Rushing into the hotel, ignoring the person behind the front desk who tried to greet him, Christian disregarded the elevator and ran up the stairs. He arrived at his room and almost ran into the door in his haste. He slid his card through the slot. When the door gave a soft click and the light turned green, he opened it and ran inside.
His weapons were exactly where he left them; hidden in a case attached to the underside of the bed. He swiftly pulled out the case, which was almost half the length of the bed, and set it on the floor. It had a combination lock that his hands fumbled with in his haste. Opening it took far too long for his liking. When he finally did manage to open the stubborn lock, he undid the latch and lifted the top.
His carrying case wasn’t the standard issue that most Executioners were given. Expensive velvet lined the inside. Imprints shaped like a pair of swords and guns showed where his weapons were to be placed. They sat there, gleaming in the minuscule moonlight entering through the window, reflecting silver and black. Strapped across the inside of the top were his sheaths and holsters, which he grabbed first.
Acting with haste, he placed his swords in their sheaths, and then put the sheaths over his head and around his shoulders before tightening the straps. They were uncomfortable and aggravated his injuries, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. After strapping his swords to his back, he grabbed his holsters and strapped them to his thighs. He then grabbed Gabriel and Phanuel, shoving them into their holsters.
As his final preparation, he slid the last of his flashbangs into a small pouch on his waist. He only had one left, so he would need to be careful when using it. It wouldn’t be good if he used it hastily, and ended up wasting it when a better opportunity to use it presented itself.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall made him tense. Closing his eyes, he blocked out all of his senses except for hearing. It was a unique talent those who underwent Executioner training gained, and one of the talents that he had cultivated to perfection from many years of practice.
His ears twitched as noises that he wouldn’t normally hear filled his senses. His own breathing was almost invisible to all of his sensory perceptions as he stilled it. Outside he could hear the rustling of leaves from the tree next to his window, the chirping of crickets, and the barking of a dog from across the street. Inside the building his ears picked up the sound of breathing from the room on his immediate left, and also the light, almost nonexistent sound of footsteps in the hallway.
Frowning, he placed his hands on the ground, canceled his focus on his ears and focused instead on his sense of touch. By focusing hard enough, he could feel the vibrations produced by the footsteps. Judging from the force of impact and the timing it took for each step, the person getting invariably closer to his room was very large. They were also stooped over, as if their frame didn’t fit in the hallway.
That confirmed it, then. The werewolf had found him. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. A werewolf’s sense of smell was amazing, nearly twenty times better than trained police dogs. It was no great shock that it would eventually sniff him out, but he had been hoping for a bit more time.
Too bad his time was up. All he could do now was act.
Christian didn’t have any talent in stealth. He wasn’t an Assassin, but he was still light on his feet. He slipped over to the window quickly and without making too much noise.
The footsteps had already stopped. He could tell that the werewolf was right next to his door. As if to prove his point, the handle rattled as the person on the other side tried opening it. They didn’t have a card key, so it would take a while, and the beast was clearly trying to keep its existence a secret from the other residents of the city. It wouldn’t do something to jeopardize that. That was the only advantage Christian had.
He opened the window and hopped onto the ledge. Not even taking a moment to judge the distance between him and the tree, he leapt.
His hand caught a tree branch, latching onto it with a tight grip as it swayed and bounced. Christian winced as his rib cage rattled painfully; he could feel several ribs that had gotten loose scraping against his lungs. He ignored the pain and swung himself across the branch and over to the trunk. Once he reached the trunk, he wrapped his arms and legs around it and, using cracks in the bark as handholds, climbed down.
A loud crash alerted him to the fact that the werewolf had just lost its patience and busted his door in. That was not good. He needed to hurry.
Seconds later, he dropped to the ground and took off running. He didn’t turn back to look at the window. He didn’t need to. Not even a second after he hit the streets, a loud thudding sound let him know that the werewolf was on the ground.
And thus the chase was on. Christian ran through the silent and empty streets, avoiding the places that he knew were busier during this time of night, cutting through alleys and side streets to avoid being spotted by civilians. He also turned as many sharp corners as possible so the werewolf couldn’t take advantage of its speed.
“You can’t run from me forever, boy!”
“Tch!”
Christian could hear the werewolf catching up to him. He needed to force it back, needed to put some distance between them. Should he use his guns? No. That might work, but it would also draw attention. Even if these streets looked silent, he knew there were people sleeping in some of these buildings. The last thing he wanted was to have innocent civilians getting caught up in this and killed because he was being reckless.
While running through an alley, he caught sight of a trashcan sitting against the wall, a lid leaning against it. His body ached as he pushed his legs harder than he should. He reached the trashcan and leaned down, grabbing the lid. He then spun around 180 degrees and tossed the impromptu projectile at the werewolf like a Frisbee. Then he finished his spin and hit the ground running.
It didn’t do much. The werewolf simply swiped it with his claws, not only knocking it aside, but also slashing it apart like grated cheese. The loud sound of metal being ripped to shreds caused Christian to wince. He hoped that whoever lived around here would simply think the noise came from a cat smacking into a trashcan or something. Still, the lid had served its purpose and distracted the werewolf from the real attack.
“Gah!”
The alley lit up with the brilliance of a sun. Christian grimaced at being forced to use his last flashbang so soon but didn’t lament its loss for too long. He needed to focus on running, not crying over the loss of his last flashbang.
With his foe busy trying to rub what had to be some nasty spots from its eyes, Christian was able to make some excellent headway. He reached a small park several miles out from the more populated parts of the city. There wouldn’t be anyone there at this time of night. It was the perfect place to battle a monster of this caliber.
The park wasn’t very big, maybe several hundred square feet altogether. A sandlot with a playset sat to his left, and an even larger grassy area with a sparse population of trees lay on his right. He had actually scouted this place out when trying to find a spot that he could take Lilith to and kill her should she turn out to be a succubus.
He reached the grassy area of the park and slowed his run to a jog, then a trot, and then a walk. By the time he stopped moving, he was standing in front of the sandlot.
He gazed at the playground, even as the thumping of feet reached his ears. They stopped a second later. His foe had arrived.
“So you finally decided to stop running?” a deep voice growled behind him. “About time. And I see you’ve even chosen the place that will become your grave.”
Christian turned around to face the werewolf. His eyes locked onto the monster’s bright, glow-in-the-dark yellow orbs. They were the eyes of a rabid animal, a beast that needed to be put down, and he had every intention of wiping this abomination from the face of existence.
“What’s the matter? Got nothing to say?”
Christian didn’t respond. Words were no longer needed. This thing
was already dead and just hadn’t realized that yet. “Phew, fine. If that’s how you want it, you can just keep that mouth of yours shut. You’ll be screaming in a few seconds anyway.”
A pause followed, a lull that extended to one second, then two, and then three. Like an old-fashioned showdown Christian and the werewolf glared at each other.
A soft breeze whistled through the park, carrying several leaves that crossed the space between them. And still the two stared.
And then, on some unspoken signal, the werewolf charged him. Its clawed feet thudded against the ground, spitting chunks of earth and grass in all directions. In response, Christian drew his handguns and laid down a barrage of gunfire with unnerving accuracy. The bullets didn’t do much to slow down the creature; the werewolf just raised its arms, protecting its face and, more specifically, its eyes. The tiny balls of steel penetrated its flesh, but even then, the bullets were pushed out seconds later and the wounds healed.
Christian cursed. Without silver bullets, his guns wouldn’t do any real damage. He might as well be shooting at the thing with a BB gun.
Gritting his teeth, Christian holstered his guns and unsheathed his swords. They weren’t made of silver, but Orichalcum could kill a werewolf just as easily.
The werewolf came in fast and hard. Christian ducked under a claw swipe and counterattacked, trying to take its hand off with Raphael while simultaneously impaling it through the stomach with Michael. Neither sword found its mark. The werewolf retracted its hand too quickly for Raphael to take it off, and then swerved left, avoiding the twenty-four inches of Orichalcum attempting to penetrate its gut.
Christian backpedaled after his attack failed. He sidestepped, barely avoiding the claws that tried impaling his chest. He then spun in a circle, both of his blades singing in his hands as they sliced through the air. The attack forced the werewolf back to avoid being bisected. Even then, one of Christian’s swords managed to draw a thin line of blood from its chest. The wound didn’t heal.
The werewolf’s glare narrowed at Christian, whose body had already grown heavy. His wounds from before were finally catching up to him, so he was grateful for the pause.
He knew what had the werewolf so wary about attacking him after their initial exchange. No doubt it had seen the many holes in his guard, and was now wondering why it couldn’t exploit them.
He called it the fake opening style. It was a method of fighting that he had created after years of blood, sweat, and many broken bones. The style relied on deliberately presenting his enemies with openings in order to predict where they would attack next. It was based on the theory that, so long as he knew where the attack was going to land, he could respond to it well in advance, counterattacking with blistering speed and leaving his enemy unable to fight back. It essentially allowed him to control the flow of any battle by deliberately exposing himself to danger.
Christian didn’t attack when the werewolf began circling him. His style did not rely on attacking first. And so he stood there, legs bent, swords held loosely at his sides, eyes carefully studying the werewolf’s movements.
The werewolf seemed to grow tired of watching him and charged in to attack. It came at Christian with a claw swipe to the opening he presented on his torso. He twisted his body, barely avoiding the attack that would have sliced a deep furrow in his flesh. At the same time, the sword in his left hand swiped out in a flash, nearly taking the clawed hand off had the werewolf not hastily jerked its appendage back.
Continuing with the motion offered by the momentum of his swing, Christian rotated. Michael made a diagonal slice starting from the ground and traveling up, forcing the werewolf back just as it came in to attack the opening on his left flank. Blood spurted out of a new wound, as the sword’s incredibly sharp blade sliced through the bridge of its nose.
“You…” the werewolf snarled as it wiped at the blood running down its face. The wound was not healing, much like the one on its chest. “You are a member of the Executioners, aren’t you?”
Christian said nothing. He merely stood there, waiting for the werewolf to attack again. The beast had learned its lesson, however, as it appeared extremely wary of attacking him now that he had injured it twice. That would not do at all.
Deciding to finally go on the offensive, Christian used one of the dirtier tricks in his arsenal: kicking up a clod of dirt into his opponent’s eyes. It wasn’t the most elegant of attacks, but at this point, all he cared about was killing this creature before it could harm another innocent person.
“Graaa! My eyes! My eyes! Damn you!”
With its eyes closed, the aberration began flailing its arms about erratically, hitting nothing but air. Christian carefully avoided the clawed hands and tried to find an opening that he could exploit, ducking and dodging and weaving through the whirlwind of swipes and swings. He moved with a dancer’s grace, all the while studying his enemy’s movements, searching for an opening that would allow him to end this fight.
Finally, he found it, a small gap in his opponent’s defense. Christian took it. He ducked under a swing from his enemy’s left hand, twisted his body to avoid being impaled by the right hand, and then moved in. A single step took him into the werewolf’s guard, too close for the thing’s claws to attack him.
Feeling a surge of victory, Christian made to thrust Michael and Raphael into the werewolf’s chest—only to gasp as sharp agony flared in his stomach.
Christian looked down, baffled when he saw the werewolf’s tail, which had curved around its body, sticking in his stomach. The tail’s hair follicles shredded his shirt, sharp and hard like a thousand needles. They penetrated his skin, their tips stained red with his blood.
He would have cursed if his mouth was working. How could he have forgotten about a werewolf’s ability to harden its fur on any part of its body?
The werewolf yanked the tail out of Christian’s flesh. The swift movement knocked him off balance and sent him spiraling to the ground. Michael and Raphael flew out of his grip. His left shoulder smacked against the grassy field, the impact jarring him.
He rolled onto his back and coughed as something coppery filled his mouth. Blood. That meant he had internal injuries. More blood leaked from the several dozen holes in his stomach. It ran down his sides and stained his shirt.
He tried to get up, but before he could do so much as move, the werewolf lunged at him, its snarling visage trying to tear into his flesh. Only quick thinking and reflexes saved Christian. He lifted his legs, pressing his feet against the werewolf’s chest, keeping it from biting his head off. Yet despite the advantage of added leverage from lying on the ground, Christian knew this was a losing battle. His strength was ebbing.
“You’re finished, Executioner,” the werewolf howled its victory. “I’m gonna kill you! It’s only a matter of time now. And once I’m done with you, I’m gonna make Lilith my woman! I’m gonna break her, Executioner! I’ll break her and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Christian snarled. How dare this filthy, disgusting, flea-bitten mongrel dare to even think of putting its filthy hands on someone like Lilith! Bad enough that she feared men! She didn’t need this thing coming after her, too!
With strength that he didn’t know he possessed, he shoved at the werewolf with his feet. It stumbled backward, allowing him enough room to maneuver his hands. Before the creature had time to recover, he pulled out his guns and unloaded a barrage into the inhuman beast at point-blank range.
Holes appeared in the werewolf’s chest. Blood erupted from the wounds like miniature geysers, splashing against Christian’s face and body. Yet even as the wounds appeared, they began to heal. The bullets were pushed out, the wounds hissed, and then they were gone, as if they had never been there to begin with.
Click. Click.
Christian grimaced as his guns clicked empty. He had run out of ammo.
“Heh, looks like you’re out of bullets.” The malevolent grin spreading across the creature’s face was filled
with a lust for blood. His blood. “It’s been fun, boy, but I’ve got better things to do then play around with you. Like making Lilith my woman.”
Gritting his teeth hard enough to make his gums bleed, Christian looked around for something, anything, that he could use to get him out of this situation. He couldn’t let this be the end, and he couldn’t let this… this disgusting thing hurt Lilith.
As if God was answering his prayer, Christian saw his sword, Michael, lying just a few feet away. Thinking fast he kicked the werewolf in the face, eliciting a loud snarl of rage. He then scrambled out from underneath the monster and wrapped his fingers around the sword’s hilt.
The feel of cool metal against his palm filled him with confidence. He’d faced worse creatures than this. The aberration before him wasn’t even the strongest werewolf that had died by his hands. He would not be defeated here!
“Oh no you don’t,” the werewolf growled at him, its snarling face showing a rictus of sharp teeth. “You’re finished!”
It lunged at Christian as he lifted Michael from the ground. Turning, he used both hands to thrust the sword forward.
“Urk!”
He watched in satisfaction as the weapon penetrated his enemy’s chest, slicing through hardened flesh like it was warm butter. Blood ran down his blade. It gleamed bright crimson in the moonlight, contrasting with Michael’s silvery sheen.
Silence blanketed the park, broken only by Christian’s heavy breathing and the pained rasps of the monster looming over him. The werewolf’s disbelieving yellow eyes stared into his. It then looked down at the sword penetrating its chest right where its heart was. Copious amounts of blood leaked from the wound, running down its torso like a river. Through the handle, Christian felt the monster’s still beating heart grow fainter with each passing second.
This beast was finished.
“Heh,” it laughed. “To think I would be done in by an Executioner…” It coughed, carnelian liquid dribbling down its mouth and chin. “How… disgraceful…” With those parting words the monster died…
Succubus Page 14
