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  Draven followed the lead officer’s gaze to Matthew’s unconscious body and watched the man’s expression harden as he recognized the uniform.

  “That’s Matthew Clark!” There was more anger in the officer’s face than fear now – not a good sign. “What have you done to him?”

  Draven flicked his gaze from the officers’ unnerved expressions to the weapons in their hands, bracing himself to take more bullets. “Don’t worry,” he reassured them, “he’ll be all right. I didn’t kill him. I try to avoid such wasteful behavior when I can help it.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes, drawing in his breath with a hiss. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law,” he pronounced.

  “Naturally,” Draven agreed.

  “I’m going to handcuff you now. You are advised to make no effort to resist arrest.”

  “Of course,” Draven said. Despite himself, a smirk twitched at the corners of his bloodied lips.

  The officer stepped forward, cuffs in hand, and Draven turned around and placed his arms behind his back. Cold, ringed metal tightened around first one wrist and then the other.

  “You know,” he said in a soft tone, his back still turned to the officer, “it’s fortunate that you arrived when you did. Had you been a moment earlier, you would have encountered me while I was still thirsty.”

  Draven didn’t wait for the implications of his words to sink in, but he did take advantage of the man’s momentary hesitation. He spun on his heel. With all his considerable inhuman strength, he yanked his wrists outward against the cuffs.

  The chain snapped with a loud crack.

  Draven seized the officer by the front of his uniform with both hands. The other policemen shouted in alarm. Their guns were still trained on Draven, but he wasn’t about to let them get a clear shot.

  He lifted the flailing and screaming officer off his feet. Straining with the effort, he flung the man at the other five, toppling two of them like bowling pins.

  One of the three officers left standing raised his gun; this time he pointed it directly at Draven’s head. Draven only had a split-second to react, but that was all the time he needed. He charged the officer, ducking as he did so. The gun went off with a bang, but the bullet sped right over its target. Draven collided with the officer, grabbing him and spinning around to face the other two, using the man’s body as a human shield.

  Before they could react, he pushed the officer away from him and gave a kick to the man’s torso that sent him staggering into the second officer. Beside them, the third officer fired a shot at Draven, but his shaking hands ensured the bullet missed its mark by a hair.

  Still, it was too close for comfort. Draven took off running. The other officers were disentangling themselves from each other and getting to their feet. He jumped over them and ran toward the end of the alley. The sound of pounding feet echoed down the alley after him. Cries for him to halt rang out, followed by more gunshots, like thunderclaps in the quiet night.

  Another bullet whizzed past his head, but he ignored his pursuers. The instant he rounded the corner he leapt, twisting his body in mid-air. The familiar sensation of the nearly-instantaneous transformation ripped through him; his bones and body shrinking, fur growing from his flesh, leathery wings extending from his arms.

  Then he was flying, up and away into the freedom of the dark night air.

  He left nothing in his wake save for an unconscious victim, a group of confused and frightened police, and a broken pair of handcuffs.

  ----

  As the approaching dawn turned the night sky grey, Draven flew through the broken stained-glass window of an abandoned church.

  The church stood on the outskirts of a nearby town. The majority of the residents had relocated to Sanctuary, where there were more resources to go around. In the wake of their retreat, the town had soon been overrun by scavengers.

  Most had opted to strip the stores and homes of useful supplies and move on, but one particularly aggressive group of bandits had planted a flag in what was left and claimed it as their turf. The old church had been their main base of operations. The scavengers made it a fortress, and those who had chosen to stay and defend their homes ended up as corpses piled outside in warning.

  This had done little, however, to deter Draven.

  He had been in the market for a new place to stay upon arriving in the region a few months prior, and the church had quickly caught his fancy. It hadn’t taken him much effort to rid it of its infestation.

  Draven wasn’t fond of killing humans, but neither could he abide human barbarism. The majority of humankind had not succumbed to such violent tendencies, even after the collapse of civilization, but there were always outliers. Fortunately for Draven, the outliers didn’t tend to be missed or mourned, and the blood of killers tasted just as good as anyone else’s.

  To maintain the illusion of bandit activity, and thus secure himself some peace and quiet, he had continued the practice of macabre decoration that the marauders had originated – only now it was their own corpses that served that purpose.

  People had left him alone since then.

  Now he paced back and forth through the dusty shadows of the chapel. He was furious with himself for botching the hunt. He had always managed to keep a low profile in his past visits to the city, and now he had half a dozen witnesses to both his crime and his impossible escape. He kicked over one of the wooden pews in frustration. Careless, careless, careless!

  He should avoid showing his face there again for a while. That ruled out his easiest food source the next time he needed a meal – although maybe, after the night’s fiasco, he might have better luck finding some lone wanderer outside the city.

  What bothered Draven most was the image of Matthew’s blood leaking uselessly out of his neck, droplets of crimson against the dark pavement. These days one needed to make every meal count, and he’d only just barely had time to even drink anything. Now he would need to hunt again soon, when he should have been sated for over a week.

  He shoved that thought down; it was only making him thirsty again. He removed his vest and shirt. Sitting on the dusty altar, he examined the bullet holes in the pale skin of his torso. The bullets had gone clean through, thankfully; he might not have been able to safely change into his bat form if he’d had lead stuck in his guts. No harm done, but his body would nonetheless need a little time to regenerate and repair itself.

  He was more upset about the new holes in his clothes than the ones in his body; the latter issue would take care of itself, but he’d never gotten the hang of a needle and thread. He made a mental note, still angry with himself, to never be so careless around prey with guns again.

  Still, there was no use beating himself up over clumsy mistakes. What was done was done, and tomorrow, after all, was a new night. He hadn’t been able to consume much blood in that short time, but he’d had enough to keep himself going for a day or two. In a couple nights he would go out again and seek new prey. Until then, he would rest and conserve his strength for the next hunt.

  And the next, and the next…

  Draven sighed, bowing his head and closing his eyes, trying to think back to a time when there had been a purpose to his days beyond mere survival. The memories felt both distant and immediate, a symptom of a long lifespan. So much was different now, but it hadn’t been that long ago, not really, not for him. Only a few decades ago he’d had things like community and companionship to color in his days.

  But now the only thing his days contained was dust. He was eternal and thin as a shadow, alive and unchanging while the world died all around him. Some days, like Matthew, he wondered what the point of surviving was.

  Perhaps he was just doing the only thing a creature such as him knew how to. Perhaps, he thought with a sigh, some things just weren’t built for change.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The supporters of Sanctuary’s mayor would tell you that Robert Allen had been instrumental in leading the city from the
brink of destruction to a new hub for what remained of civilization.

  Allen himself would say that he hadn’t signed up for any of this.

  And yet here he was, still mayor six years after the end of the world. He fancied himself a survivor, both literally and politically. He had adapted, and even thrived. Allen was proud of his city, and of its people for retaining their decency and cooperative spirit in such difficult times.

  All of which made the police chief’s recent report – that a young officer had been victimized by a seemingly superhuman attacker – a bitter pill to swallow. He had done his best to keep the news under wraps, so as not to start a panic, but rumors circulated faster than they could be controlled.

  Evidently, those rumors had reached the man now standing in his office. Allen had had his doubts when he learned Bodrock had contacted the police chief, but the problem needed to be dealt with quietly, and Bodrock, whatever else he may be, struck Allen as a competent sort of person.

  “Sanctuary is putting its faith in you, Mr. Bodrock,” Allen said. “Normally we would leave such matters to our police force, but in light of what happened the other night...that is to say, in certain circumstances –”

  “In certain circumstances,” Bodrock finished in a deep, rough voice, “it’s best to hire a professional.”

  Bodrock was certainly not, however, the type of professional that the mayor was accustomed to dealing with. He was tall and muscular, bald-headed, with a long diagonal scar across his forehead and cheek. He wore a sleeveless shirt and a leather vest, and had removed a significant number of weapons from his person before his audience with the mayor.

  “You can rest easy, Mr. Mayor,” he continued. “Believe it or not, my organization has been handling such things since long before the Devastation.”

  Allen fidgeted with a pen on his desk. “Frankly, I’m not sure what to believe here. But all that matters to me is that this threat to my city is dealt with. Preferably as soon as possible.”

  Bodrock produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and removed one, placing it between his teeth and lighting the end with a crimson lighter. The mayor scowled slightly at the display. He didn’t smoke, but only because cigarettes had become a luxury item, hard to come by with so few people left to produce them. A fact that Bodrock was surely well aware of.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Mayor,” Bodrock assured him between drags. “I’m as eager to get the job done as you are. I haven’t had proper work since before the plague.”

  The mayor frowned, wrinkling his nose at the scent of smoke in the air. “As I understand it, you’ve done pretty well for yourself in the new world. Personal bodyguard, mercenary for hire, even assassin on occasion.” He glanced at Bodrock’s raised eyebrows. “Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Bodrock. Your reputation precedes you, and I like to know who I’m working with.”

  “I don’t deny it,” Bodrock conceded with a knowing glint in his eyes. “I’ve kept busy. But dealing with common thugs is not what I was trained for. I see this job as a chance to get back in touch with who I truly am.”

  “As long as who you truly are is someone who gets results, I’ll be more than grateful. Beyond that, it’s none of my concern.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Mayor. I already have a lead to follow. A church in Shoreline. A local gang calling themselves the Blood Brothers claimed that area as their turf, but their activity seems to have abruptly stopped. No sign of them in the past couple months. If your criminal is what I think he is, I suspect he might have something to do with that.”

  Allen gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Like I said, I don’t need all the details. Just get it done, Mr. Bodrock.”

  “I’ll go there first thing tomorrow. You’ll soon be able to put this matter behind you.”

  Outside the mayor’s office window, a cloaked figure crouched unseen on the windowsill. Jumping into the air with a graceful twisting motion, it dropped away from the window and out of sight. A moment later, a winged shape flew up into the still night air, speeding north toward the horizon.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Draven stretched as he sat up from the altar, making the joints of his shoulders crack. It was dark outside; he had slept longer than he intended, and already his thirst had returned. It was time to venture out and find something to drink. A proper, uninterrupted drink this time.

  Before he could act on that thought, the old wooden church door creaked open.

  All thought of thirst vanished at the sound. Draven rolled off the altar and crouched behind it, tense and waiting, his senses acting fast. He heard no voices, no footsteps.

  But someone was there.

  Draven clenched his fist, preparing himself for anything. Whoever the intruder was, they had guts, entering a place like this unannounced. Had they not seen the bones and bandit corpses piled outside in warning? No matter; if they were a threat to him, they would soon regret their boldness.

  “Draven,” a familiar voice rang out. “I know you’re there.”

  He released the breath he had been holding with a hiss of surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

  “Damian,” he said, rising to face the visitor. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

  The figure in the doorway hadn’t changed much in the past thirty years; he still had the deceptive appearance of a thin old man, dressed in a well-worn traveling cloak, his gray hair slicked back. His wrinkled face lit up with a cunning smile at the sight of Draven. “Aha, finally,” he cried. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. How long has it been? Too many decades since I last laid eyes on you.”

  Draven frowned. “You know why that is, Damian.”

  The pang of nostalgia he felt at the sight of his old friend was tainted by wariness. As glad as part of him was to see Damian, it was an unexpected surprise, and Draven didn’t like surprises. He’d managed to spend months in Wineblood territory without drawing attention to himself, and now a Wineblood had just walked in on him.

  “Ah,” Damian said, “you’ll have to forgive me for dropping in unannounced like this. But you see, I’ve been searching for you.”

  With a sigh, Draven walked around to the front of the altar. He leaned against it with his arms crossed as he regarded Damian suspiciously. “Not without good reason, I trust?”

  “Of course, my friend,” Damian said lightly as he approached Draven. “I wouldn’t seek out a grumpy old recluse if all I wanted was the pleasure of his company.”

  Draven growled wordlessly under his breath. He couldn’t put his finger on why Damian’s unexpected appearance was bothering him, but he wasn’t in the mood for the man’s teasing sense of humor. He took a step forward. “Cut to the chase. How did you find me and why did you come?”

  Damian raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, but did not back away. “Peace, Draven. As I said, I’ve been trying to find you. Reports placed you in New Mexico before the Devastation.”

  Draven arched an eyebrow. “Whose reports?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” said Damian. “You must have known Lady Selene would keep track of your whereabouts, even if you weren’t in Wineblood territory anymore. But then we lost track of you in the confusion when the plague struck. Most assumed that you were still down south, but I had my doubts.”

  “You thought I’d take the excuse to return to my old haunts?” Draven questioned.

  Damian chuckled. “I guess you’re more predictable than you realize. But you know you’re not supposed to be in Washington, right? What happened, New Mexico get too sunny for you?”

  “New Mexico was fine. So were Montana, Wyoming and Colorado. I didn’t think the other clans would welcome an exile with open arms, so I stayed on the move and kept a low profile.”

  “Then what brought you back here?”

  Draven sat down on the altar, running a finger in circles across its dusty surface. “One has to go where the humans are these days. I thought I’d be all right if I avoided the Manor. It was going okay, too,
until you showed up. How’d you know where I was?”

  “I figured I’d check this area first,” Damian explained, “to see if my hunch was correct. If not, I’d head south. Earlier tonight I stopped in Seattle to seek news from the region. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the rumors on everyone’s tongues – that a mysterious assailant had attacked a man in the night and escaped the city police by vanishing into thin air. Even stranger, they said that he’d bitten his victim’s neck. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  Draven glanced away from Damian’s knowing eyes, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Ah…well. I may have gotten a little careless.”

  The edge of Damian’s mouth twitched upward. “I’d have said it could have been any of us, but this close to the Manor, there weren’t any Winebloods unaccounted for. I must say, I’m surprised to find you so close to home.”

  “As I said, the choice was made out of necessity, not desire.”

  “Mhm,” Damian hummed. He sounded unconvinced, which only sparked another flicker of annoyance in Draven. “Well, that wasn’t the only bit of gossip going around. Word had it that the city’s mayor was meeting this very night with a mercenary hired to track down this elusive criminal. I decided to listen in on this meeting, and in so doing I learned about this place. I heard the mercenary tell the mayor that he would be on his way here first thing in the morning.” He shook his head, a look of concern on his face. “My friend, for someone who dislikes unexpected guests so much, it would seem you have not kept your profile low enough.”

  Draven brought his hands together and cracked the joints in his knuckles. “Clearly. But don’t fear for me, Damian. I’ve dealt with unwanted visitors before.”

  “I know you have. I don’t doubt your ability to defend yourself, but from what I could gather, this man coming for you is no mere mercenary. He seemed to know what kind of foe he’s up against.”