Atticus was in the grimmest battle of his existence, but it was not against the titanic god of destruction. The white wolf spun about on the balls of his feet, wielding the long silver blade of a sword above his head. Amber eyes burned into Atticus, following his movements as the incubus shifted his weight painfully following the strike of the werewolf’s weapon.

Bleeding from more wounds than he could count, one of his wings bent unnaturally at his shoulder, Atticus snarled and whipped his tail behind him. Resilient though he was, Atticus was no warrior, at least not of the same caliber as the white wolf. If their bout lasted much longer, Atticus knew he would fall. 

Behind the poised werewolf and some distance off, the massive figure of Fenris twisted and writhed, locked in combat with the doomed heroes of Bain & Hoyle. Atticus cursed himself for allowing the traitorous werewolf to catch him off guard, and steal him away from aiding his comrades. 

In that brief moment of respite, as he stood bleeding, Atticus’ mind drifted to thoughts of his friends, and he hoped against hope that they were all still alive. A twinge of fear came to his heart as Siya’s angelic face blossomed into his mind. He thought he could feel her, like the sensation of a butterfly resting upon his skin, and he gained solace from that distant sense. It was enough to at least reassure him that the tiny vampire was still among the living. As if in cruel answer to his buoyant musings, a horrific hiss echoed from the direction of the god-wolf, shaking the earth and buffeting the clouds above. Atticus’ heart sank. 

[i]We are not meant to survive this,[/i] he thought, [i]how could we expect otherwise?[/i]

The werewolf chose that moment to charge. In an instant he was before Atticus, the sword swinging in a deadly arc for a strike across the demon’s chest. With a deft flick of his tail, Atticus barely managed to swat the blade aside, taking a unbalanced step back as he did so. 

Atticus' maneuver was rewarded with a slash of claws that opened his flesh at his left shoulder. A sharp cry of pain barked from Atticus' lungs, and he dove away from the werewolf as best he could. 

As he moved away, Atticus could swear he hear the werewolf laughing.