WitchBite

Like A Slasher Movie

 It barely felt like I was walking any more. The hard clacking of shoes against concrete steps would usually reverberate in my ears almost painfully, but now it was something to draw my focus. To keep me anchored, keep me going.

Simon had taken most of my weight, undoubtedly hoping that I wouldn't notice, but I was actually quite thankful for it, as what little pressure I did put into walking caused a wave of painful pins and needles to bloom from the flats of my increasingly sluggish feet, and tingle up my legs. They had done what they could to my wounds, and I hadn't the heart to tell them that their work had come undone some sixty or so feet ago.

Bethany had lost whatever obnoxious, confident, face she'd always wore, and now stalked onwards like a relentless predator with the scent of prey. She never wondered too far, but her silence competed with her determination with how deafening it was. Her clothes didn't ruffle together, her steps never echoed, it was as if I was watching her memory stalk ahead of us. A ghost.

Lyra wasn't so poised. She followed the rear, honey coloured eyes sharp on every detail and every twitch. Not much of her clothing remained from her earlier transformation, but it was enough to stave off any cold that would cause her discomfort I should imagine. She didn't hold any particular air about her. None that I could feel anyway. There was no grim determination, no anger, no fear. It was almost mechanical. Like she was "going through the motions" and she had been through such horrors many times before.

"There's people with guns in there..." Bethany's voice beat it's way through the silence like a maul. Bludgeoning, and painful, as we stopped with hushed tones to the end of a hallway before a door of pasty blue. I hadn't felt it. The danger, the cunning. It made me pause that perhaps the gunmen meant us no harm, but maybe I am more wounded than I felt.

"How many?" Simon whispered, leaning me against the wall to the left of the door. Bethany seemed to furrow her brow in a brief moment of focus. I almost smiled as her tongue peaked through her lips in concentration as she tilted her head so her right ear was closer to the door.

"It's hard to say. I'd wager somewhere between eight and ten, maybe? They're scared." She answered, just as a presence washed over me. As pure, and as unfiltered as sunshine. It caused goosebumps to ripple from my spine and up my arms, a momentary and welcome break in the blunt numbness that had taken hold of my body.

"Victoria is in there..." I croaked, using the wall to brace myself a little better. I noticed an air of trepidation spill over our group as our end goal was within our grasp.

"Do we have to worry about poison?"

"Uh... No? Yes? I wouldn't think a bullet could hold enough of the stuff that killed Aramis to kill you without being specially made, but it wouldn't be good for you if you get hit..." I explained, remembering back to the residue that was on the knife that killed Aramis. Nocte Ruptur. Enough of a dose causes the Vampire's supernatural regenerative abilities to essentially shift itself in reverse. Causing them to fall apart.

It was something that hadn't been used in centuries, and is definitely not knowledge that is easy to come by. Victoria's revenge streak must've been particularly hate-filled.

"Maybe I should go first? Operation meat-shield and all that?" Lyra suggested, followed by an awkward silence. It was a good suggestion. Lyra was big enough to block a good portion of the damage to allow Bethany and Simon to potentially get in unharmed. If they can do that, it's over. Unless they were particularly well trained that was.

Simon gave a reluctant nod, and on cue; Lyra began to shift. She ripped her leather jacket from her shoulders as muscle began to darken, punching it's way out wards as it began to sprout a coat of bristly dark fur. She breached up wards with heavy breaths, that deepened into growls as a dark muzzle stretched from her jaw line. The cacophonous pairing of crunching bone and slick muscle fell to a close as glittering claws clacked against the tiled floor. Lyra was a wolf to behold. Cedar brown fur neatly spread atop a taut and muscular frame, that leaned forward into long fore limbs. Where Flint was a grizzled, wild, mess of fur, muscle and slobber, Lyra was almost graceful in her lupine appearance. Big, but aimed like an arrow. My mind wandered briefly at the notion of majestic, moon drenched vistas. Ever green forests thick with roots. Running wolves. I missed my forest. I missed my home.