[IC] Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

[The New Yorker]

Semyon, the large man with the face of death, was quite pleasant. He told Gabriel where he might stow his luggage and maintained an air of civility and niceness. Suddenly Gabe felt a little underdressed, literally and figuratively, and without proper credentials. He brushed aside the insecure feelings and sent a “Goodbye,” after Semyon as he left the angels side. Nestor seemed nice enough, despite the vileness of his companion, one with uneased Gabe to no end. The thing quoted scripture, in an attempt to mock the angel, perhaps offend him. Offend in the sense of causing defense, she wanted to start something. The instant the thing spoke, it’s hissing and terrible reverberated voice splashing over Gabe like oil, the Archangel knew what kind of creature he was messing with. He brought his hand up to meet the grip of his pistol as the demon came face to face with him, it’s steel holiness calling out to meet the creatures end. Nestor said somethings that Gabe could hardly make out, he was drawn—no, more than that—captivated by the demon. Gabe allowed himself a breath of release as Nestor bid him farewell and walked off, the demon following behind. The angel realized his brow was heavily furrowed and calmed himself, he took another breath, this one directed, and lifted his bags, then turned to the hallway behind him.

Gabe stood before the wooden door unmoving, his luggage and bags were sat at his feet. It was now that the Angel started to question his choice of “necessities”. He had to haul the group of bags from the main room into the hallway where he stood just then, hand steadily on the doorknob. The angel opened the door and drug his bags into the room and off to the side, regretting the unpacking he’d have to do after the formalities. It was very difficult to understand why someone like Nestor would be associating with the likes of the being which was so clearly tethered to his form—though, to be fair, Gabe hardly knew Nestor. Gabe took the pistol from his holster and placed it on the dresser next to him, then looked into the mirror above it. He looked like he usually did, comfortable and witty. This was the image forced upon him by the cruel fates, and not something he would have chosen himself, because now he felt very uncomfortable and not very sharp in the least. Gabe then caught something out of the corner of his eye, a flashing. With the flash came a fwooshing sound. Gabe looked behind him to see a golden-colored trumpet sitting patiently on his bed. Gabe stood still for several moments, taking in the complicated scene. He knew not from where this came, and knew not how it got here, but he knew what it signaled. Gabe was God’s whistle-blower, and this was his whistle.

Gabe didn’t get much time to take in the scene, a tear fell from his eye and he thought of the implications of this, perhaps all of his blaspheming was forgiven; perhaps God simply did not care about Gabe’s action in the field. The slamming of brick against brick, the smashing of glass, it sounded throughout the castle with impunity, and it was constant. Gabe grabbed his pistol and flew from the room, wiping the tear from his cheek. Confusion swam through him like the waves of exhilaration from the trumpet. He looked over the scene of broken glass and blood and wondered what could possibly be the reason. He heard the announcement from the man on the precipice of the room and understood him to, perhaps, be one of the men who owned the company. Gabe eyed the ballroom floor, hoping to see the assailants for himself, and assist in any way he could. At the far end a man looked to be embattled. Gabe stepped forth, gun raised before him with resolve, and began sliding. He took that as a positive as he propelled himself forward by kicking with his other foot. He slid on the slick, glassy floor, and shot at the distorted figure before him. He could not be sure if any of the bullets hi his mark, but that would not stop him from shooting. Once the clip was empty—so roughly 15 bullets later—Gabe tossed the pistol into his holster.

He was upon the figure he understood to be a Werewolf, and realized he must act now, he could not stop himself from sliding. Gabe fell to his knees and drew his holy sword, it glistened as it’s ions picked up water from the floor as it traveled overhead. The sword found its mark in the wolf’s hind legs. Gabe slashed with all of his might and then slid along, passed the wolf and his opponent. Blood gushed from the wound onto the wet floor, Gabe was too busy looking at the crimson fountain to stop himself before he crashed into the bar. The Arch Angel couldn’t help but feel a little bit foolish. He stood himself up and looked at the group he understood to be B&H agents assorted at the other end of the room. Gabe had hardly noticed all the brilliant transformations. Gabe needed to accept that the visible wolfs could or could not be enemies, and relinquished that thought as he focused on seeing the invisible Werewolf somewhere in the grand room. Gabe grasped his sword with both hands and directed it’s perfect point toward what he knew to be the wolf. The angel pushed himself forward, like he would from the solid-soft surface of his home, and slid himself along the floor. He hoped that he’d crash into the werewolf from behind, his sword getting itself lodged somewhere in the slick-stiff mess of the wolfs stomach.

[DotCom]

Things were not great.

On the one hand, Daisy was convinced someone out there hated her more than the wight, her former personal trainer, and her dry cleaner put together. First ThadMax's problematic return, then the wight and his dumb face, and now an army of souls ripping holes in Death on their way to oblivion? There was no way it was mere coincidence. Daisy wasn't so arrogant as to assume she had anything at all to do with whatever reason Boss Man Werewolf had gotten them all together. But at this point, she was not going to be a gracious recipient if she was being Punk'd.

But it wasn't like she had any choice. Floating atop the Thames in a semicorporeal form, she could feel everything from all sides. The part of the Reaper that remained in the living was a little less invulnerable to the heat and flame that washed over her with each blast. It didn't hurt yet, but she definitely couldn't remain here forever without at least scoring a serious sun burn.

Still, even that was better than the pinpricks of stinging cold -- like she had become the victim of a My-Girl-esque death scene, where all the bees were also antarctic chimaeras. She felt one every time a werewolf soul was torn asunder by a blast she couldn't explain. She hadn't even known it was possible to just...erase souls like that. Somehow, even erasure would have been better. At least she could have pretend they were going to the right place. But this...watching thin wisps of what had been a real, living thing just crinkle and burn to nothing?

Daisy made a point to avoid feeling disgusted or bothered by anything, but that...that was wrong, and not just because it was breaking. The goddamn. Rules.

So, what choice had she had but to go after them? It was stupid and dangerous -- Artie was pissed. She could feel him straining at the end of the tether he provided, back where she'd left him on the far side of the keep, safe, she hoped, but semi-frozen, too. And it hurt. Ghosts haunted shit for a reason. No one, not even a Reaper, was meant to drift in this gray space between life and Death for long. She shouldn't have even been able to do it, let alone Reap souls from here.

But again. Villains. Heroics. No other options. Fucking Veti had taught her all that shit.

She trudged through the explosions, first "walking", then "running", then abandoning both when she realized both require some form of friction, and she really only had willpower. It still felt like too long before she reached the center of the action, and it was another long moment before she forgot to do anything but stare, horrified, transfixed, by the show of light and carnage.

There was a wolf approaching her, oblivious or uncaring, about the enter the Thames, about to wade across to this fucking huge office building and try and tear it down to...what? Hurt her friends? Scratch an itch? Did he -- or she, Daisy had never been able to tell, though she didn't share that with Veti -- realize what he was giving up? It was far, far more than his life.

Daisy decided to let him know.

She reached out a ghostly hand, and in the instant before he...exploded, she pushed, hard, and felt her fingers close around the familiar chill of a live soul. She yanked. The wolf dropped to the ground, unexploded, and his soul came roaring through with Daisy.

It was instantly clear he was not keen on the proffered favor.

The towering wolf rounded on the pink-haired Reaper, who stared back calmly, if a little impatient. Reaping souls that hadn't been Marked wasn't allowed, either...but she was pretty sure whoever was in charge would make an exception.

"What have you done?!" She couldn't tell if he was speaking a different language, or just growling kind of a lot.

Daisy sighed. "You're pissed, you're scared, I get it. You're also dead. But trust me, I did you a favor."

"How -- "

Daisy ignored him. Her hearing went funny for a second as she reached back through and grabbed another three wolves. On the Thames, three more bodies collapsed to be overrun by their uncaring brethren.

" -- happened?"

Daisy blinked, adjusting her footing as the wolves slowly realized their missions had gone awry, thanks to an American (ish?) teenager with hair the color of cotton candy.

"Can you all just...move? I can lead you on later, but now I need to save your friends."

One of the wolves snarled and lunged forward. "You will answer, child. I -- "

Daisy took a step back, and with a flick of her wrist bought the water swirling around furry ankles to the level of their chests. Even without knowing what it meant, they reacted appropriately. Confusion. Caution. Fear.

"You don't want to do that," she said. "I have a werewolf friend, and she is, like, crazy overprotective. Also, you're dead. So, whoever you were with before, I'm in charge now. Okay? Now, please be quiet so I can try and wrangle a few more of your buddies."

She turned away, letting the water drop back down to small eddies and whispers of Death. And then she paused.

"Wait, just so we're clear...who did send you guys out here?"

[AmongHeroes]

Zakhar-Near the Great Room

Zakhar watched with silent and persevering indignation as the Reddick brothers fought and died inside of the great hall. The rain had been an ingenious countermeasure to the Wraithcloth that had cloaked the wolves, and the combined might of Bain and Hoyle’s personal band of misfits was more formidable than Zakhar had imagined.

Still, even as one brother stood in death throes with his body riven by bullets, and his heart clutched in the fist of a vampire; and the other lay bleeding out onto the herringbone floor, cut, pierced, and shot in countless places, Zakhar still played with the upper hand.

In the initial chaos, the white-wolf had steered well clear of the Hoyle siblings, and had maneuvered into a position near the entrance of the keep. As Zakhar knew they would, once the fur starting flying and the intention of the attack became clear, Bain and Hoyle would herd their precious Aislinn with the tooth of Fenris in tow, towards the shade gates. That was where he had taken up station, well clear of the storm within the great room, and just before the exit to the promised escape path. The bumbling fools were dragging his quarry right to him.

Zakhar hefted his sword, feeling the balance for the thousandth time. He whispered a silent prayer to Mother Moon for the safe return of the Reddick brothers’ souls to their final destination. The two had served their purpose, and they had died a warrior’s death. Now all Zakhar had to do was assure their sacrifice, and all those that were giving their lives outside the castle walls even now, were not in vain.

---

Archibald Bain-The Keep

Bain allowed Victoria to take the gravely wounded Aislinn from him. Through the haze of the pouring rain, he could see the empathetic pain and worry in the crimson-haired werewolf’s eyes as she hefted the sister Hoyle upon her shoulders.

So much has gone awry. So many of our family are dying for a cause none of us yet comprehend. Bain reflected as he nodded his compliance with Victoria’s request to guide them to safety.

“This way,” Bain shouted above the din.

He struck out towards the vast hallway that marked the entrance to the great hall, and ultimately the keep. Just beyond a set of those doors lay their salvation, and Bain moved with a speed borne of necessity, not once looking back to see if Victoria and the others were following. He trusted them enough to know they would trail him.

As he passed beneath the stone archway, leaving the great room, he stopped to survey the space before him. It was dry, shielded from the rain in the great room, and lit warmly with many wall sconces that held flickering candles. Three sets of massive wooden doors branched off from the entryway, the first and centermost led to the main exit, and the elevators to the main floor of the castle. To the left was the doorway to Reginald Hoyle’s personal art gallery; and to the right was the exit to the room of the shades, and their ultimate salvation.

His keen senses perceived nothing out of the ordinary. Though he was very much aware that the absence of a disturbance had not assured safety, even just moments ago, the ancient vampire had nothing else to call upon at the moment to confirm his affirm his own observations. Time was of the essence, and Aislinn, along with the tooth, must be delivered to safety.

Bain turned back and waved to the group behind him. He pointed towards the doorway to the right.

“Through there, the shades are through there. Quickly now!”

---

Atticus-The Keep

Atticus watched as Semyon’s hail of gunfire pierced the flesh of the invisible form he had pointed to. Clouds of misty blood could be seen staining the rain, just before Siya slammed into the perforated werewolf, and added her own brand of unique pain to the creature’s violent demise.

With a tip of his wings, Atticus spun about in the air just in time to see a wolf, still half hidden beneath his magical wards, be impaled upon Gabriel’s angelic blade. From his vantage point, Atticus could see that the werewolf had suffered numerous cuts, stabs, and gunshot wounds, and he knew several of his friends had had a hand in dispatching the assassin. Blood pooled in a crimson puddle around the fallen body, the still torrential rain spattering the gore about the great room.

He heard Bain call out from beyond the entrance to the great hall, and Atticus knew despite their recent triumphs, they were still far from being out of harm’s way. Aislinn and her brother still needed to make it to the shade gates, not to mention the rest of the apparent assault needed to be rebuffed. Atticus didn’t know where Jay-Jay and Daisy were, but he prayed that wherever it was that they were giving the fucking werewolves all the hell they could muster.

Atticus let the air from beneath his wings, and swooped down to land beside Semyon, Nestor, and the broken figure of Reginald Hoyle. The incubus took a firm grip around Reginald’s shoulders, and hefted with all his might. Even in his demonic form, the werewolf was heavy and cumbersome, but he forced all his energy into the drag, and he made headway towards where Archibald Bain was standing.

“Semyon, Nestor, Max, Henry, fuck…anybody, can you see to his wounds?” Atticus indicated Reginald Hoyle, his teeth grinding with strain. “Siya, if you could end that worthless fucker’s life, and come help me, I could use it.”

[Igraine]

Veti moved swiftly behind Bain, letting the ancient vampire take point as she cradled Aislinn's body in her arms. She tried not to think too hard, of the warm stickiness that was spreading against her own belly. She tried so hard not to let the flickering of the candlelight on the walls give her false hope, the illusion she could see the rise and fall of breath in Aislinn's body. There was little she would not give, just to stop long enough to press the elder wolf's muzzle to the tender flesh of her neck, to see if she might yet feel the reassuring, steamy heat of a living breath, a single exhalation, however faint.

But there was not a moment to be wasted as she veered swiftly to the right at Bain's command. The lack of any sign of danger sat no better with the werewolf, than it did with the vampire. The coppery scent of blood and the musk of wet wolf pelt mingled just beneath the astringent smell of the conjured rain, the overpowering reek of alcohol and salt water and heaven only knew what else Thad had managed to pull into his working. But Veti could not tell, not even with her sensitive nose, where Aislinn's blood began and the would-be assassins' ended and, for all her exquisitely honed senses, she could not rid herself of the feeling that somehow, some way, she was running blind.

There wasn't even a moment's consideration for taking the elevators. Death traps - she would have to be out of her mind to step claw in one now. No, whether there might still be a Lupus Naturae assassin - or assassins - looking for an easy way to take out the majority of their team in one fell swoop; or whether one of a seemingly endless series of explosions without the keep finally brought these stone walls crashing down atop them? No, Veti would not make ending them all that easy.

"Thad," she growled softly to her lover, never once breaking her long-legged strides as she hurtled down the keep's stairwell to the room of the shade gates. "Love, keep us safe just a little longer. There's nothing to trust in nothing. Not 'til we see the other side of that gate."

Veti's long tongue lolled from her mouth, over the ivory rows of fangs. She remained hunched over Aislinn's body as she moved, her own flesh and pelt all the shield she had for the dear creature in her arms. Knowing just how thin and flawed that shield truly was, Veti whined softly in her throat, running her muzzle tenderly over the soft fur atop Aislinn Hoyle's head, a tentative, hopeful lap of her tongue over the elder wolf's still-closed eyes.

[Derren Krenshaw]

Semyon surrendered the burden of carrying Hoyle to Atticus and took guard once more, newfound freedom of movement allowing him to fully watch their backs as they moved towards the shade gates. His frowning visage deepened with every step, pale eyes straining to catch sight of a foe he wasn't sure they'd be able to see, especially as they moved out of the hall itself. The real risk was here now, on the way to the gates, if any of the assassins had managed to slip past before.

Unfortunately, it seemed he didn't have a way to really see if any had slipped past. They had taken out some in the hall, Nestor's 'rain' turning that short fight firmly in their favor. They wouldn't risk moving through it now, not if they still valued stealth, and it could be they had taken out all who had snuck in.

Not that he would relax his guard at the thought. No reason to invite disaster when it seemed plenty capable of coming along on its own.

At Atticus' words, Semyon ducked down by Hoyle's side as the demon dragged him along, eyeing his employer's wound. It was... bad. Probably. The fact it wasn't healing implied silver, and the wound itself rendered the leg all-but useless. It was a clean cut, though, which meant he could easily clean and stitch it back together. Hoyle probably wouldn't be able to walk even then, but at least Semyon could stop the man from bleeding and ease the pain a bit, given time.

But time was the problem. If they needed to reach the gates quickly, they couldn't afford to pause long enough for the Wight to tend to the wound. Such a pause would make them perfect targets as well... which led to the possibility of baiting an attack...

"Crippling wound. I can dress it when we stop." Back-stepping to stay alongside Atticus while still watching behind them, Semyon spared a moment to catch his eye as he spoke. "Unless someone else can tend him on the move, our options are limited."

[tirgesfu]

It rained and although Thad wasn’t sure, it might have helped. Siya got one and he was pretty sure the new guy, Henry and Semyon got in on the splashes of blood that mixed with the alcoholic drops. He didn’t stop to count how many. He gathered his leftover balls of broken glass and started to turn. Of course he would follow Veti, where the hell else would he be.

The fading energy balls he still held suddenly hissed and disappeared. All but one he managed to tuck inside his shirt for some reason. It was like they were white with sparks one second and the next black dark and gone. That puzzled Thad but not as much as the dread the ran from the tips of his outstretched ball controlling fingers all the way to his chest. Damn. Something was……

Inside Max shook. He felt the gates open, he saw the tree and he was sure something was reaching for him. Fuck. He saw Daisy. That pink haired little shit was playing around again and he could feel it. He wanted so badly to just swing that damn door shut . Why couldn’t she, that fuzzy fickle scythe bitch. The cold grip of those branches swung out to Max and he shivered inside Thad.

Thad dropped his hands. He needed Veti. And as if she knew she whispered to him. What did she say? Thad didn’t know and Max was too busy quaking. Thad shook his head sure that he needed to let loose of whatever was going on inside him. Not now. Not now, Max. Veti was leaving the room and Thad was damn sure he was going with her. Fuck Max. Fuck the dead.

Thad ran from the rain and down the hall as close to Veti and her new wounded clan mate. Someone was bleeding and he made sure his wishes were that it was not Veti. Daisy can not have his love, his girl, his life.

Love, she called him love and any fear that he had melted in her words. He had to keep her safe. Not really knowing what to do he pulled out the last fading glass ball and threw it ahead of them toward the gate. He had no idea why. In some way he was just dumping the thing sure that is was now useless. But it sparked and caught fire on something. Thad just wasn’t sure what.

[Lillian Thorne]

Siya stood before the werewolf whose heart she held in her tiny palm and glared viciously up at him. Her expression, though intended to be intimidating, never quite made it there since her doll like features did not lend themselves to that sort of thing. Neither did the fact that she was wearing a man’s shirt that was too large for her and buttoned incorrectly on top of that. While looked good on her, it did not make her something to be feared. But the hand around his heart made up for her lack of intimidation in other regards. So when she snarled at him to show himself, he clearly found it in his best interests to comply. She narrowed her eyes and nodded her head in approval when he lowered his head revealing a broad, crude wolf’s face lacking the grace and beauty of Veti’s wolfen form. She wondered if she saw fleas as she pinned him with her glare and waited for someone much better at this sort of thing to come and take over the interrogation. She had never engaged in such and moreover she was too frustrated to do more than snarl and lightly tighten her fingers periodically just to see him twitch. She wondered how it felt and might have asked despite her intention to let someone else grill him when Atticus’ voice called out for her to be done with him.

She pouted and shrugged her shoulders at her prisoner.

“You heard him.” She said apologetically and with no further ado, crushed his heart like a ripe tomato. His eyes flew wide and a wet noise burbled from his throat before he began to slump to the floor. She let him slide off her shadowy arm and when he was clear of it, thudding to the floor she opened her hand and let the dark wet mass fall to the floor with a plop. She regarded her hand, covered in rich, dark heart’s blood for a moment before lifting it to her delicate nose and sniffing it. It should have been delicious, it should have been a treat, but it wasn’t. It smelled wrong, flat and uninteresting. She wrinkled her little nose and bend to him, wiping her hand on the strange cloak that pooled around him, visible now that his life had fled him.

She took a moment to undo the clasp and then tug the strange slippery fabric out from under him with some soft grunts of effort. She was strong, stronger than she should be and coursing full of a fresh influx of demon blood but he was huge and it wasn’t an easy thing. She managed to not rip it and only curse a few more times before she freed it. Balling it up she trotted over to Atticus holding out the cloak for him.

“I brought you something.” She said as she stood next to him, slipping into the large, winged shadow he cast. She regarded those large leathery wings and fought the urge to caress them, thinks were entirely too critical for such frivolous thoughts, yet even so she found them drifting back into her head. She focused on her employer and Veti’s friend, Semyon who was not giving them welcome news at all.

“I can slow the bleeding.” She said wrinkling her nose not looking forward to having to comply with the offer. “It will help with his pain but I cannot do anything with the wound or stop the bleeding all together.”

She looked towards the others, hoping they had something better to offer than she.

[AmongHeroes]

Refaltus-The Causeway

Refaltus, like his brethren, was adorned in a heavy cloak and a thick dusting of fine black ash. Also like his pack-mates, Refaltus was prepared to give his life to bring down the walls of Bain & Hoyle Castle.

His pack, known in the mortal tongues as the First Devoted, had already fought and died bravely in this holy mission. Wave after wave had already crashed against the walls of the castle like mighty breakers, bringing rock and mortar down along with the defenders that fought to stop them. The dying fervor of each werewolf shone brightly in the night sky, burning in mighty bursts of ardent blue flame. All fueled by the souls gifted to die for the will of the Lupus Naturae, and the promised coming of the god-wolf.

For his part, Refaltus had not faltered as his brothers and sisters died in bloody droves before they were able to deliver their final gift upon the walls of the castle. All manner of weapon and magical armament had been brought to bear against the First Devoted. In truth only the sheer numbers and zealous resolve of the werewolves had allowed them to press the attack even this far. The causeway was now a highway of shattered wolf corpses, their gore making the cobblestones slick and treacherous.

Refaltus navigated amongst these bodies even now, trudging through the broken and destroyed figures of his pack-mates like so much mud. Somehow he had managed to get to within a dozen yards of the main gateway without being wounded, or adding his own body to the growing mountain of First Devoted. Around him, silver bullets, voracious hellfire, and the silent and drifting presence of what could only be described as Death incarnate, moved with swift and definitive deliverance from the realm of the living.

The young werewolf’s heart quickened, somehow even faster than it already sang within his coal-black chest. The massive, iron-barred archway of the main gate loomed before him. Even as the defenders still rained death down upon the causeway, none appeared to have noticed Refaltus. The shattered battlements above the gate were strangely devoid of any living soul. Refaltus did not smile at his good fortune. His long muzzle closed in a thin-lipped expression of utter and deadly resolve, and the werewolf pressed forward towards the gates with all the swiftness and poise of a man ready to die for his cause.

As the iron bars stood before him, Refaltus willed his soul to release itself, and fuel the destructive power that had been laid upon earlier that day. For a moment he felt the coming release, felt the first brittle brushes of paradise, when everything changed.

There was a shift in his vision. In fact, all his senses changed in dramatic fashion, and Refaltus found that what he had once perceived no longer existed. With eyes swimming in a vision he could not yet comprehend, he gazed upon a woman—no a girl—sporting bright pink curls and icy blue eyes.

Refaltus looked about, utterly confused. There was a dark coastline, with ethereal waters lapping the shoreline. There was the girl, standing there, seemingly yanking the souls of werewolves out of somewhere Refaltus could not see clearly.

Is this death? Is this the paradise I was promised? Refaltus thought with palpable dismay.

Then, the pink-haired girl spoke. Her words brought more confusion, but for some reason the question she posed compelled him to answer.

"Wait, just so we're clear...who did send you guys out here?"

“We are here to bring about a new world,” Refaltus replied, his voice filled with the conviction of a true believer. “The age of the god-wolf is yet to come, and we, the First Devoted, have been granted the gift of being the heralds for his coming.”

[DotCom]

Someone, somewhere was dying.

Granted, Daisy was standing/floating/haunting amidst waist-high piles of gores, blood, and fur. Half the fallen bodies strewn around her ethereal form had just recently died at her hand, something she was trying very hard to ignore just now. The rest were hurling them against the B&H castle walls, maybe taking a few more souls down with every blow. A lot of someones were dying a lot of places. Daisy was a Reaper who'd been ass deep in Death even before all the chaos had started. She was so accustomed to feeling souls snuff it, she could generally ignore it.

This soul was not like the others.

For one thing, it was not a sudden flare of light and pain and then a pull of cold nothing as the souls were obliterated by whatever magic had been laid upon them. This was the slow, inevitable crawl to Death everyone -- most everyone -- experienced at one time or another. But unlike the average human soul, this was no dull bundle of cool light. This soul was old and big, the sort of shit people would have used in conjunction with words like 'noble' or 'venerable' or 'gravitas', whatever the hell that meant.

Someone was dying inside the castle. Someone important.

For one stupid, embarrassing, annoying moment, Daisy's sort of heart was in her sort of chest. Her eyes flicked back to the castle and her soul began straining against the bonds of life and Death. Veti's name repeated in her head like a slowing heartbeat. Which was lame, because she maybe kind of sort of hated Veti or something. But she didn't want her to die, geez, she and Tiny Vamp had just spent an entire year pretending not to mind each other's sense of fashion to prevent that.

But no. No, Daisy knew what Veti-at-Death's-door felt like. She had eleven months worth of experience. This wasn't that. This was bigger, deeper, colder. Not as scary, maybe, but still some pretty real shit. And it occurred to her then she had no idea what was happening inside the castle. That was clearly were the werewolf bombs were trying to get. If things were bad out here --

Whatever she'd been about to decided suddenly fled as the newly dead werewolves -- the ones she'd managed to save, thank you very much -- suddenly realize they weren't so helpless as they thought.

She felt claws rake down her back like red hot pokers drawn through butter, and she hissed in pain. They'd attacked from Death, not life. They couldn't kill her -- not quickly, anyway -- but they weren't far from leaving those same ugly marks of decay all up and down her torso.

Daisy released her hold on life for just a second, letting the castle flicker out of view in favor of the gray waters of Death, where just now, easily half a dozen enraged, confused werewolves were beginning to realize they'd been cheated.

'Cheated.'

Daisy quickly put some space between herself and the snarling pack, hiding pain behind a mask of irritation.

"C'mon, guys, I feel like we just talked about this. You're on my home turf. You don't want to fuck with me."

"You have stolen the promise of glory from us!" one hissed, and his companions howled and snarled their assent. Daisy tapped the Scythe, still invisible, with her thumb. Just in case.

"Um, I stole oblivion from you," Daisy corrected impatiently. She still had to get back to the castle. She still had to rescue scores of yet un-oblivion'd wolves. And these newly dead ones were not helping. "I dunno who promised you what -- " she pointed at the wolf who'd given a useless answer, " -- thanks for the help, dude -- but it's not what you think. There's no paradise waiting on the other end of soul-based TNT. There's no nothing. Trust me. I'm doing you a favor."

The wolves snarled and moved closer. Daisy swore under her breath. None of them had been in Death long enough to be a real threat. But they could still pack a wallop. Or at the very least, call the wrong kind of attention. Her back still throbbed.

"Daisy, don't be a hero," she sang under her breath, just as the wolves lunged toward her as one.

She thrust the butt of the Scythe deep into the water, knocking all six wolves back onto their haunches. Fully four of them were swiftly carried away by the water, their howls of anger quickly turning to fear as they realized what was happening. The other two scrambled up and after Daisy, who was already making her way back toward Artie and away from the causeway.

She found him and pushed through the life without so much as a backward glance, though she could feel the heat of claw marks burning through the back of her Victoria's Secret Pink tracksuit.

Artie was on all fours, towering above her as the sound of distant explosions and gunfire slowly returned to her. He licked her face once, anxious, angry, and she reached up, panting, to pat his snout before hauling herself onto his back.

"Go find Veti," she breathed, wincing, and trying not to think of the wolves still dying for everything and nothing. "Hurry, Artie. Go."

[The New Yorker]

Tiny cracks, little rips, small tears. The Angel’s sword tore through the invisible werewolf with a hesitant heaving. It was hot with his blood and innards, and the area around him and the Angel smelled similarly. The heavenly sword crept from the gaping hole, blood collating toward the edge and dripping. A hefty weight splashed into the wet surface of the floor and sent little ripples around Gabe. The death caused beauty as the ripples sent the clear-crimson liquid cascading outward from where Gabe stood. The Angel, silently albeit annoyed, wiped the blood from his sword on his pant leg, hilariously unaware of the blood which was splayed across his face and which stained his shirt and shoulder.

This invisible canine, whose figure was now clearer, was one of the first souls Gabe has taken since his time on earth began. It was an inescapable, yet ineffable, feeling of power and resentment which filled him now. The resentment lied within him, and was fueled by him. The snuffing of a life, causing death, was something so divine that Gabe, the human, could not help but feel a little like God. Gabe could feel the fear in him welling up like a dry air, it brushed his neck and kissed his cheeks and begged for a place in his heart. Instead guilt pushed that back and forced Gabe to take hold of the situation, he’d need to call Dr. Wilde to sort out these newfound issues.

Gabriel looked around the room and took stock. Everyone seemed to be moving toward the shade gates, from where Gabe had just come but a few minutes before. The people to whom the titular B and H belonged came and went like so many phrases of the alphabet. Everyone was a little worked up, to say the least. Gabe made his way back to his room, jogging, to retrieve his other pistol. Gabe wasn’t sure what to make of this current situation, everything seemed to be going straight into the shitter and Gabe couldn’t tell why. He’d just signed his gun and life over to this organization and they were sure about to get their money’s worth (though they still hadn’t paid him and he wasn’t even sure if they would).

“Fucking werewolves.” Gabe sighed as he opened the door to his room once more. The trumpet was still lying on his bed, the golden surface of it shining like the light of His Majesty. Gabe holstered his other gun, reloaded the empty one, all the while he stared at the gift from god. Why here? Why now? Should he blow it? Gabe answered the last question for himself, no. Gabe knew what the reckoning looked like, as if in a distant memory, and he knew there to be no kamikaze werewolves involved. He extended his hand toward the heavenly brass, but stopped before they touched. The glow from the instrument projected onto Gabe’s eyes and was reflected therein.

An instant later Gabe was out the door and down the hall, grouping back up with Semyon, the only man he could say he knew (though even saying that might be a stretch). His pistols were holstered one at his waist and the other around his leg. His sword was held with a weighted readiness in his right hand. His left came up to wipe some sweat and managed to smear the stain he did not know was there. Gabe sidled up beside the large dead-man and looked around, seeing several wounded individuals, the Angel was lucky to be intact it seemed. Unfortunately the Angel had no powers he could think of that would help the injured parties, in fact, Gabe wasn’t sure he had any powers to speak of at all. “Semyon,” he started easily “where am I needed?” he asked, hoping to be of some use.

[AmongHeroes]

Atticus-Entrance to the Great Hall

Atticus grunted as he pulled Reginald from the great hall and into the entryway. He released one of his hands from the werewolf’s shoulder to take the wad of strange cloth that Siya held out before him. The fabric was rough, but somehow also slick and wet feeling, like the skin of a snake. Knowing that it was valuable, but unable to think upon the import of the object at the moment, Atticus draped it over one shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said to Siya, punctuating the word with another grunt of exertion.

Atticus looked over his own shoulder to see Veti, still clutching Aislinn closely to her chest, move towards the doorway that led to the stairwell. He saw Archibald Bain and Thad accompanying her as she disappeared into the darkness. Veti’s long stride and muscular form was moving quickly, even with the burdensome body of Hoyle’s sister. Atticus and the others with him were falling behind.

Atticus swore. The building shook with ever increasing ferocity, and the direness of Reginald’s wound was confirmed by Semyon’s inspection. Their only chance was to reach the shade gates, and to do it without delay.

“We can’t stop Semyon,” he called to the Wight, “and Siya, please do what you can. Whatever you have to do, Reginald cannot die. Not like this. Anything any of you can do, we can’t lose him.”

As he finished speaking, Atticus gave a mighty heave, and pulled Reginald up and around until the werewolf’s body was lying across his broad, red back. Using some infernal source of strength he did not fully comprehend, Atticus pressed forward towards the stairwell, trying desperately to catch back up to Veti, Thad, Bain and Aislinn. Using his wings to balance, he bounded down the steps as fast as his legs would carry him.

Of those that followed in his wake, Atticus could not account for them. The strain upon his body was massive, and it took every ounce of focus he possessed to simply keep his muscles from buckling under the bulk of the injured Reginald Hoyle. In a fog he descended ever downward, spiraling along the steps with each passing floor a blur.

When at last they reached the basement, Atticus nearly collapsed. His wings drug upon the stone of the floor like wilted flower petals, and Reginald rolled from his back with a groan of pain. In the low light of the basement, Atticus could just make out the ghostly figures of the shades drifting amongst them. Bain, Veti, and Thad were just ahead, moving towards an open gate. Bain was calling out to the creature that had created the portal, but of what he said, Atticus could not hear.

The incubus turned and gripped Reginald about the shoulders, his large hands barely able to hold on after his exhausting descent.

“Help me,” he said to those with him, “we’ve got to get to that gate.”

---

Zakhar-The Basement

The white-wolf watched from the shroud of the Wraithcloth, his focus a hum of electric noise between his ears. Before him, the crimson-haired wolf clutched Aislinn Hoyle to her chest, shielding the elder wolf’s body as the little band advanced towards the now opened shade gate.

It was time to strike.

Zakhar moved from his position beside the gate, his strides long, silent, and powerful. The Cossack was drawn back across his body, poised to strike with its deadly silver-plated blade. As he moved forward, the taste of the coming kill fresh upon his lips, Zakhar’s eyes widened in sudden surprise.

With astounding deftness, Zakhar shifted his momentum downwards, skidding along the stone floor as a ball of fire and glass exploded above him. His arms instinctively raised to shield his head, just as the shrapnel from the warlock’s attack thundered into his flesh. Zakhar roared with pain, and the Wraithcloth cloak that shrouded him was torn to shreds as it took the brunt of the power from the magical assault.

Now plainly visible, and in extreme pain, only Zakhar’s relentless training and martial prowess allowed him to continue forward. Coming up from his crouch, Zakhar leapt towards his target, the force of his movement spraying his own blood across the room as he moved. Bringing the sword up as he skidded beneath the figure of Aislinn and the werewolf that bore her in her arms, Zakhar stabbed with all the strength he possessed.

The blade of the Cossack slid with a sickening ease into the Hoyle sister’s back, and Zakhar could feel her spine severing as it moved ever upward, and into the chest of the crimson wolf.

Time slowed, and in that moment Zakhar had a vision of clarity unlike any he had ever experienced. He felt Aislinn’s lifeforce drain from her body. He saw the eyes of the crimson wolf, the heretic, the cur recoil in shock and pain. He felt pleasure.

Overcome with his emotion, the assassin reached up to pluck the pouch from about Aislinn’s waist, and as he did he brought his wolfen lips to the ear of the crimson wolf.

“The kiss of Luna*,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping malice, “is the most fitting of deaths for those whose very blood betrays their right to exist.”

Zakhar pulled his sword free and bounded backwards. In his hand he clutched the pouch, and inside the pouch was the Solas na gealaí—the tooth of Fenris—and the key to the god-wolf’s ultimate release.

With a final snap of his jaws, Zakhar spun upon his heels, and leapt headlong into the open shade gate.

* * * * * * * * *

*-Luna is an old Alchemy term for silver. Veti would know this, and understand Zakhar's meaning.

[LimeyPanda]

Jay-Jay

The carnage of the rooftop was made all the more compounded by the threat of lycanthropic explosives. It was one thing to be dealing with werewolves who explode: but another thing entirely to have werewolves that explode at the mere tickle of an open flame; especially when you happen to be a mage who specialises in fire and who hosts a demon that is on fire and you happen to like fire and…

…why did they have to be weak to fire?

So instead of being able to dispose of the werewolves in a dazzling display of pyrotechnics and immolating incantations: Jay-Jay was reduced to guns. It was a useful fall back plan, but in the veiled world, where vampires and demons and werewolves (oh my!) rule the night, why did the newly self-anointed patron saint of fiery bad-assery get reduced to gun play?

Not that the guns were failing, of course. Especially in the hands of the mystery mini-gun totting maestro that was Draveous. Jay-Jay had made her way in the hopes of linking with the dragonkin fella. He looked fun, to be honest: and he was an obvious ally in a storm of enemies.

Looking around the ramparts of the castle, she noticed that the coast seemed relatively clear. Draveous had moved over to the edge of the roof and was firing into the werewolves below: and Jay-Jay used it as her opportunity to advance. She looked over at the dragonkin, hoping she might think of something funny or interesting to say. Instead, she shrugged and began to pick out targets. Stragglers or sneaky sods who thought they might get a one way ticket to wherever the fuck they thought they’d get out of this assault. Honestly, did someone promise all these guys a bunch of werewolf virgins or some shit?

…That was the joke she could have made.

Jay-Jay sighed as her fingers flared into motion. She’d make small talk with the dragon-ee-badass later. For now, she was going to play at the whole ‘useful’ thing. A dozen fiery spears flickered into life, like the first embers of a struck match. The projectiles seemed to hover for as Jay-Jay waited for the first target. Spotting a werewolf far enough from the group, Jay-Jay let loose a missile and felled the werewolf in a very final explosion. Each projectile was replaced by another identical spear of fire. The smile on Jay-Jay’s face broadened a little as she started to pick targets faster now: Two spears flying out at a time and replacing themselves, then three and then four more, all taking a werewolf and snuffing out the fire of their life.

Jay-Jay wasn’t perfect, nor even that masterful. She hit a lot of the beasties, sure: but every so often an explosion managed to get closer to the castle. Any of the guardians with Draveous would know that the battle was a losing one; yet each fought on despite it all.

Jay-Jay caught one werewolf at the very base of the castle, and she swore loudly as she tried to aim a spear at the werewolf before it exploded. She might have got there in time, if she could push…

…Kata stopped her though. The demoness saw something important: Daisy. With a gentle mental tug from the demoness was all Jay-Jay needed in order to turn elsewhere. It wasn’t like there were a few thousand more targets, or anything.

The swarm was unflinching in its conviction, to be sure. There wouldn’t be any surrender from these werewolves, and even if Draveous had the bullets and Jay-Jay the magic to spare, they would only stem the tide that seemed as never-ending as the Thames.

Jay-Jay knew the end result. They’d all die if they stayed in the castle. Hell, even the dragonman probably had that figured out: but he heardly seemed the type to leave without orders. She couldn’t help trying though. “Hey, Dragondood. We can’t take them all down without wiping out a chunk of London. We need to split, now!”

Draveous spun about to look up at the demonspawn. Amidst the cacophony of battle, and the thunder of the seemingly endless explosions, the Dragonkin's ridged-eyes narrowed.

"I have nowhere to go," He said. "If this is where I am to die, then so be it. I shall not have my last act be the abandonment of my post."

He turned to impale an unexploded werewolf upon his giant sword. With a mighty kick, Draveous thrust the lifeless body from the blade before returning his attention to Jay-Jay.

"Be gone with you. Protect Lord Bain and Lord Hoyle, and tell them that as long as there is life in my veins, this castle will not fall."

Without another word, Draveous turned, and set about to fulfil his promise, not matter the outcome.

Jay-Jay stared at the dragon, a mix of confusion and respect and perhaps a little bit of sadness. The man’s conviction was incredible, to be sure. It just highlighted how scary the Bain and Hoyle pair were: to be inspire such zealous respect in an individual. There charisma was probably the thing that scared Jay-Jay the most, and when you consider the fact that both were paragons of lycanthropy and vampirism, that said a lot.

Every instinct said ‘don’t abandon him’ but she knew that she had to. Dying was all they would achieve here, and that wasn’t an option at all. She’d have to leave Draveous, or she’d have to try and take him with her by force: which was about as likely as killing all the werewolves without wrecking chunks of London.

Even now, after so much learning and so much growing, she was frustratingly powerless.

Words had failed her, magic couldn’t save her and she didn’t have enough bullets for the werewolves to choke on. She leaned closer to Draveous, demanding at least some of his attention as she blew a hole in a werewolf’s chest. “If I know Bain and Hoyle at all…” she didn’t “…They’d want to say something like this: Castles can be rebuilt, but friends and good people can’t.” She paused for a second, trying to think of whatever else might convince him to not play the martyr. She shrugged her shoulders and leaned up to kiss the Dragonkin’s cheek. “That was from me. Don’t die for some stones.” With nothing left to say, and nothing left to do, she left Draveous to whatever his duties were. She hoped he wouldn’t die, because interesting people were fun: but she didn’t really hold out much hope, either. Honourable people sucked like that: you always knew what they’d do.

Pushing forward, Jay-Jay pondered on how quiet Katago̱gí had been. She’d normally have been offering to take over by now: or maybe she’d offer advice, or perhaps she’d be telling Jay-Jay how pointless wasting time on the Dragonkin had been, or…

’I had nothing to say. You were doing fine without me.’

“Oh…”

It took a few minutes for the fire demon-host to slide back into the castle's main chamber, and it was a bit of a shock to see just how much had changed. What was once a pristine and immaculate room that the rubberdeck-servant had clearly poured a lot of work was now a shambles. Broken glass and blood and alcohol stained the floors, ruining carpet and surface alike. The denizens of the room had also changed. For one, half of them were missing: Veti and Thad or Max or whatever he was meant to be called now had vanished: as had the werewolf they'd been chatting to. Odds had at that the trio were not partaking of each other's company, so it was likely they were running somewhere.

"Whatever you have to do, Reginald cannot die. Not like this. Anything any of you can do, we can’t lose him.”

Atticus' desperation knocked the lemon-like Jay-Jay out of her own little world. She bolted into the room and took a look at the people inside. The wight and the new new guy who gave Kata the heebie jeebies seemed fine. Siya had apparently entered her murdering bad-ass mode that Jay-Jay recognised from the club, oh so long ago. Atticus had also turned into scary-sexy Incubus form, which Jay-Jay wasn't exactly going to complain about. Everyone looked at least as good as they had before, with the exception of Hoyle. To see the werewolf draped over Atticus' back like a fur-coat was painful. She'd grown fond of the fatherly werewolf. She suddenly remembered the morbidly fascinating charisma that drove people to martyr themselves for Bain and Hoyle...Scary.

Hoyle had taken a number of wounds, some of which weren't healing. That could only mean silver, and that presented tonnes of troubling possibilities for the elderly wolf. Least of all, bleeding out. "Atticus, I can seal the bossman's wounds, if ya want. It'll hurt, but he won't bleed out."

Not waiting for an answer, Jay-Jay jogged a few feet behind Atticus, between him and the two gun totting new-guys. She was hoping she could be useful here: either as support for Gabe and Semyon or for helping Bossman Hoyle.

I hope Daisy is okay.

[Derren Krenshaw]

Things were going well for a moment.

Anastasia brought over a cloak, presumably retrieved from one of their attackers from before. Semyon didn't have the time to examine it -it seemed no one did- but no matter what it had been, now it was a rudimentary bandage, and that was all he needed to know. Giving a quick "Understood" to Atticus, he continued his watch, pacing around their group with gun drawn and gaze darting.

His eyes focused first on the 'hound' belonging to the Young Reaper, giving it wide berth as it went on its way. He hadn't interacted with it at all, but given it's owners current thoughts of him, he felt now wasn't the time to try. It seemed to be on a mission anyways, so Semyon counted it as a sign that the reaper was still well, and continued his watch.

The man named Gabriel was the next to be spotted, dashing over to them armed for war. Semyon absently noted the man's armaments once more, part of his mind filing away assumptions on Gabriel's fighting styles as he greeted the approaching man.

"If you can help Hoyle, you're needed there." He took a moment to gesture towards the injured Werewolf being carried by Atticus, just in time for the incubus to stagger under the weight. "Healing or helping carry him. Otherwise, we need to watch for assassins."

Another approached, the one who had spoken with the Young Reaper before, offering to help close Hoyle's wounds herself. That brought a sense of relief to Semyon, finally, the Wight giving her a polite nod as she finished speaking.

"That might be for the best, Miss." He continued his watch as he spoke. They couldn't afford to be ambushed, not this close to the gates. "Pain or no, it's better than dea-... No..."

Semyon froze for an instant, gaze locking upon the white-furred form that hadn't been there before. Ahead, he stood before Tamarind and the injured Werewolf she carried. He saw the figure leap back, something clutched in one hand...

...And a bloodied, silver sword in the other.

Semyon took off with a hoarse, desperate cry, legs launching him through the air. He covered the ground in bounding leaps, gaining speed every time his feet struck the floor. The attacker turned and leapt as well, aiming for the gate that still signaled safety, only now for the wrong party. Something cracked along his leg as Semyon drove every ounce of strength he could into the next leap. No clear shot presented itself, and the Wight's non-silver rounds wouldn't do enough to stop the fleeing form even if he had the chance. So he surged forwards, crossing the distance with impressive speed, aiming to latch himself upon the form and haul him away from the open gate.

But his quarry was a Werewolf, fast in its own right, and with less ground to cover. Semyon watched as the attacker got away, crossing through the gate even as he closed the gap, slamming to a stop against the gate's supports with nothing to show for his efforts at all.

" нет- Тьфу, пропасть!" The oath tore itself from Semyon's mouth in a snarling growl, the Wight snapping around to Tamarind and the one she carried. Blood was what he saw, the older werewolf's stomach open and spilling life from her form. Too much, far too much spilt, on top of a wound she had already suffered. Three centuries of existence told Semyon that her life was over, the look on her face one he had seen many times before.

So many, many times before.

" Тьфу, пропасть..." His voice grew quiet and cold, form slumping back against the gate's supports. How little time had passed since he had started this mission? And already one of their number was lost, one of his employers badly wounded, and the company main office under siege and failing.

Semyon's lips curled back in a feral snarl, even as his eyes cast themselves away from the bleeding form before him. His right hand remained locked around his weapon, but it hung limply at his side. Part of him knew he needed to move, other parts urged him to pursue the murderer, but he stayed still. He didn't want to move, not right now. He just wanted to stand there for a moment, doing nothing.

Not that doing something had helped at all, so far.

"... Боги ударить в этот день..."

(( **"No- Damn it all!" "Damn it all..." "... Gods strike this day..."
At least, that's what the translate says. ))

[Igraine]

Hellfire filled her lungs, but she took that breath anyway. She took him in, her amber eyes wide with a noxious mix of horror and agony and hatred - hatred most of all. Though her breaths came only in tortuous gasps, she took in the white wolf in as he growled his curse in her ear: the scent of a murderer, the musk of the assassin who stole the only wolf packmate she had ever known from her very arms.

In the space of an instant, watching helplessly as the white wolf disappeared into the shade gate, Veti knew. If Luna's kiss did not steal the days of her life today, if his blade had not done its work well enough, she was going to kill him. She would hunt the white wolf to the ends of the Earth, to the very end of her days if need be, for the unmatched, perfect pleasure of watching that arrogant, triumphant light dim from his eyes. It was a visceral need now, as vital to her as a heartbeat or breath, to feel the gristly crunch of his fur and flesh in her jaws, to taste the coppery sweetness of his lifeblood and meat over her tongue as she ripped his throat out.

She would relinquish that right to Reginald Hoyle alone. Yes, only Aislinn's brother could take this claim from her...

'Aislinn... '

What strength the silver-edged blade had not stolen, that one name resonating through her head undid utterly. Still clutching Aislinn's body, Veti fell to her knees, crumpling forward to lay her to the stone ground as gently as she could manage, her crimson maw finally falling over the elder wolf's shoulders. One tapering crimson ear rested against her wide chest, silent and still but for the rushing of the blood in her own head.

There would not be another breath. Not one more heartbeat, and there never would be again. The certain knowledge crashed over her, a tidal wave of misery that dwarfed the pain that wracked her like the sun's merciless blaze to the flame of a lit match. The werewolf whined deep in her throat, great tears welling up in her eyes, coursing down her jaws to seep into Aislinn's mottled grey fur. Ebony-tipped claws reached for the elder wolf's face, shaking as she lovingly traced the lines that had once shown such sweet expression: mischief and laughter and puppyish curiosity and wonder.

"I'm... Sorry... " she panted as her tongue lolled from her jaws, every breath, every word a fiery torment. "So sorry... Not fast... Enough... Mis'r Hoyle... Sorry... "

Veti relinquished the wolf within. In an instant, only the woman remained curled over Aislinn's body, her crimson hair blending hideously with the blood that covered them both. One sapphire eye turned sightlessly upward, toward the grey ceiling of the shade room. The edges of her vision began to darken and fade, only the faces of the ones she loved longest still bright in her mind's eye. Veti could not see if Siya had come, nor Daisy nor even Artie - but Thad had been there. Yes, he hurled the sorcerous fire that made the white wolf burn, and the hatred in her still stirred with a dark pleasure at the memory.

The claw turned hand that had caressed Aislinn's face reached toward where he might last have been, inching along the cold stone floor. "Thad... Can't... Can't breathe... "

[tirgesfu]

No! His fire exploded in the face of an attacker but it didn’t change a thing. With speed and surprising force the wolf was on his love, on her, on Veti with blade swung and off and away before Thad could do much of anything. She was carrying her newly found pack mate in her wolf form and a second later she was falling as the woman he first fell so deeply for. No! Thad didn’t follow the escaping assassin. He didn’t notice the other’s behind. The only thing he saw was the cascading red hair and the caught breathes of Veti. He leapt to her side.

He was down on his knees beside her wrapping his arms around her, to lean her over onto him. “Veti, Veti, I’m here. I got you. “ He pulled her away from the dead wolf’s body. He felt her resistance, he knew she had some strong connection to this one she only recently meant but he wanted her to let it go. She had to let her go. Where was that door now? Where was Daisy to take this dead thing away?

His hands were wet.There was more than one’s blood. No! He ripped his tie off, the one Siya picked, and rubbed it quickly over the fur and blood of the dead body of the werewolf. Watching Veti the entire time he pulled the silk over the last life of the once strong once powerful beast. Thad brought it up and kissed it. Then he pressed the soaked fabric onto Veti’s chest. “Breath love. Small puffs, like that smoke you want in quick rings. Let the last of Aislinn flow into you. We’ll carry her. We’ll keep her with us. This is her power, her will, going into you, closing the cut. Breath. Shallow. Slow.”

Thad pressed his tie filled with the last energy of Aislinn against her. He kissed the cloth again mixing his spit with the edges to seal it against her. He wanted her air to stay inside, no holes, no leaks. No. Not his Veti. With his fingers and lips he sealed the energy of a long line of werewolves into the chest of a new, clanless wonderful she wolf. No one deserved the history of Hoyle’s more than his Veti. Thad was sure. And he knew no one could carry it better than she.

With the bandage in place Thad reached again around Veti. “Let me carry you, love. Let me hold you.” He smiled to her and added quickly, “I know what you're thinking,. You want me of course, but calm yourself and wait.” No! He would not let her go. He kissed her quickly as he lifted her. “I am yours you know so we can save it.”

Thad glanced back to the rest of the group. Where are they going? Is the gate still an option or are the reasons for that now past? Holding Veti he let his eyes turn to Atticus. Alright head man that we’ve followed into more than one death trap, Thad seemed to say with his eyes, where now?

[Lillian Thorne]

Siya scowled at Atticus’ instruction to help Hoyle. She didn’t want to but would because it was right and she’d been asked. She had offered largely because she understood that through Hoyle she might get some answers, it had been her bargain with him and if he died there would be no one to collect from. That didn’t mean she wanted to. With a heated little puff of air she prepared herself to do what she needed to. But he was so old, and furry, a small part of her whined.

Just do it. A bossy voice said in her head, Veti would want you too.

That was enough. Before Atticus tossed the aged werewolf back over his shoulder Siya moved, darting her head in and lapping at the wound behind the man’s knee, focusing on being grateful that it wasn’t his groin that had been wounded. Even so the second she tasted blood her mouth flooded with the narcotic saliva that made certain her food never minded being food. Her saliva also acted to help regulate blood-flow so that she could feel leisurely, in control of the act. That the act of feeding meant something else to her only added to her discomfort at feeding on an old man. She didn’t feed, the old man couldn’t spare the blood but her body and her instincts didn’t know that or didn’t care and they reacted as if she were going to do just that. It was horrible. It was not an ideal method of healing, but then it wasn’t an idea situation. When she lifted her mouth, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the wild, deep woods taste of the old man, his bleeding had slowed though not stopped and some of his pain would be eased.

She wiped her mouth, resenting that the taste of Atticus was no longer present. She stepped back as he hoisted the werewolf onto his shoulder and followed behind, wiping her mouth and cheeks on the collar of the overly large dress shirt she was wearing. She didn’t like Shade gates, not after their last trip through them ended so badly. It was one of her motivations for still playing at the travel between she had learned despite the danger involved in it. At least that way she was in control, or so she told herself. But she wasn’t about to leave Atticus if he was going to go through them and she didn’t think she could pull as many as were with them through the between without consequences no matter how charged up she was on Demon Blood.

As she followed him down the stairs into the dark that felt good against her skin she could see that Atticus wasn’t doing well and guilt speared at her for her possible part in it. He’d said she hadn’t taken too much and this last time she’d only had a sip before they’d been interrupted. But he looked beat and she didn’t know how to help him. She stepped forward, determined to carry at least part of the insensate Werewolf when there was an explosion of something ahead of them. Fear filled her.

Veti? Thad?

Siya whirled around in time to see a scene of blood and Chaos, she watched as some enemy wolf stabbed Aislinn and then darted, wounded and bleeding into the shade gate, something in his hand.

“Oh fuck that!” she snarled, her accent ripening the curse word. She moved forward with the speed that was her birthright, powered by the blood of a Demon, a taste of blood from an ancient werewolf and honed by just a little practice. She was fast, more than fast, but it wasn’t enough. She reached forward as she streaked into the gate, feeling the coldness of the void all around her. She felt her fingers touching fur, just ahead of her, nothing more substantial than that and though she gripped and felt a handful of it give way in her fingers it was not enough to stop his flight. Then the gate and the whirling darkness had her and she was swept away to wherever the gate was taking them.

It spat her out into a crumpled heap onto ground that was eerily familiar. She scrambled to her feet, though she liked to think that the scrambling translated more into springing to her feet than it actually was. She stayed low in a defensive crouch like Veti had taught her and looked about the enemy. There was no one, just a handful of fur clutched in her hand and green lines of power slowly fading away on the ground and on the stones all around her. She was alone.

“Fuck.” She snarled and maybe stamped her foot a little. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Was there ever a more satisfying word?

She looked around at the very same circle they had started in, where Hoyle had called them together on this little misadventure.

[DotCom]

She was too late.

Of. Fucking. Course she was too late, because for once, she'd decided to try and make a goddamned friend, so everything, the entire fucking universe was going to conspire against her and make sure that one person who'd been unlucky enough to say a single worthwhile thing to the teenage Reaper, ever, in whatever the hell was left of her fucked up life, would be sure to come out on the other side of things hating her.

Daisy had been too late to save Thad, too late to get him back. And now? Now she was too late to save Veti. Because try as she might, she liked Veti. A lot. And of course she couldn't win. So, Veti had to die.

Of course. Of. Fucking. Course.

If Daisy had been the type to cry, or do something equally pointless and stupid, she might have. As it were, she wasn't even sure she could cry, let alone do anything normal people were supposed to do. Blush or burn or laugh or love, that other useless bullshit everyone was always going on about. She felt another inexplicable surge of loathing toward the wight as she stood there at the far edge of the scene, maybe dripping wet, from the rain, or the Thames, or Death or something else. She couldn't look at him. She was afraid she might try and hurt him, and this was obviously not the time, but then she couldn't look at Veti, either, or to where Thad knelt over her, mourning her slow and painful death.

So, she watched the shade gate, every part of her itching to follow Veti's killer through, except Tiny Vamp had already done that.

Because of course she had. Tiny Vamp had been on time. Tiny Vamp had been right, had been fucking perfect, and still it wasn't enough to...

Behind her, Artie was growling, deep and low in his chest. She could feel him pressed up against her shoulder, still three times larger than any dog should be. She felt anger and concern rolling off of him like water, but she ignored it. She wouldn't look back at him, either. She didn't care what he was trying to tell her. She wouldn't want to hear it. Probably something stupid. Some correction, how she should have been faster, how she should have stayed away from those fucking exploding werewolves -- or maybe just all werewolves -- in the first place, and then Veti might have been okay. How she should stay here, not go through the shade gate, vengeance wouldn't solve shit, and blah blah blah, all good, useless advice, because what did it matter?

She'd hesitated, just a second. And Veti had died. She hadn't seen it, no. She couldn't watch that, not again. But she'd felt it. She'd gotten close seen Veti step up to the shade gate -- seen the other wolf, seen the silver blade, looked away...

And felt a life snuff out.

From there, Daisy didn't even think. She was exhausted from the Reaping on the Thames, so cold she might have sworn her teeth were chattering, if she were alive. But she didn't care. Fuck if Veti was dead, Daisy was already breaking all the rules, anyway.

She stepped back through into Death's chill waters just as Artie realized what she was doing and snapped at her. His teeth closed around a column of cold air.

Daisy was gone.

[Igraine]

Rivers of magic buoyed her, became the life's blood she'd already spilled, loving kisses the breath she so desperately needed. She hadn't wanted to leave Aislinn, hadn't wanted to let her go. There was no rational thought that fed the despondent wish, what she wanted most of all in those seconds, wounded and bleeding as she was. She wanted Aislinn to hear her. She wanted Aislinn to know how sorry she was that she had not kept her safe. That there would never be a den circle...

Veti's head lolled against Thad's shoulder as he held her. She heard his words, his silly jokes - and she heard the fear in his voice. She ached for him, would have done anything she could in that moment to reassure him, but the darkness that had played at the edges of her vision swallowed her whole, pitching her into a strangely radiant twilight.

The night sky wheeled overhead, the stars dusted against the velvet heavens in a dizzying profusion, a sight that can only be viewed far from modern urban lights. Not even the twinkling lights of the tiny village of Ardgroom could be seen from where she crouched. Her gaze fell like the moonlight that bathed the entire countryside in a silver fae glow. She was the crimson wolf once more, beside the stone circle Atticus had summoned them to only the day before, and she wasn't alone.

No, Veti wasn't alone, but none of her friends, companions or co-workers were gathered here either. A bonfire was burning in the center of the ring of stones, lithe, graceful figures of various sizes standing or reclining about the blaze. The werewolf crept closer, just to the border of the flickering firelight, as a great, fang-filled smile grew across her maw.

Wolves. There were werewolves of all the colors of the earth, deep coal and woodsy browns, moss greys and sandy creams. The firelight reflected from a several bronze torques, intricately detailed armbands wrapped serpentine about thickly-muscled arms, and rings obviously crafted for the size of the werewolf's claws. A few of the smaller wolves, only pups really, growled and yipped and play-wrestled at their parents' feet, only being pulled back when it seemed a little one might singe his fur. Some of the older wolves were eating great hunks of meat with their claws, or kept one watchful eye on the pups. Still others reclined on the soft grasses, or leaned against the standing stones, those ancient monoliths not swayed in the least by the weight of a wolf.

But to the last, their eyes were riveted to one figure. A great black wolf with a deep grey mane was speaking. Veti could not understand his language, but she was pleased to realize she understood his pantomime, gesticulating wildly or oh-so-subtly to punctuate his words, first of trekking over a great mountain, and then the fording of a river... A story!

He was telling his pack a story, a fairy tale or a harrowing true story Veti could not tell. No matter, she was thoroughly intrigued, creeping inches closer to the very edges of the firelight now. None of the werewolves seemed to take notice of her, young or old, and she was content to remain just without the circle, mesmerized by the whole of the sight unfolding before her.

And in the way of dreams, Veti's attentions were entirely for the sight before her, no thought or care for how she came to be here, utterly immersed in this moment as she listened and watched. It was a movement at the corner of her vision that caught Veti's attention though, when she realized she was not nearly so unnoticed as she might have thought.

One of the wolves closest lifted her elegant head to the skies, as if she were testing the wind. Various shades of grey played over her pelt in mesmerizing patterns, every least movement a dance of fur and muscle. And when she turned to peer over her shoulder, Veti caught her breath. She had never seen a more beautiful creature in all her life, the exquisite line of gracefully curved ear and shining amber eye curved to the subtly tapered muzzle, some master artisan's rendition of lupine perfection.

It was not until the werewolf smiled that Veti finally understood. She knew this sweet fanged grin, the kindly light that animated the other wolf's eyes. She turned toward the large grey wolf beside her, tapping him softly on the shoulder, whispering something to him before returning her attention to the edges of the fire behind her.

She held Veti's gaze easily, reaching toward the crimson wolf with one great talon, beckoning her closer, inviting her without a word to come join their gathering. Veti blinked, the strangest thrill of bliss darting through her chest. She took a single deep, fortifying breath -

And it hurt like hell, that breath - but it was good. A true breath, deep and life-affirming as Veti's eyes opened wide, as if surprised to find herself still alive. And when all the sounds and colors of the world began to come back into focus once more, the smallest smile on her face as she realized Thad was cradling her. She reached to his face, soft fingers trying to pull his attention to hers. Somehow it was him, who had brought her back. Somehow it was Thad who saved her this time, though she had no idea how this could be. Brilliant, so brilliant her dearest man.

"I'm here love," she whispered, "I'm here." Almost she said that Aislinn was as well, but Veti felt suddenly sure, Thad already knew that. "You can set me down, I'll be all right. You're my strength after all - how could I not be? But where is Siya? Daisy - or Artie or... "

Veti grimaced, swallowing her pain. "Or Mr. Hoyle? Where is Mr. Hoyle?"

[AmongHeroes]

Reginald Hoyle

Whatever the vampiress had done to him had cut through the fog of pain, and had allowed Reginald Hoyle to come into the present. The trip upon Atticus’ back had been rough, but at least now, as he was being pulled across the floor, he could see Aislinn, Victoria, Thad, and Archibald. The shade gate ahead of them was an ethereal beacon of safety, and for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun, Hoyle felt like they would all make it out.

That notion was shattered almost as quickly as it had come into his mind. The magic of Thad had revealed the white wolf, and before a cry of warning could pass his lips, the assassin’s sword was already buried into Aislinn’s back.

“No!” The old wolf’s cry of warning turned to one of terror, rage, and disbelief.

With a burst of strength, Hoyle thrust up with his good leg, and batted Atticus’ grip away with a black-clawed hand. He stumbled towards the crumpled forms of Aislinn and Veti. He watched with impotent rage as the white wolf disappeared through the shade gate, and he cried out as he collapsed upon leaden feet.

As he lay there, tears began to stream down his muzzle, pooling upon the stone floor. The great old wolf was an island then, a man lost in his own ocean of despair as life drained from Aislinn, and clung only barely to Veti. He watched as the sorcerer closed his sister’s eyes, and ministered to his love.

Lost to his senses was the curse of the wight, the flashing form of the vampiress, and the cacophony of all the other responses to the white wolf’s handiwork. For a moment lost in time, Reginald Hoyle only knew the depths of a heart riven with guilt, hatred, and misery. He was the last of them. The last of the Teachglach Mac Tire. The last of the Hoyles.

Wracked with silent sobs, he rolled onto his back, and with the greatest of breaths he howled. With all his might he howled, and for the first time in all the centuries of his life he howled with the promise of vengeance.

---

Atticus

Before he knew what was happening Reginald Hoyle had forced himself from his grasp. Atticus spun about to follow the werewolf, and as he did he saw what had spurned Hoyle forward. The white wolf was just pulling the blade from Aislinn and Veti. He comprehended what was happening, but it all happened so fast that his realization translated only to stunned silence for the bare seconds it took for the white wolf to flee.

Instinctively, Atticus’ wings opened to give chase as the assassin fled through the shade gate, and he came more to his senses. His infernal eyes caught the blur of Siya disappearing into the gate after that attacker, and in that moment of confusion, Atticus spirit was buoyed. If anyone could catch the bastard now, it was her. He wanted to follow the vampire immediately, but he was stayed by the gravity of Veti’s wounds, and the obvious aftermath of Aislinn Hoyle’s death. The eerie and spirit-splitting howl of Reginald Hoyle reminded him as well that the old wolf himself still needed tending to. For now, he would have to trust that Siya could take care of herself.

Atticus thought to move to Reginald’s aid, but Lord Bain was already at his ailing friend’s side. The ancient vampire held up a hand to the incubus.

“Through the gate, all of you,” Bain said, loud enough for all to hear. “Retrieve the tooth, and stop Ragnarök. I will stay with Hoyle. We will join you when we can. Go!”

A protest was the first thing to form on Atticus’ lips, and for an instant he caught the eye of Thad. The man held Veti protectively in his arms, and though she was still in the clutches of pain, he could see that death was not going to take her this day. He closed his mouth. Atticus knew Bain was right; they had to press onward. The enemy now had the upper hand, and time was against them.

With a grim set to his jaw, Atticus turned to the others. “Let’s go.”

His words were punctuated by a series of tremors from the battle raging above. Clouds of dust rained down from the low ceiling. Nodding to Thad, Atticus leapt forward and thrust into flight with a great beat of his wings. In an instant he was through the shade gate, trusting that the others would be close on his heels.

As he glided instantaneously through the void, and onto the other side of the gate, Atticus was surprised. The stone circle of Ardgroom, Ireland--the place where this tragic tale had begun--was the last place he expected to emerge.

The sight of Siya standing amidst the circle was a welcome relief however, and he alighted beside the enraged little vampire.

“Are you alright?” He said, his burning eyes scanning through the darkness for any injury upon her body. Seeing nothing obviously wrong, he added, “Bain instructed us through the gate, and as far as I can tell, Veti should be fine. Thad came through for her, once again.”