more True gone. With Shae’s supposed death, it left only Blain and Gordon to carry this war.
If things continued to go the way they were going, he wasn’t sure they could succeed. They would need to stay safe, and that wasn’t Blain’s way. He was a brawler. A knuckle to nose fighter. Not someone who hid in the back to keep safe. That was more Gordon’s way.
Speaking of which. Blain’s attention turned to the battle occurring outside. Gordon tore through those agents, but blood seeped from multiple gunshot wounds all over the Croc’s body.
Worse, there were more men coming. The only thing keeping Gordon from being lit up like a Christmas tree was being surrounded by friendlies. Once Gordon dispatched the last man closest to him, they would open fire on his fellow True.
He supposed he should help.
There was movement from where he had tossed the man who had killed Samuel. Surprise flitted across Blain’s face for a moment. He honestly didn’t think the man would get up after he had hit the pillar.
Blain moved to investigate.
He made it about halfway.
Leaping out from behind the sofa was not what Blain had expected. It was a large cat-like humanoid, tawny yellow in color with rosettes, rose-like markings spotting its body. White fur coated its front which could be seen through the ripped shirt and jeans.
Blain wasn’t sure what kind of Cat it was and didn’t have much time to contemplate it as it barreled into him, knocking him over. The Cat regained its feet long before Blain recovered and launched into a ferocious attack, raking, with sharp claws, the arm he raised to ward of the assault. Flesh and muscle parted, and pain lanced his arm.
With a lunge, Blain regained his feet, throwing a massive uppercut into the Cat’s jaw, knocking him up and back. Like some sort of Circe de Solei entertainer, the Cat twisted in the air and landed facing Blain.
With a fur covered arm, the Cat wiped the blood leaking from his mouth from Blain’s punch and growled. A low reverberation seeming to shake the air.
Blain brandished his tusks and readied himself.
With unbelievable speed, the Cat closed the distance, then darted right, broke left, before slashing out at Blain’s unprotected side as he had moved to block the attack from the right which no longer came.
Blain threw a back handed swipe the Cat ducked under. Jabbing out with its claws, the Cat buried them into Blain’s abdomen, slicing through thick muscle to wreak havoc on his insides. Blain felt the claws puncture his intestines and stomach, filling his insides with acid and waste.
Blain roared, spinning to pound down upon the back of the Cat, but it rolled out of his reach, taking with it a handful of flesh from his side. Willing his body to repair itself, it responded sluggishly. Slower than it ever had.
He grunted. He needed to end this. And quickly.
The Cat paced before him, looking for an opportunity to strike.
Blain charged him.
As he got closer, the Cat leaped Blain smiled. Seems like you cats are all alike. Blain managed to halt his momentum right under the leaping Cat. With nowhere to go, the Cat hung in the air above him. Blain reached up and grabbed the Cat’s legs and brought him down in a swinging arc. Hard.
Body and head slammed upon the tiles and the Cat grunted from the impact. Blain reached down and grabbed him by the head and lifted him up. Turning he strode to the wall. He would bash this Cat like he had the Weretiger not long ago.
With a mighty swing, he slammed the head against the wall, buckling the drywall and showering them both with white powdered dust. Blain pulled the body back to slam it again, but the Cat had other ideas. With a quick swipe, he dragged his talons across Blain’s face, tearing flesh and puncturing one eye.
Blain dropped the Cat with a growl, covering his face with his hand. Willing his eye to repair itself, he peered through his fingers with his undamaged eye, expecting to see the Cat launch another attack he would be woefully unprepared for.
The Cat was gone.
Blain dropped his hand and searched for any sign of the Cat. Nothing. There had been movement from the other side of the lobby by the now shattered front window, but whatever it had been, Blain hadn’t been able to get a decent enough look at it to discern if it had been the Cat, or someone else.
Blain stood there. Unmoving. His body slowly repairing itself. What the fuck just happened? He again surveyed the lobby again. No sign of the Cat anywhere, and honestly, Blain was happy for it. That Cat can fight! It was a powerful Were. Worse, it had killed Samuel while in human form.
Blain couldn’t ignore the fact his healing had been slowed, or at least, slower repairing the damage caused by this new Were. Kestrel would need to be told, and quickly, about this new threat.
Blain turned back toward the parking lot where Gordon hunkered down behind one of those black vans as bullets riddled it from the impending group of agents closing in.
Kestrel would have to wait. First, he needed to help Gordon dispatch this enemy. With a burst of speed, Blain launched himself through the broken window of the lobby and charged the nearest group. He couldn’t take out his anger on the Cat, but he sure as hell could on these men.
Daniel sat panting at the side of the hospital, fear causing him to sweat and his heart beat like a war drum in his chest. He waited, not sure what he would do if the Boar came around the corner and found him. He had risked everything darting into the lobby, but he believed it had been worth it.
When Shae had told him to leave her, willed him to leave her. He had no choice but to comply. So, he had left her with the other woman, and instead, followed the other Weres from her group as they battled.
From his vantage point, he had witnessed the death of the young Werebear. He had not only witnessed it but saw who had done it. With nowhere else to go, and nothing holding him there, he had followed the man.
It had been easy to do. The man seemed unaware of the possibility of someone following him and so took no precautions. Daniel had followed him to New York and again when he came to Texas.
When the man left his hotel this morning and came here, Daniel didn’t understand what to make of it. Daniel had sensed something was not right the moment he came into view of the object of the man’s attention.
The hospital sat lonely on the corner of the block. Signs were posted claiming the hospital was closed due to quarantine. Yet, there were no news crews on site. In fact, there was no one around at all. The entire block was quiet.
He had recognized the man who had been part of the battle in Chicago, get out of his car carrying coffee. The Werecroc, Daniel remembered, though he was in his human form. When he went down and the crack of the gunshot reached Daniel, it became clear why no one was about, and what was about to go down.
Black tinted vans raced toward the parking lot and dozens of armed agents flooded out the back doors and the siege of the hospital had begun. Daniel watched as the agents ignored
the fallen man, assuming him disabled from the gunshot wound to his head. Idiots.
Gas cannisters were fired into the hospitals. Also, idiotic. These men clearly had no idea what they were dealing with. Or at least, the extent of the danger. As the smoke from the cannisters began to dissipate, the agents rushed the hospital.
Shortly after, the killing began. Daniel watched as the fallen man had returned to his feet and shifted. There were no shots fired at the man, so Daniel could only assume the snipers had left their positions.
With amazement, Daniel watched the Werecroc overturn a van. If I had one of these to study. He shook his head. That life was over. He could never go back. Not now. He was tied to Shae. Controlled by Shae. She would never allow him to go back.
He disgusted himself. His . . . relationship with the girl left him with a mixture of anger, disgust, and dependency, and if he was being honest with himself, desire. She was barely into her teens. Not even a woman, and yet, she had used him. Sexually. And despite himself, he had enjoyed it.
When he wasn’t hating himself — or her, he found himself wanting her. Wanting her to . . . use him. Again. He would never try to be with her. Never initiate anything. That would be too sordid. But if she forced him again. If he had no say in the matter. Was he truly in the wrong?
He watched as the Croc emerged from the van after dispatching those left inside, Daniel presumed. With a leap, he began tearing apart the agents who had remained outside to form a perimeter around the entrance to the hospital.
Daniel caught movement and saw the man he had followed duck into the hospital. Keeping low, Daniel crossed the distance to the hospital, wondering when he might be sighted. Thankfully, he made it with no one calling out to him.
Resting against the outer wall of the hospital, Daniel peered into the lobby. The window had been shattered and despite the smoky haze from inside, Daniel could see without difficulty.
A sizable half-circle welcome desk sat at the middle of the back of this room between two double door exits. Next to the doorway on the right sat another door marked with a sign posted above it, designating it as the stairs. Right beside it, sat the elevator doors.
The Gathering Page 33