Gabriel returned his greeting courteously -if somewhat reluctantly- the man appearing more distracted than anything else. Semyon decided not to press, stepping back as Nestor spoke to him next, mulling over the man's question.

Would Bain and Hoyle come down to speak with them? It seemed odd they hadn't, especially considering what they were facing this time. Though perhaps if they were waiting for more to show up? Build up their force before holding a meeting? It sounded plausible, at least.

"You should have time to get some air." The Wight offered Gabriel a slight bow to accompany the words, hand moving to signal down a nearby hallway. "But if you want to stow your luggage, rooms are that way. Just pick one that looks empty."

Deciding to take his own advice, Semyon excused himself and headed down that very hall, walking a ways down before choosing a door. There was no sign anyone else had claimed it, and so he moved in, dropping his pack on the bed before opening it up once more. Carefully shifting it's contents around, he pulled out the ammo case stored within, and set to reloading the magazine he had expended earlier.

It would help to have a better idea of what they would be facing -had the other werewolf been mentioning that to Tamarind? He should have kept a better ear out. As it was, there was no telling if any 'specialized' rounds he chose would work.

There were other rounds that proved deadly to certain beings of the veiled world... but you had to be sure you were up against those beings. Silver was great if you were hunting werewolves, but you'll get laughed at by the Fae. Armor-piercing was about all you could use to bring down golems or other constructs, but most undead wouldn't even slow down from the neat little holes you punched through them. It became something of a chore to try and keep the proper rounds on hand for whatever may come up, and while Tamarind had the mind -and the gun- for that task, Semyon opted for a different route: 'Veiled World Special'.

Hollow points, with every third round an incendiary, were loaded in with careful hands. They might not prove fatal to whatever they faced, but if nothing else, Semyon would make sure that each pull of the trigger would not be ignored. Most beings had eyes, joints, or both, places any bullet could easily lodge itself. The brief skirmish against those constructs in the library had already shown that even regular rounds could be effective, but with Ragnarok now looming ahead, the insurance of a little extra firepower seemed a good idea.

It was while he was absorbed in those thoughts, silently preparing himself for the coming mission, that the Wight's phone began to quietly buzz within his coat. Setting down the magazine he had only just picked up, Semyon surrendered finally to its demands, flipping the phone open as he brought it up to his ear.

"Semyon Makarov here-"

"Makarov!" The voice on the other side was familiar, feminine, and in a hurry. "It's about time, we've been trying to reach you."

"Romanoff? You know I'm-"

"Yes I know, I know. But this is important, Mikhail found the Ranofsky's and-"

"Wait." Semyon's voice went cold, the Wight sitting, unmoving, a hollow point rolling out of his hand. "What do you mean, 'found'?"

"They've been missing for almost two months, Mikhail told you during the last mission."

"..."

"...He... Didn't, did he?"

"... ..."

"Gods..." He could almost hear her covering her face with her hand. "Alright, that doesn't matter right now. They're back, but they're going feral. I can't... I can slow it down, I AM slowing it down, but it's a losing fight."

"They're all going feral?"

"All the ones that were brought back... Ira and Mal were already gone."

Semyon dropped his head into his own hand, eyes closing as he sat there.

"Makarov?"

...

"...Semyon?"

"I'm... here."

"Mikhail mentioned something about books. He went to your place but said they weren't there, I'm guessing you have them with you?"

"Yes. I'm not leaving them behind."

"He thinks there's something in there that can help, if you can bring them back an-"

"No. I can't."

"You can't... Semyon, you're going to lose FOUR more Wights if you don't"

"I CAN'T." His voice grew hard, rising almost to a yell before he managed to reign himself in. "That... isn't an option, Islava."

"...The company mission is that important?"

"More than you think."

"Gods... Okay then." In an instant she was all business. Semyon mouthed a small blessing, finding some measure of strength in the sorceress' ability to remain calm. "So it's hailing with a chance of meteors, can you think of anything that can help? At least until we can get those books?"

"Find some needles."

"Needles? Wait, are you suggesting-"

"Yes." Composed once more, Semyon stood, tone calm. "Mikhail knows the tale better than the rest of us, and has done the most research into the matter. You might be able to keep them stable, or even help them recover completely."

"And otherwise...?"

"We end up back were we are now."

"Alright. Needles and chicken eggs. If I sent someone for the books, can you pass them on?"

"If there's time. I can leave them with Cornelius as well."

"That works, that works." Something like relief echoed in her voice. "Thank you, Semyon. Good luck."

"You too, stay safe."

Semyon hung up and stored his phone, calmly resisting the urge to simply throw it away. First Ragnarok was threatening everything, and now problems were rising on the home front as well. He had to stay here, nothing would matter if the world ended. But that thought really didn't help, not with anything.

Running a hand across his head for far too many times in one day, the Wight returned to his recently-claimed bed, and buried himself in the task of loading his magazines for the missions to come.

Daisy had never been one for sentiment -- or at least not that she let herself acknowledge -- but standing out alone on the pavilion outside the London branch, she could almost pretend the sound of Artie's nails on cobblestone was soothing. Or at least thought-provoking.

Granted, most of those thoughts were grim, bordering on hostile...but thoughts provoked they were nonetheless.

The Reaper knew full well what most of the B&H company thought of her. It came with being able to change her appearance like most people changed a pair of sunglasses. There was a reason -- there were myriad reasons, but only one really meant anything -- she opted to stay a sixteen-year-old girl. Daisy had no idea how old she was. Her memory didn't extend more than a few years back, and even then, 'years' was a broad estimate as a year in Death could be a second or a century in life. But things didn't change so much that she didn't know how little was expected of teenaged girls, worldwide. Particularly those with pink hair.

An arranged marriage here, a few hens and a cow there. A cheerleading scholarship, a night spent home with younger siblings. Countless Instagram'd selfies with the tag #nofilter. Things were easy, vapid living. No one expected depth of a sixteen-year-old girl. No one expected forethought or morality. Daisy's job was a basic as they come, and when you looked like she did, you could keep it that way. You never had to explain yourself, never had to correct mistakes. Never had to figure out how to fit "I'm sorry I killed your boyfriend" into 160 characters, because who even had a monthly text limit anymore, anyway?

No one asked Daisy hard questions, and no one bothered to look beyond perfect French manicures and bubblegum spirals. Well. No one but Veti. And it was hard to lie to Veti. But Veti had been preoccupied in the last year, anyway, so the danger there was mostly latent. No one ever made Daisy think about what she did, and no one made her take responsibility, and that was just how she fucking liked it, thank you very much.

And then one of those missing pieces, one of those moral gray areas she made it a priority to avoid just walked into the group and expected to be all cocktails and camaraderie. Not like there weren't other obnoxious cases in Bain and Hoyle. The whole damn company built their foundations, necessarily so, on 'things that annoyed Daisy'. Hell, even Veti and Siya offered up their own special brand of what-the-fuckery.

But the others were subtle about it. Werewolves could die. Vampires could die. Warlock, demons, even fucking soul-eaters could die.

The undead?

Daisy shuddered and sighed and raked a hand through her hair. The Ice Bitch had been wrong in that much. Daisy wasn't sure she'd suffer much whether the crazy spirit went to hell or straight the other way. It was the wight she was worried about...and the fact that he was completely remorseless was both horrifying and refreshing.

The fact that she felt cold standing near him was something else completely in and of itself.

On the ground, some twenty feet off, Artie had stopped twitching like a spastic squirrel and was sniffing the air in earnest. She watched him for a long moment, her mind wandering far away, wondering idly what would happen if she took him and left. Veti might be upset. But Veti would get over it. She had Thad back. And Tiny Vamp had turned Atticus into a jungle gym of sorts. She was pretty sure she could sneak out, collect whatever remained of her paycheck when they all came back dead or alive or somewhere in between and tut-tut all the way to the bank. If --

“Daisy, um…Hi. Seems like I missed a lot.”

Daisy started, then shut her eyes and exhaled.

Well. So much for later.

She turned and gave her vapid-in-arms compatriot an almost friendly smile. She liked Jay-Jay. She didn't take everything so fucking seriously as everyone else did. And she liked staring at Henry, too.

She just wasn't sure she'd cooled off enough to be friendly yet.

"Hi," she said dully, before turning back to look in front of her. Artie was still sniffing the air, but he was on all fours now. And bigger. Somewhere between a Great Dane and a bear.

Daisy rolled her eyes. For already being dead, her attention span wasn't half bad when compared to his.

"It's just Jay-Jay," she called. "Chill."

Artie didn't respond, didn't even look at her. But he growled, deep and low in his chest in a way that told Daisy without words:

No. It wasn't.

The light breeze that flowed from across the Thames was warm for this time of year, and as the moisture-laden air met the cool land, a thick bank of fog enveloped all of London. So thick was the low cloud that it obscured the quarter-moon to nothing more than a silvery smudge in the dark sky. The sounds of the city were as muffled as the lights, and at the long causeway that led to Bain & Hoyle Castle, it truly seemed as if the grand structure stood unaccompanied in the world, a lone and warmly glowing beacon in a night otherwise devoid of color and life.

At the end of the cobblestoned causeway, nearest the illustrious stairway to the main gate, stood the two red Oni that had guarded the castle for almost three centuries. The large and ominous crimson demons of Japanese lore sat on their heels, and rested without any real fatigue against the giant kanabō that each wielded.

Ever vigilant, though not overly perceptive, the two Oni peered into the fog with blank faces. They had no reason to suspect that their martial prowess would be needed this night, and thusly the appearance of a heavily cloaked figure slowly materializing out of the fog, caused them to flinch in surprise.

“Halt!” one of the giant demons bellowed in Japanese.

The pair of Oni rose off their heels, and stepped forward. The menacing clubs they held were now poised to strike. No matter if the figure understood the call to halt, the Oni’s body language was clear.

The figure stopped before them, some twenty paces away. With a manner that was utterly calm, the figure reached up to withdraw the large hood that obscured his head. The black eyes of the Oni narrowed as the warm light from the castle fell across the long muzzle and pointed ears of a werewolf.

“What is your business here?” the second Oni said. “Speak quickly.”

A long moment passed in silence. The Oni stared down at the werewolf, and observed that all of the fur upon his head was coated in a dark, blue-black powder. Even the slight amount of fur visible upon his hands was black, as if his entire body had been drenched in coal-dust. At last, the werewolf looked up to the Oni, and his lips parted with an answer.

“Salvation.”

The Oni had but only a brief second to comprehend the wolf’s words, when the creature exploded in their faces.

A bright light flashed from the werewolf’s chest, instantly accompanied by an expanding ball of white-hot energy that burst outward with astonishing force. The two Oni were knocked back, their weapons shooting free of their grasp, and the skin upon their bodies burning with a preternatural intensity.

The Oni cried out and screamed with a sense of pain that they had never known. The tongues of flame that danced across their skin did not cease until nothing was left but ash.

Where the werewolf had been, nothing tangible remained. Only a slight, wispy ball of energy persisted. It was the last vestiges of the werewolf’s soul, a soul that had been the very fuel for the mighty bomb that the martyred creature had just released upon the unsuspecting guardians of the castle.

From down the causeway, other figures were now materializing. Hundreds, thousands of werewolves, each drenched in black powder, and each ready to sacrifice their lives and very souls so that the walls of the castle would come crashing down around the heretics it protected.

Zakhar clacked his jaws together with anxious joy as the explosion from the causeway reached his ears, and shook his body. That was the signal. The attack had begun.

The white werewolf rose up, the Wraithcloth cloak cascading around him as he stood. The Reddick brothers rose with him wordlessly, and the trio scaled their way from the water’s edge to the root of the castle’s rear wall.

Zakhar paused there, his large clawed hands poised over the stone. He licked at his fangs, before at last pressing his hands firmly against the wall. When he was not immediately thrown backwards into the Thames, or instantly disintegrated, Zakhar let out a relieved breath. The hundreds of magical wards that had been meticulously placed upon them were working. At least for now.

His jaw clacked once more, and the wolf began to scale the rough-hewn stone blocks of the wall. The Reddick brothers, now confident in their own magical protection, followed suit. Above them, the keep rose. Its large and dominating half-circular window glowed like a welcoming beacon in the fog, and Zakhar could not repress a grim smile as his claws propelled him ever higher.

This was where the heretics and their undeserved prize resided. Zakhar could sense that much. The tooth of Fenris called out to him like a lost lamb, waiting to be plucked from the clutches of the sullied vermin that had claimed it as their own for thousands of years.

For several minutes the trio of wolves climbed. The sounds of battle and the quaking of the castle walls at their hands and feet sped their ascent, until they slipped unnoticed over the battlements.

Hidden by their powerful cloaks, Zakhar and the two brothers looked inward from their position at the giant window of the keep tower. Inside they could see the lackeys of Bain and Hoyle, the lot of them just now reacting to the chaos rippling from the front gate. In the midst of the great hall, Zakhar’s eyes landed upon the unmistakable figure of Aislinn Hoyle.

From beneath his cloak, Zakhar drew a menacing blade: a Cossack of Russian origin. The Reddick brothers drew their own weapons, and with a nod from Zakhar, they moved off towards the wings of the keep that housed the bedchambers and the private residences of Bain and Hoyle.

Zakhar, on the other hand, remained at the window. His intent was much more directly focused, and his desire for stealth was now ancillary to his purpose. Silently, he drew back his sword, directing the thick pommel towards a large pane of the window before him. With a final intake of breath, Zakhar swung mightily, striking the sword into the glass.

With a horrific crash the window exploded into millions of shards that cascaded like crystal rain into the great room. For those inside the keep that experienced the crash, there was no way for them to notice that among the flying shards that entered the room was a dealer of death bathed in a cape of magic, and wielding a conviction that was just as lethal.

The impact of the first explosion sent shockwaves through the keep, a foreboding whoomp that set every last one of the wolf's instincts on a razor's edge. Veti slipped from the confines of her lover's arms with a flicker of a glance to Henry and Aislinn, the only two left in the great room now.

"Definitely not one of Jay-Jay's fireworks displays over the Thames," she growled to Thad without the least touch of humor in her voice. "I hope you still have a trick or two tucked away in that brilliant mind, love... "

A flash of amber eyes signaled the arrival of her wolf, ivory fangs at least as long as a man's fingers lengthening like daggers in that lengthening ebony-lipped maw. Veti impatiently tore at the remnants of the dress and boots with her black-tipped claws, a thick pelt of crimson and gold all the covering she needed now. Thick cords of muscle rippled like scarlet water beneath her coat as the werewolf unfolded from her transformation - head to magnificent, lethal head with Aislinn Hoyle as she caught the elder wolf's gaze. Veti's long ears flattened back in alarm -

One of the enormous semi-circle windows shattered, glass cascading into the room like a lethal rain. The werewolf's knowledge of firearms and explosives was near encyclopedic - whatever the hell just happened, this was not the work of some shock wave, and yet? The sound of crackling, tinkling fall glass fell silent, and still she could sense nothing awry at all, not a single waft of a scent, or glimpse or whisper to explain what had happened.

Which only infuriated her all the more.

Veti snarled, lips pulled back over her fangs as the werewolf's amber eyes flitted here and there about them, cursing the inexplicable, her jaws snapping with a growing, impatient rage. She could smell a feint, could feel the pull of her instincts to dash toward the first explosion - but for the shattered glass window...

They were scattered, all her pack, to the four winds in this keep. She was trapped here as surely as in a hunter's snare, and her gut roiled at the very thought. Veti dared not leave, but could not know if all the ones she loved were aware of the danger - and her heart pounded in her chest at the thought any one of them would be caught unaware.

The werewolf lifted her muzzle, sniffing futilely at the air one last time before her lips pulled back over her fangs, the mane of crimson hackles raised from skull to tail as she called to them all, a challenge and a war cry, a series of deafening growls and bellowing howls that would have set a mere man fleeing in mortal terror.

Nestor had made it no more than halfway through his cigar when some commotion off to the side drew his attention; it might have been difficult to make out – such was the hour – but the Demonspawn's unnaturally bright eyes could make out the surprising entrance of the Yoni (Indeed, I'd become so accustomed to the creatures standing there some ways off, just around the bend from the portico I stood at, they may as well have been another pair of statues...)

Statues; Nestor eyed the nearest warily, as though half-expecting any one of them to suddenly step into life – and had only just begun to return his attention to the Yoni when an unannounced blast of some concussive force slams into him, lifts him bodily into the air and sends him catapulting toward the solid stone of the castle looming behind him.

A blinding light and splintering crack followed – and without warning I found myself flat against my back, pressed up against the wall; shattered bits of ice lay strewn at my feet, stone crumbled against my shoulders as I shifted -- I felt remarkably fit despite – apparently age-old reflexes had saved me the instant before death... I stooped down to pick up my cane (which had somehow survived – a bit nicked and scuffed now, but intact). Raising a hand to my head, I patted absently at my hair whilst wondering for a seeming age on the last images I had seen before momentarily... leaving... as it were. Not much like any concussion I had experienced in the past. I had time enough to ponder the grim realisation that I might simply be in shock, when quite without warning it hit me.

The werewolf. The strange cloak. The strange poweder. And with that the connection – of course! A Fission of Soul... but that had been banned by the first convention of the more 'modern' veiled world and the ban upheld by every convention since! I sprang into action; I could hear more now – the rustle and breathing of a few thousand creatures descending upon the castle from all sides. No doubt many – or perhaps even all! – of them bearing the same burden.

“Nothing for it!” Nestor remarks cheerily to himself, before leaping toward the walls, beginning a rapid ascent – not so fast as the invisible werewolf assassins, perhaps, but he moves with a practised ease all the same; ability clearly unnatural in form as he finally pulls himself up and over the rooftop parapet. I could sense nothing at that point – just the vague murmur of souls giving up their last breath below me, each newcomer delivering another stone-shattering -whump-, one that could be felt almost to knock me off my feet, should it catch me unawares. But I was running by then – running and still carrying the same train of thought:

The Reaper would really have something to be upset about now (Ice began to form again, growing, pulsing – I ran faster) – Hoarding souls for personal use... well, that was one thing. And so was dragging souls back from the edge of death to be re-lifed... or, whatever the hell it was had always managed to concoct wights... but just obliterating them entirely? Tearing little holes in the fabric between worlds with each blast? The former two were simply grey-area, the latter amounted to full-on warcrime (I come to a halt, skidding for several feet such is my rate, only slowing as the ice roots me firmly to the stone floor. I raise my cane – more for dramatic purpose than anything else... it seemed suitable at the time.... definitely not drunk. But perhaps a tad too tipsy for being reasonably expected to stave off suicidal-werewolf-bombers. The rolling clouds overhead intensify, little spots and splotches of hail and wet snow begin to whip down, borne on the strengthening wind.) I idly wondered if the Reaper even remembered the purge her kind had once carried out on the Demonspawn when we... no -they-... first tried it... couldn't entirely blame them... How old -was- she, anyway? It was always impossible to tell, with them – they wore their personality like some sort of cloak, deflection serving as their most effective (even if most transparent) defense. (The falling sleet and snow intensifies, little bits of ice mingling now, whipping down from above in a fury)

I would see if I could last a tad longer than the Yoni – with any luck – and at the very least it would give the others a little more precious time to mount an effective defense.

Or turn and run like hell, which was seeming all the more likely by the second.

All that aside, I really just wanted to see what new lighting storms Max had cooked up during his foray into the Reaper's World of the Unliving.

I gave a laugh at that, raised my arms and closed my eyes as I allowed the cold to descend over me. I knew full well I would not have had a chance in hell of fighting so many Werewolves single-handed (not at least under any circumstances I liked to think of...), not to mention seeming-zombified, exploding werewolves... but slow them I thought I could.

And with that the driving cold of the storm sweeps across the battlements – less effective, perhaps, against Werewolves than some more susceptible creatures – but it arrives with a swirling force of cold and wind to be reckoned with; ice and snow to melt and cling and freeze to fur, sheeting the ground in an instant, at times even shredding skin and fur alike with its force.

Nestor, meanwhile, remains entirely unaware to the goings on -inside- the keep.

The sudden, reverberating echoes of an explosion blew thoughts of anything but imminent danger from Semyon's mind. He shouldn't be hearing such sounds, not here. The keep was well-defended, the most secure safehouse of the company.

Yet it was under attack.

Swiftly loading his pistol once more, Semyon dropped the few magazines he had not managed to load with new rounds into his ammo box and packed it back into his bag. Prepped magazines were slipped into the ammo holster under his right shoulder and the interior pockets of his coat, before the duffel bag was slung over his shoulders and it's strap ripped tight. No risking it falling off or jostling now, the bag pinned his coat to his back, the Wight wasting on a couple seconds to ensure the strap would not get in the way should he need to reload.

That done, he broke into a sprint, slamming the door open and swinging his weapon up as he turned into the hall. No one greeted him, so he kept running, pounding down the hallway as his mind churned over what little information he had. Explosions and chaos, someone had breached the outer security, and so were likely well-prepared for an attack. His comrades were separated and unprepared, which meant ensuring their safety and gathering them together was the first priority. Tamarind, the older werewolf, Max -or Thadd- had been in the hall before, along with Nestor and Gabriel, and might still be there. They were first priority, then, once gathered they could move as a group to find the rest-

One of the grand windows shattered as Semyon entered the hall, causing him to take a sudden step back, gun and gaze snapping upwards.

Glass was all he saw, a grand shower coming down before him. He sidestepped away from the cascade, angling himself so his left shoulder was all-but brushing the nearby wall, allowing him to view almost the entire hall and those within. Pale eyes darted as he back-stepped along the wall, noting those comrades present while simultaneously scanning for anyone who might threaten them. No foe made an appearance, only the sudden, echoing roar of a newly-changed Tamarind. It was a sound that demanded his attention, and he found his own voice rising to follow in it's wake.

"Group up- Stay Grouped!"

He moved away from the wall, noting all who were near Tamarind. Max -or Thadd?- the older werewolf, as well as Henry Grimm were accounted for, a group already made and waiting. It gave Semyon a goal, and he aimed right for it.

His right hand was locked around his Stechkin, angling the weapon downwards slightly, but ready to raise it at the first sign it was needed. Empty, his left hand rested just in front of his chest in a loose fist, ready to lash out to grab, parry, or jab at an attacker. His legs continued to move, his eyes continuing to dart about, the tactics of combat now the sole thoughts one could find in his mind.

"You are all unharmed?" He gave a cursory glance over each, before returning his gaze to the area around. "Move as one. We should gather who we can first, better chance of defeating this attack."

Darkness lit ruby red, soft noises, animal sounds, flesh on flesh and hunger fit to pull down the heavens. It was all she knew just then, that room, the entirety of Atticus’ flesh, it was her whole world and it was not enough. She knew it would never be enough but she looked forward to several lifetimes of trying to sate herself on him. She was ripe with power, a whole bloodline’s worth and more. It made her tough, tougher than her small frame would indicate. She let him know this without words. She told him with action that he did not have to hold back, not with her, not ever.

Things were going splendidly, they were making good headway into a year apart, a year of unrelenting hunger and worry when her very world shook. For a second she was confused. Just what had shuddered? Her? No, they hadn’t been that far into things. It was then that she realized that it was the whole castle that seemed to shake. She paused, lifting her head from what she had been about and listened, catching the distant shattering of glass.

Glass, perhaps someone just knocked over a glass. She moved to stretch herself back along the length of delicious Incubus when a roar filled the night. A challenging, deafening roar. Veti.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, she thought to herself wanting to stomp her feet and throw a fit. They were so close, so very close. She was so damn hungry! The last garment had just fallen to the floor, things were just going to get interesting.

A string of words taught her by Max and Veti in the endless angry squabbles between the two slipped from her doll’s mouth in a torrent of fury. The invective, which was thorough and alarmingly creative was made bizarrely adorable coming from the tiny, enraged form.

She sat up, all fluid grace and fury and swung her bare legs over the sides of the bed, reaching for the nearest bit of clothing and pulling it on, it was Atticus shirt which covered all the pertinent bits. Her hair was a tousled mess and she looked like a debauched doll in the ruby light of his eyes.

“We should go.” She said, an adorable snarl in her words as she reached for the door handle, anger thickening her accent. “But we are not done.” She added admonishingly.

Something was going to die, spectacularly, messily. And if she had her way it was going to be by her bare… fucking… hands.

Archibald Bain-The Keep

The initial explosion that shook the castle pulled the ancient vampire Archibald Domitius Bain slowly from his vast armchair. With the reverberations still shaking their way up through his Berluti wingtip clad feet, Bain stalked his way slowly to a large armoire beside the four post bed. Flinging the heavy, hand-crafted wooden door open, he reached inside to withdraw a sword of a gleaming meticulous quality.

Even in the low light however, as Bain withdrew the weapon from its scabbard, the scrupulous care that had been bestowed upon the blade was offset by the hard use apparent in the deep nicks and dings upon the cutting edge. The sword traced its history to the first crusade of 1095, and Bain had been using to draw the blood of his enemies ever since. For the briefest of moments the vampire regarded the cold steel in his hands, and resolved that this night, this sword would be bathed in red.

With his mind hardened for combat, Bain marched from his room, and into the long hallway that connected Hoyle’s own room to his own, and the great room beyond. Hoyle, massive and grey in his lupine form, was just making his way out of his door. The two old friends met at the junction of the hallway that led out to the great room.

Hoyle spoke first, his mouth spitting out guttural words that Bain easily understood. “The Lupus Naturae, it has to be. We should…”

The werewolf’s words were cut off by a tremendous crash from the great room, followed quickly by the feral war cry of Victoria Blasko.

Bain and Hoyle’s eyes met, and in that instant, the vampire saw fear, outrage, and realization reflected in the amber irises of his most treasured friend in the whole of the world.

“The tooth!” Hoyle bellowed, “Aislinn has the tooth!”

With that, Hoyle charged out into the great room, and Bain was hot upon his heels. With his first glimpse of the destruction and chaos now enveloping the great room, Bain knew that the safety of the castle was now secondary to getting Aislinn Hoyle, along with the tooth of Fenris, as far away from here as possible. Hoyle’s recognition of the situation was spot on: the Lupus Naturae was here, and they were after more than just blood.

As Hoyle lumbered over to his sister, who had been knocked down by the torrent of falling glass, Bain skirted around the great room towards where the wight, Veti, Henry, the sorcerer, and a fae he did not recognize, had gathered. He carried his sword low, and his movements were fluid and quick. His dark eyes scanned about the room, his other senses reaching out for the source of the attack upon the keep. When his heightened eyesight and keen ears discovered nothing but the reverberating booms of explosions and death from the front gate, Bain’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Guard yourselves,” Bain said flatly to those in the great room. “We must get to the shade gates.”

---

Draveous-The Front Gates

Draveous, the Dragonkin leader of Bain & Hoyle Castle’s security forces, stood atop the battlements above the front gate resplendent in heavy plate. His reptilian features were set in an expression of keen awareness and fiery odium as he scanned the army of werewolves now swarming across the Thames. Around him, the rainbow of creatures that made up his command rushed about to their battle stations, already engaging the suicidal wolves as they rushed against the walls like dusty black waves.

They would not take this castle. Of that Draveous vowed with every ounce of his being. Though vastly outnumbered, the castle itself was not without its own surprises.

A nearby explosion forced the Dragonkin to take cover behind the battlement. He looked up in time to see the gaping hole that remained in the wall just thirty feet from where he knelt, as well as the burning bodies of those who had been manning that portion of the defenses. Their dying forms were covered in dancing flames that continued to consume them until nothing remained but ash. Draveous cursed. Even in spite of his conviction, he had to admit that if they did not act quickly, the day would be lost.

As he knelt, Draveous grasped the weapon that had been sitting at his feet. The matte black tool of death was cool and heavy to the touch, but the weight was no concern of the Dragonkin’s. With a mighty heave, Draveous lifted the M134 Minigun to his hip, and directed the six-barreled machine gun towards the onslaught of werewolves. From its upper receiver trailed a belt of ammunition, gleaming bright silver, which snaked up to a massive drum upon his back.

A snarl lifted Draveous’ lip, just as his clawed finger depressed the trigger. The barrels of the gun began to spin, slowly at first, and then rapidly, until at last a stream of fiery hot silver spat out like the breath of the Dragonkin’s forebears.

Wolves fell, buckled, shredded, and died beneath the withering rain of deadly precious metal. His focus, so singular was it upon his deadly task, that he didn’t notice the werewolf that clawed its way across the battlements towards him.

With the blaze of silver bullets still spewing forth, Draveous did feel an intense cold wash over him, and a tremendous howl of frigid wind drowned out even the roar of the minigun in his hands. So palpable was the cold that he released the trigger and turned.

Off to his left was the werewolf that had been approaching him. The creature was frozen to the stone of the wall, standing utterly still in a prison of blue. Draveous could make out that half of the werewolf’s body had been skinned to the bone, presumably by the icy wind that had passed over him just an instant ago.

Draveous turned to his right, and as he did he caught the eye of a demoness, bathed in icy splendor, and spouting a continuous stream of lethal unholy ice upon the attackers. For a brief moment he was transfixed by the demon, until with a triumphant snarl, Draveous raised the minigun in a battlefield salute, before he himself returned to his own death dealing.

Aislinn Hoyle-The Keep

Aislinn had just turned her head to the siren, her ears perked with curiosity at the knowledge spewing forth from the creature’s mouth, when the first explosion came. Dust shook from the vaulted ceiling, and as it rained down, Aislinn’s ears pinned back, and her hand reached to press against the tooth of Fenris. The object was stored in a small leather pouch held about her waist, and she felt its distinctive outline, she knew in her heart what was transpiring.

Her amber eyes flitted to the siren, then to Veti, and to a glamorous fae that was walking towards her. She opened her mouth to speak of what she knew was coming for them, when the glass behind her came crashing down.

The weight of thousands of falling shards of razor-sharp glass sent her sprawling to the floor, and she roared in pain as her flesh was pierced and cut. Fighting against her wounds, the old werewolf forced herself onto her hands and knees. The glass that was still cascading and flowing across the smooth wooden floor made her slip, her hands and feet becoming torn open as she moved, but she managed to keep her footing.

Aislinn looked over her shoulder towards the now gaping window. Her hackles raised in instinctive fury, the hair upon her back now matted with the blood from the countless small cuts. She heard Veti roar, and the sound sent another wave of hot adrenaline through her veins. When no attacker burst through the window to accompany the shattering of the glass, Aislinn growled and snapped her jaws.

It was then that Reginald Hoyle, her brother, skidded to a stop before her. His strong hands helped her fully to her feet, and his tongue licked once at her face. The gesture as much to ensure she was alright as it was for his own solace.

His eyes scanned the room, his ears twisting to and fro, searching for a sound that should have existed, but was conspicuously absent.

“We must go, now,” Hoyle growled. He licked at his fangs nervously.

Archibald Bain added his own voice, speaking about the need to reach the shade gates. Aislinn nodded, and began shuffling as fast as her shredded feet would allow towards the main entrance to the great room, and the bank of elevators there. Hoyle did his best to support his sister, pressing his massive shoulders beneath her arm to help push her along.

The pair of them made it some twenty paces when Hoyle roared in surprise and agony. Aislinn spun to her brother just as he fell, clutching at a large gash behind his knee.

Aislinn swung out with her claws, filling the air around where her brother had just been standing with fatal fury. She bellowed in anxious rage as her claws found nothing, and her jaws snapped over and over in fruitless anger.

She placed herself above her crippled brother, her feet almost slipping in the giant pool of blood that was forming beneath him. The severity of the wound could only mean one thing, and Hoyle voiced what his sister already surmised.

“Silver.”

Archibald Bain skidded to a halt beside both Hoyles, his sword now arched over his head in a high scorpion guard.

“Victoria,” the vampire yelled, “get Hoyle! The rest of you, fan out around Aislinn. We’re getting to those elevators now.”

Aislinn was almost frantic now as she looked down to her brother. She clutched at him, tears welling in her ancient eyes as he looked back up to her. There was no time, she knew for the greater good there could be no time. Archibald was pulling at her with all his might, almost carrying her away from Hoyle.

As she was half-drug away by Bain, the tears began to flow down her lupine face. The large droplets of water clouded her vision, and in that instant the image of her brother was blurred. Somehow, through the depths of her fear, rage, and despair, an idea burst into her mind. She pointed to the tall blond man that had been with Veti. Though she did not know him by name, she knew him to be a powerful wielder of magic.

“Rain!” Aislinn yelled to him, her voice pleading for him to understand as Bain drug her ever further from her brother. “Make it rain! The droplets…” she grunted, “…the rain will show…”

Her voice faltered with a horrific wet sound as she pitched forward, a broad slash opening across her stomach.

Jay-Jay

---

“Wow there, Chill Artie. Doncha remember me?” Jay-Jay was a little nervous at the sudden hostility of the hellhound. Much like Daisy, she confused the dog’s aggression as being directed at the demon-host, and as the dog became more…bear-like, she was suddenly scrambling to think of an appropriate spell from her repertoire.

Moments before she decided to find out if hellhounds worked the same as normal dogs, Artie’s aggression was made obvious when something exploded. Everything shook in the courtyard and Jay-Jay saw the very violent orange flash of a fireball engulfing the front gate. If she wasn’t so sure that danger was afoot, she would have made a joke about being blamed for this. Instead, she looked at Daisy and Artie with a look of concern. “We need to check that out. If anyone wants to be dealing with fireballs and explosions in our little party, it should probably be me.”

…Holy crap, the Munnin was rubbing off on her.

Not letting the moment of sensibility flee from her head, she reached into the pit of her magical reserves and plucked at another useful spell. Muttering something that to any untrained would be illegible jibberish, Jay-Jay sliced fingers through the air and for a minute, it seemed like nothing was happening: then, lots of things started happening, very suddenly.

Long dormant plant life came alive at the Sorcerer’s beck and call, and no sooner had she stopped chanting was a pathway to the castle’s ramparts opened: A staircase of plant-life, moved by the spell of Jay-Jay, was presented in front of the Fire demon’s host and the pink haired reaper who could. “So uh…I’m going to go and do the things. D’ya wanna come kick ass with me?” It seemed that the minute had roused more than just the pair outside. More explosions had erupted, and suddenly the sound of gunfire ripped through the night: lots and lots of gunfire at that. A long dormant twinkle of delight seemed to flash in Jay-Jay’s eyes.

Like a moth drawn to the flame, Jay-Jay moved up the stairs, half because she wanted to stop some fireball throwing dickhead from ruining a good party and half because someone was causing havoc with a big, heavy gun. If there was anything Jay-Jay appreciated more than a good bit of pyromania, it was gunplay.

…and baking, but now was hardly the time or the place for that.

Rushing up the Ivy-stairs two-at-a-time, Jay-Jay was atop the rampart and jogging towards the centre of the chaos. The sound of gunfire was a hell of a beacon, and suddenly Jay-Jay felt a chill growing in the air. Her breath froze up in front of her face, and the grumbling of an internal passenger resounded. “So that icy trollop is pulling her weight, is she?”

Jay-Jay reached the main scene of the carnage and was amazed by what she saw: A small handful of mythical legends holding off a hoard of…werewolves? What the crap had she missed since last time? To top that insanity off, a demonic ice-storm was raging through the ramparts, wind and chill and snow abound, raging through the London sky with the savagery that the Werewolf army could not hold a candle too.

She spotted the man with the minigun, and instantly felt a deep affection for him. How could you not like a behemoth of a man wielding a silver-spouting minigun?! The carnage was not what Jay-Jay had expected when she’d answered Atticus’ phonecall…They hadn’t even gone through a shade gate yet…And this was far less sexy than a Vampire murder-orgy nightclub.

Jay-Jay’s attention was drawn to a particular crater in the rampart, and the stench that emanated from it. It reeked of the usual stuff: sulphur and carbon and smoke and body, yet the last part of that concoction seemed horrifically stronger than it should be. The reek of burning body normally took a good dozen minutes to get that crispy. Jay-Jay knew fire, and that wasn’t normal.

“H’okay: We’ve got low numbers, unnatural fire and a crazy werewolf army. We might be in over our heads here.” Jay-Jay wasn’t sure what to do next, when the decision was made for her by the sight of a Werewolf stalking towards the MInigunner from behind. The beast was a good twenty feet back, but he was stalking, and the gunner wouldn’t hear him coming over the din of his weapon. The firehost was not the fastest spellcaster in most regards, as had been shown with the Ivy-stairs. It took her a minute to do a spell which should have taken a handful of seconds. She was still pretty new to this whole ‘multi-talented magus’ thing.

What she could do though, was fire.

It took her half a second to craft a spear of golden flame. There was no reason to mix in the little element of iron, except style points. It burned no hotter and it didn’t do anything fancy. It did, however, fly from Jay-Jay’s hand like a perfectly thrown javelin. The fiery projectile surged at the unsuspecting Werewolf and Jay-Jay waited for the satisfying little ‘thunk’ that came, followed by the si…

An explosion rocked from the Werewolf’s corpse. Black powder ignited by the spear of fire and forming a sizable crater behind the beast. The fire burned out quickly, without any fuel, but it had distracted the captain and left her with a dropped jaw.

“Um…That Werewolf exploded…” She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, and she hoped no one was actually paying attention to her. She was just glad she hadn’t waited a few seconds more to fire the fire, or the minigun-man would be toast.

Jay-Jay bit her bottom lip, as she had to rule out her greatest asset for any beasty on the wall. She couldn’t risk going nuts with fireballs, not with exploding werewolfs so close. If she could get to the edge of the ramparts though…To the Werewolf legion down below…

Jay-Jay reached for another spell, pulling at the only major offensive spell she had outside of fire and explosions. She tugged at the Aether and withdrew something from nothing. A Heckler and Cosh, loaded with silver bullets and ready to rumble. It would be her main form of defence on the wall: while she tried to make her way to the edge of the wall. She hoped that the Icy demon and the Dragon-guy could cover her ass when she got their though. Even she wasn’t stupid enough to throw fire willy-nilly at the army. The explosion would probably destroy the bridge, the front gate and anything in a good radius on the River Thames. That would have to be plan B then.

…What was Plan A?

”I’m starting to miss Oro-Mai already.”

“Nah, This’ll be fun!”

Jay-Jay started progressing forward: slowly. She was fighting wind and snow and keeping an extra careful eye out for Werewolves that might try and make a snack of a fire mage. Despite all this, she was smiling. It felt good to be in such a chaotic environment: especially since it was actually her doing it. The demon had taken over every time she’d gotten into trouble last time. Jay-Jay had been the sideline act.

Not this time. The firemage was going to steal the show. What better way to start than by scorching an entire werewolf army and saving a castle?

Shit. The rumbles of the walls,ceiling, the whole damn place could not be good. And then the crash. Like a shattering of an ice castle with almost terrifying musical shrills. It was expansively loud. Echoing with the vibration of destruction.Veti slipped from his arms like the breaks of the glass. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to let her go. They couldn't stay entwined and do whatever the hell it was they were going to have to do. Thad reacted by reaching toward the shattering glass. His arms free of what he wanted to hold he figured he would find what he didn't really want in his arms.

With his hands stretched out he gathered those pieces of glass as they flew all around. What breaks and cuts can break and cut right back. Using the energy that was so apparent all around the explosiveness of the crashing glass, the cause that did this damage lingered in the air like small particle of atoms. Tiny peices of power that Thad just pushed ,pulled , and shaped together. He made balls of that excessive force and broken glass.

Then came the howl. It was his wolf, his love that added the pain and the defence in the roaring call.There was warning and anguish in her cry. But there was also power. He felt everything quiver as she let loose her voice. Thad almost dropped all his shapes and ran to her. But he would not stand beside her empty handed. He moved with his tense almost exploding shards of glass and energy.

While others gathered around the old werewolf Veti was befriending, Thad was ready to throw his makeshift weapons back. But where? Who? He heard the words of Semyon. Sure sure, group. It wasn't like he was leaving Veti anyway. No way. He stayed by her as the others had joined; the boss men with their fierce and worried cries, their weapons and direction. It was only then, that Thad began to let some of his sharp infused explosions loose.

Not that it did much good because as they were moving wolf head boss screamed out in pain. Thad reacted by tossing some of his glass toward the area around the group. Something must be there. Close enough. And it wasn’t long until Thad heard them confirm….Silver.

He would find the silver. That would give him direction for his return shattered glass. Sodium Chloride. Thad spit on his hands quickly and rubbed the salt from his skin. As he did his glass weapons began to sputter about uncontrollably. Shit, shit, he had to stop. He gathered the now bright blue hot glass balls back.

But right as he was about to try again, salt make silver ions cloudy, he heard the packmate of Veti cry out for rain. Rain, salt rain. Yes.

Thad directed his cleverly designed glass infused power balls right to the liquor cabinet. One thing about this crowd old rubber duck knew was they could drink. So things were stocked and Thad would use every drop, every single mixed watered down known to man and those not, brought together for who know who. His constructs crashed into the bar, the punch bowl, the water cooler, even the fancy fountain that splashed some mixed blue shit. Thad gave his own roar, nothing like his love, but still his voice, and he threw his hands into the air. All the liquid rose. It hovered by the cracked ceiling and then exploded into a rain. Down came buckets of all kinds of chemical concoctions.

Thad rushed to Veti’s side as it rained. He reached again to the glass that scattered the floor and fought to find the energy that was fading away, to make a few more glass cutting power throwing forces just in case he could find that silver. Silver.

Atticus-The Keep

She was different, and remarkably so. The strength and pulsing lust that thrummed from her tiny figure like a struck harp chord rang against his body, telling him, demanding him to push to the very limit of his being. The inked demons, and angels alike, that littered his back writhed and bucked, yearning for the amorous duel that was about to transpire.

So singular was his infernal, carnal focus that Atticus did not comprehend the world beyond the body of Siya until the roar of a werewolf pierced through the hood of desire, and rang hollow in his ears. He dropped his hands from the vampire’s body, and let out a low growl of disbelief. Atticus’ mouth opened to let out a litany of curses, but he stopped as Siya summed up their combined angst with her own slew of dark oaths.

In lieu of dressing, Atticus merely refastened his jeans, and willed his body to transform into its true demonic embodiment. His skin bled into a burnt red, a long reptilian tale snaked from his lower back, bat-like wings split from his shoulders, and a pair of long, curling ram’s horns sprouted from above his burning eyes.

For the briefest of moments, he regarded Siya, standing there clothed in his shirt, her doll-like body slight, but somehow exuding a grim, deadly essence that brought a smile to his face. To her statement of things not being finished between them, his eyebrow raised in a silent gesture that said, Oh, we’re not even close.

With a nod of finality, Atticus shifted his manner fully to that of a man prepared to deliver souls to the very gates of Hades. He moved to the bedroom’s door and opened it to the hallway. The sounds of a strange cacophony of shouts, explosions, shattering glass, and cries of agony filled his ears.

“Shit.”

Atticus moved into the hallway, his wings tucked tightly against his body to allow him to move in the tighter confines. When he reached the entrance to the great room, what met him there defied belief.

He saw the riven window, glass shards strewn about the grand space in all directions. There were balls of energy flying and exploding in the air. His friends were there, all moving and reacting in a strange dance he could not yet comprehend. Aislinn Hoyle, who appeared either dead or unconscious, was being hauled bodily away from the crippled body of her brother by Archibald Bain, and on top of it all, it was…raining?

As he stood there, frozen with confusion, Bain caught him out of the corner of his eye.

“Assassins are amongst us! They’re cloaked somehow. We must get Aislinn to the shade gates. Nothing else matters.” The vampire called to Atticus and Siya, just as he swung his sword in a broad arc, the blade striking nothing but empty air.

Atticus heard Bain’s words, and leapt, his wings beating him upward into the high ceiling of the keep. With the rain that fell in torrential sheets trying to push him downwards, he circled as best he could, his eyes scanning the floor below.

For several moments he flew without success. The roar of the rain reverberated inside of the keep, and frustration built in his chest. With a beat of his wings he glanced over towards one of the massive fireplaces, now steaming and dark beneath the unnatural rain. Beside one of the stone statues that made up the hearth, a disturbance was visible in the falling drops. The unmistakable silhouette of a large, humanlike form shone in relief as the water pooled off the invisible figure, and bent the light around it.

“There!” Atticus bellowed, pointing with a red finger for all his compatriots to see.

Atticus didn't need to say it twice.

Semyon nodded towards the leaders of the company as they joined up with the group in the Hall, beginning to move with them when first Hoyle, then the other werewolf were suddenly injured. His gaze and gun spun around the area after each attack, frustration mounting as not a hint of their enemy presented itself. Powerful concealment and a silver blade, it didn't take long for the undead soldier to realize the two now-injured werewolves were likely the true targets of this assault.

As Bain pulled the gravely injured werewolf towards the shade gates, Semyon dropped down to the injured Hoyle while Max -Thadd?- set the room to raining. Tamarind was there, as Bain had called, but her eyes remained fixed in the older werewolf, not the one beside her. Understanding, he managed to catch her gaze, sparing a moment to gesture quickly towards the one she truly wished to help, nodding to let her know he would take care of things here. As she understood and set off, he moved slowly around his injured employer, scanning the area for any hint of a new assault, always ensuring he was leaning over the crippled man's exposed back.

Already scanning for disturbance as the 'rain' began to fall, Atticus' cry only sped up the inevitable. A quick glance above to the pointing demon, then darting down to lock upon the revealed assailant. Semyon's right hand snapped into aim while his left drew a second magazine from within his coat, and the his gun began to fire.

A sudden, rising roar tore itself from the barrel of his automatic pistol, the entire magazine running itself empty in mere seconds to pummel the area. Dust and smoke rose from where bullets had missed to strike the floor and walls, flashes of brilliant light sparking as incendiary erupted on impact. Semyon began reloading the moment his pistol clicked empty, pocketing the spent magazine and turning his attention to Hoyle below him.

"Sir. Sir we need to move." Crouching low by the werewolf's side, Semyon offered the man his shoulder, eyes looking out for any sign of their attacker. "Before he can hide again. We need to reach new ground."

His range of vision -as well as aim- would be limited as he tried to help Hoyle after Bain and the other, but he had comrades. Already that fact had allowed them to turn a disadvantage. So he chose the task he could best complete in this scenario, and hoped he had managed to at least slow their attacker down a bit, for his comrades to finish the job.

The whole world turned in a single moment.

Bain ordered her to Hoyle's side though she was already in motion, wrapping one powerful arm around the elder wolf's back, beneath the shoulder and pulling him upward. There wasn't time for words or niceties, only a few tentative, limping steps across the ruined, glass-strewn floor.

Silver. The dual scars on her back and her underbelly hissed with a phantom pain, remembered agony that burned like no other, she knew all too well. Yet even that pain was nothing compared to the horror on Aislinn's tear-soaked maw as the vampire all but dragged her away from her brother. Already bleeding from hundreds of little cuts - and now the cruelest of them all - Veti knew she could give precious little comfort, only the unseen, unspoken reassurance that her brother would not be abandoned.

Through her tears, Aislinn's attention turned to Thad, shouting to him for rain, rain to reveal the assassins - the very instant she was opened up by an invisible blade.

Semyon was already in motion, had been in motion from the moment he bolted back into the great room. The wight caught her gaze and he knew, the unspoken understanding passing between two soldiers as he took her place, some feet shorter but just as strong nonetheless.

Veti could barely bring herself to look to Reginald's stricken face, but she did. Yet again, Veti had no comfort to give, only steadfast resolve in her amber eyes, a tacit vow before she scrambled to Aislinn's side.

One black-tipped claw turned crimson as she reached beneath the wolf's belly, over the gaping wound as, tenderly as she might a child, Veti rolled Aislinn over. "Please, let me, Mr. Bain," she somehow managed to choke before she rose. One arm was wrapped surely about Aislinn's shoulders, her massive head cradled by Veti's hand to her thickly muscled chest. The other was wrapped about her back and haunches and lifted easily to the younger wolf's underbelly, her long legs and once-wagging tail hanging limply.

She had no shield for Aislinn but her arms, and a body as vulnerable to silver as any werewolf's, but Veti was not alone. The greatest strength of a wolf was always in her pack. The power that had first quickened the beast inside all those years ago thrummed through her body again, currents of sorcery wielded by her lover's deft hand coursing through her like furious rivers of fire and ice. Her brilliant lover, his mind the very match of hers, traveling alchemical and mathematical paths with a prodigious ease. Thad lifted his hands above his head with a cry that resonated to her bones, and conjured Aislinn's deluge. He was magnificent, and beautiful and by her side in an instant wielding a power that could still leave her breathless with awe.

The growl of Semyon's automatic pistol rumbled in her belly and, somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Atticus' triumphant shout over the torrent's sibilant hiss across marble and wood and leather. Siya would come, burning Siya of the shadows whose true depths she doubted anyone had yet seen.

Veti whined softly in the back of her throat, gently nuzzling the top of the old wolf's head where she lay in her arms, comfort and reassurance that might be futile as whistling in a wind storm, but it was all she had to give. Amber eyes snapped to the sword-wielding vampire once more, her own welling tears camouflaged beneath her lover's enchanted storm.

"Go. Please, lead us there Mr. Bain. Get us to the shade gates. I'll carry Aislinn."

Siya stood in the doorway clad in Atticus’ shirt and watched him change. She’d seen it before so long ago when they’d been fighting Decima but she’d not been so close physically or so emotionally invested. For a moment, just a moment because there were really more important things going on, she watched him. Tail, wings, horns sprouted from the body of her lover and she was certain he grew in that instant, though it might well have been simply his wings taking up space. She felt a flutter of something that wasn’t quite fear but was certainly related. Fear and something she could only name, excitement. Was it his incubus nature or something dark and unwholesome in her own nature? She supposed it didn’t matter. She grinned fiercely at his lifted eyebrow and wondered idly if he could make the transformation at will and just what that could mean.

Sounds of struggle from the main room pulled her back from fantasy into reality and she turned without pause and blurred. Fueled by yet another dose of Demon blood she felt like there was nothing she couldn’t do. Her small, shirt-clad form blurred until it seemed as if it were made of shadows. Her eyes, all over black seemed to be the only solid thing about her though she retained the same general dimensions. She streaked down the hall towards the chaos. Someone needed to die, she reminded herself, preferably whoever had interrupted what had promised to be a very good evening.

When they reached the great room they heard Mr. Bain call to them, speaking of Assassins and her heart froze. She swept her black gaze across the room, feeling weight lifting off of her when she laid eyes on first Veti and then Max. She felt the push of air that carried with it a scent of brimstone and something very male as Atticus pushed himself up to gain a better vantage.

“There!” he called out and her eyes followed where he pointed. She was fast, but the Wight was faster. He let loose a burst of fire that made the room ring with it and Siya’s grin broadened. She’d come to love gun’s under Veti’s tutelage and understood better now the friendship her Wolf-friend had shown this decisive man. But before the gun-fire had gone off she’d seen the way the water had slid over the figure. She didn’t know if he’d been caught in the fire, she didn’t care. Mr. Bain had said assassins not assassin, that meant there was more than one.

She cast her eyes about, looking past the chaos, into the shadows for more disturbances in the fall of the rain. She caught something out of the corner of her eyes. Simultaneously she felt as something, maybe, parted some shadows across the way. Like a cobweb across her skin it drew her focus like the petite Predator her lover sometimes called her. Her whole body stilled, gathered power and then streaked across the room in a blur of shadow. She did not put the lethal force into it she had when attacking the Nixie even though she felt enough power running through her that it would have been a small thing. She held herself back because she thought that someone might want answers. Also, she wanted to make sure that whoever it was understood just what it was they had done. I had been a year! A year since she’d has such a chance with Atticus and they had taken it from her. And hurt people, they had hurt people too, she added mentally as an afterthought.

Faster than thought she was slamming into a void, a void that was solidly muscled and furred. A void that was significantly larger than her. But momentum made up for much and the two of them slid back and slammed into the wall. There was a snarl of surprise that was cut off in alarm and pain. Siya grinned up at the figure, her fangs fully out, looking like a debauched doll as shadows melted off of her. Thad’s rain plastered her platinum curls against her forehead and her purloined shirt to her slender form.

Inside his chest her fingers slightly tightened on their grip around his heart sending a jolt of attention getting agony through him. It was a new trick, one she hadn’t had occasion to try. She let her dark satisfaction show as she grinned up at the sill hidden Assassin.

“Show yourself Cock-blocker or so help me I will make your end the very definition of Agony.”

She tightened her fingers just a hair and made a soft noise of satisfaction at his gasp of pain.

“I have one.” She called to friends and enemies alike. Let them come, she had plenty of tricks and more than enough blood to fuel it.

I found myself beginning to weigh my options; ice and gusts of snow swirled around me in a constant buffeting – to struggle at once to maintain the storm's ferocity, all whilst tempering the fury just enough to keep from doing more harm than good was beginning to wear on me. I had bought the castle's defenders maybe a little more time to gain their footing – and, indeed, the havoc wrought by a squad of minigun toting Drakes made my hail of ice pale a little in comparison to the storm of silver bullets.

I lowered my arms and began a few breathing exercises, eyes remaining closed as I grappled to control the weight that had pressed itself in from around me... it was enough. Victory in battle did not always win the war. I supposed I'd experienced enough of history to verify that. Not to mention the mindless assault of the castle gates was causing me to wonder whether I'd been nothing more than a pawn in a mere game of distraction.

I finally let go, turned and let the storm run out its course – it would rage on for a little while longer, but seemed unlikely to spiral out of control if left untended. My senses began to return... cold... as if I had been dropped into a bath all of ice without warning, and the sudden shock snaps me back to the present just as surely as it sucks the wind from my lungs.

Nestor turns abruptly. He was only vaguely aware of having climbed so far, and it took several moments for the scattered pieces of what had just happened to assemble themselves. He shook his head. Frowned. Gazed down at the fresh layer of snow that had rendered the courtyard below a bizarre pile of misshapen lumps and hummocks leading all the way to the embattled gates and beyond. The frown deepened upon encountering the red... red... blood on the snow! With a silent cry the decision is made; one hand resting for an instant upon the icy parapet, the Demonspawn vaults the stonework and plummets to the balcony beneath.

A jarring impact follows, ice and stone groaning and shattering as Nestor lands directly in the centre of the snowy stonework; something in my mind twitches – thoughts run to one place, the raw reflexes of my own body directed in another. I float above the ground, only half-aware of my own actions. Interesting, I had apparently drawn my sword upon landing (Cliched but useful in a pinch; and besides – what was the purpose of a cane if there wasn't a sword in it?) – and while my mind was still struggling to piece out the puzzle of pawprints... very large pawprints... pattering about in the snow, then bounding – leaping toward me!-- my body sprang into motion. The laquered wood of the hollow cane clacked so hard I almost imagined it might have broken; then my blade leapt forth, the tip plunging into the opening that instinct only told me was there. I hit empty air. Hear the rush of wind as the creature leaps past, metal snicking against metal as I displace my invisible opponent's offhand blow to my backside, whirl about and bring the edge slicing low even as the cane knocks aside another strike roaring in from the right. I graze something. A low growl follows, and a modest welling of red begins to seep through invisible fur, blood dripping – as it were – from mid-air.

But not enough. I have no time for this! Apparently neither does my invisible enemy; the footsteps retrace backward – toward the edge of the balcony – before vanishing over the rim. I wonder to myself how much time I will have, before the creature's next ambush – watch as I dart through the doorway and into the great hall beyond.

A scene of chaos greets Nestor the moment he steps in from the balcony; shouts, cries – a hail of rain inside the very hall... rain that begins to freeze, mingling now with snow in a slushy downpour that soon leaves the fine tiles carpeted in a puddling mess: blood mingles, here and there, and I have no time to discern from whom or where – only to dash across the slick floor, half-expecting at any moment to feel the stinging bite of a blade at my back. I note Siya, holding an unseen victim against the wall – one accounted for, at least, not that I have a clue as to how many there might actually be.

“Mind your back, Semyon!” Nestor calls out as he approaches, falling into position to cover the assisting Wight and wounded Werewolf; “I lost one outside... only pricked him well enough to see he was probably alive... wouldn't shock me in the least if he came back...” The sword is by now wreathed in a writhing, blue light – tendrils of crystalline veins stand out in the Demonspawn's exposed arms, his eyes nothing more than blazing pools of vivid blue – he glares toward the faltering shadows, blade shifting restlessly about in his hand, as though prepared for an unseen blow that might land at any moment.

And meanwhile, the storm I had left outside raged on – abated now, to a degree, but perhaps it was the constant -thud- of exploding souls that kept the weather from calming entirely. The cold lingered.

Days like this really, really, really made Daisy want to quit.

First, they'd made her visit a library, which was, okay, kind of cool, but not at all worth the effort for the surprise twist ending which still made her skin crawl. She was out one apartment and two roommates, and maybe two more snarky showdowns from killing that undead thing back in the B&H living room or parlor, or whatever insanely rich, insanely old people called it. She had literally just explained how uncool it was when people didn't put in what they took out -- such basic math: a soul for a life and vice versa -- and now?

Now, souls were popping like firecrackers soaked in propane, and it was just really fucking annoying.

For a long moment, Daisy had stood, entranced. There'd been a wave of heat -- intense heat for her to feel anything at all -- and a blinding light, and Artie had begun howling and barking and just generally losing his shit. A moment later, Jay-Jay was doing the same thing, and then she was gone, and Artie was growling in Daisy's face, just waiting for her to mount up, or whatever, so they could get the hell out of dodge.

Only Daisy wasn't really paying attention. Despite the explosions making the ground tremble beneath her feet, the chaos erupting on the grounds inside and out, she could focus only on one, tiny spot of cold. Not Floating Ice Bitch Cold. Not Fucking Wight Cold. Not even Death Is Coming Cold...but close. This was an inside kind of cold. That feeling you get when you realize you left the stove on back at home. The feeling you get when the doctor walks into the waiting room and she still hasn't met your eye.

Daisy shivered, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Castle Old and Creepy As Fuck was under attack.

Souls were dying.

It had taken Daisy, like any Reaper, all of a few trials to learn that souls didn't die. Souls were transferred, stretched, pulled, changed until you didn't know it from Adam, rare as that might be. Bodies died. People died. Werewolves, vampires, demon Vogue models, and fucking shitheads died, but souls were liquid intangible, as paradoxically tenacious as water. Souls went A to B, heaven to hell, life to Death and back around the other way, if you wanted to be a dick. But they didn't die. They weren't supposed to die.

And they were dying.

She'd felt it right away as fire and light raked over the statues and the castle and what had been a creeper stoner werewolf, that tiny pinprick of dread that normally meant someone was fucking shit up, tearing open portals where there weren't supposed to be any. But this dread quickly went deeper than that, bypassing the standard rage tube to settle in her stomach and balloon into something unfamiliar, and so cloying it was like a paralytic.

For a moment, Daisy stood, transfixed. And then somehow, without thinking, she was on the other side, tearing through the water to get to the new souls she saw pouring in -- only not in. They were wispy fragments of nothing floating, immaterial, over Death's waters, trapped between here and what was left of life, and Daisy suddenly realized what that feeling in her gut was.

Pity.

It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was wrong, she knew, and it totally made her look like a hypocrite. If the wight ever found out, he'd never shut up, and she'd be forced to punch his stupid face, and then where would they be?

But she wasn't really thinking about that. She'd left Artie crouched, frozen and angry, on the far side of the courtyard, guarding the portal back to life. And she'd gone on to the Thames and the wrong being done there, because if ever there was a time when two wrongs did make a right, or at least a 'decent', this was it.

Standing at the threshold of the chaos that was life, Daisy painted a small, ethereal figure at the water's edge, what most might have called a ghost. Almost all of the Bain and Hoyle Company would have been able to sense her, even if they couldn't see her. The wight might be able to pick her actual figure out. ThadMax, too. Jay-Jay and Nestor, if they looked through demonic eyes.

But the werewolves around her, the ones she was going to save, goddammit, they were oblivious, and she shuddered as wave after wave of heat and fire wafted over her form, expecting to be pulled to one side or the other with each explosion. Staying centered between Death and life wasn't easy, and shouldn't have even been possible, but Daisy wasn't one for petty details.

She was more focused on the fact that she was about to kill half a hundred pissy, kamikaze werewolves to save their stupid, werewolf-y lives.

Wherever Veti was, Daisy firmly felt her former roommate owed her, like, a dozen drinks after this.

The entire place was shaking. A cacaphony of explosions rocked them as the castles windows shattered inwards into deadly shrapnel. They were under attack, and henr had gotten his answer as to wether or not they were bold enough to assault the castle. They were. And they were going against every principle of masking their existence to the mortal realm while doing it. Henry wondered just how insane the wolves had become to risk evertything like this. Judging from the kami-kaze werewolves; they were the insane wolf posse now. Everything happened in quick succession. Invisible assassins used the chaos as a distraction in order to get to their target. Silver weapons cut both Hoyle and Aislinn and Henry grit his teeth as he by some miracle of reaction dodged a pair of nasty claws. Werewolves certainly seemed to heal fast when they weren't cut by silver, either that or it didn't care that i had been wounded. He had been certain that the beast attacking him had already been cut once but it was going for him like it had only been grazed.

Agile and strong, Henry was not just looks and a pretty voice but against the natural prowess of a trained werewolf killers he found himself a bit short. Then there was the fact that they were goddamn invisible, it certainly didn't help the siren one bit. Swiping claws and silver edged cutting implements sliced the air dangerously close to him again and again and it was a deadly dance between him and his attacker. But if it thought him a easy target, then he was sadly mistaken. Because unheard to werewolf, was the rhythm of his heart and it was beating steadily and calmly. Despite being pushed back Henry was in control of the pace, his moves as fluid as the water that made him. And the icy glare in his eyes told a story of its own. He had no intention of letting a bunch of flea bitten mongrels who willingly followed the Ice Queens commands get the better of him.

It dove against him. And if henry could have seen him, watery spectre aside, he might have been intimidated. The werewolf had his fangs bared and every bit of muscle played underneath the leathery skin as it apparently forgot itself in its need to rend flesh. However, the rain was aiding the Siren, and if something moved within water, rain or otherwise, it was a distinct disadvantage against Henry. The beastly creature bit air as the Siren almost used his face as a springboard to leap over him. Before the confused werewolf could react he was howling in pain as a small silver knife was lodged firmly into his eye. Henry grinned, in his pockets and hands he had a small arsenal of the fine silver knives and forks that the establishment had lying around.

“Oh dear, Cornelius is gonna kill me for using such lovely silver wares for such a lowly purpose.” He snarled as a silver fork jabbed into the snout of his attacker. He was dancing away from yet another swipe before the creature seemed to think better of it. Or so he thought.

“I think I got a plan Atticus. I can use my vo-” He started to speak only to get blindsided by the werewolf who had been smart enough to double around when he lowered his guard. Henry skidded across the wet floor from the sheer force of the tackle. If he had been human his ribs had been pulverised by now. Luckily, he was really difficult to kill. Slowly getting up to his feet he coughed and spat at the werewolf. It snarled in response. Silver wares were all fine and dandy, but clearly not enough to kill the damn thing.

“That's impolite. Allow me to return the favor.” He spoke, voice cold but his lips split into a horrendous looking smile. Then the Siren seemed to sing, but no word seemed to come out. But the wolf next to him covered and recoiled. “I guess the queen didn't get my message earlier. I will kill anyone who takes service under Ylva. Every. Single. One..” He was almost, almost getting ahead of himself when the werewolf doubled his efforts to kill his talkative opponent. This time he decided to cut. Henry hissed in pain but noted that they used a silver blade against him. As it were, it was far less painful then a regular blade. It seems the werewolf forgot only cold iron worked on him.

“Any time now Newcomer, Thad, anyone really.” Henry spoke, realizing that he could hold it back, but not really kill it. He wasn't Siya or Daisy. Without his weapon of choice his options were limited “I don't have my violin. So I can't really seem to kill him on my own.”