Crawling

The industrial district, abandoned at night, is the perfect venue not to be disturbed. Nobody wanders here at this hour except unsavory individuals that are up to no good.

I solemnly swear I fit the profile.

My trusty dagger hidden in the palm of my hand, I approach the dark figure standing guard. Dressed in an embroidered black tunic, the lookout has a hood covering his face. It matches mine. He expects a demon in satanic robes; I don"t want to disappoint.

I appear next to the guard, a nervous man in his mid-40s who is small and lean as I tower above him.

"She"s in the back," he says, mistaking me for his employer.

I plunge the blade into his spine. The metal twists upward, severing his spinal cord.

Hot blood pours against my fingers. I sidestep and check my robes, happy to see I"ve avoided the worst of the gush.

Blood is a pain to wash off fabric.

A smirk festers on my lips as the guard exhales his last breath. I love killing. Stabbing, beheading, slitting throats, etc.

Death weaves the fabric of my soul.

With a swift pull, I free the knife from the body. The empty shell emits a dull thud as it falls to the pavement and splashes blood on my new Nikes. Fuck! I should have snapped his neck.

The blade reeks, and my nose wrinkles. The sentry was human. My brethren use humans for rough legwork, a practice that works to my advantage. Humans are soft and weak, whereas demons are harder to kill.

I have only moments before the chattering of the other demons becomes louder in my head as I battle to keep the Collective"s whispers at bay. If I can"t hold them off, I"ll fail. Violence only heightens them, an annoying side effect of using my powers.

I blend with the shadows of the dimly lit alley, itching for more action, and catch up to the other three humans and the hopeless witch.

Sandwiched between two black cloaks, the girl is a lost speck of color, her long fiery hair catching the light of the moon. One side of her face is swollen. The bruise blossoming on her cheek displays a vibrant mix of red, black and blue.

To demons, witches are holy, their blood a powerful and rare commodity. Demons would have worshiped her, bled her drop by drop until nothing remained.

Used to be my job.

My elders trained me, almost like a dog, to fetch, to track, to capture and to harvest witches. I used to be their favorite pet, but now I"m free. There are no strings on me.

I smash the two men holding the girl against the wall of the adjacent building. The sound of their skulls cracking at the impact makes me perversely happy. Crimson blood splutters down the brick.

The third man grabs his gun, his eyes searching for me, but he only sees the dagger when it penetrates his still beating heart.

In shock, the girl"s terror-stricken mind reels at the sudden freedom, and her face creases in question. I"m invisible to her eyes. A lustrous halo of power surrounds her, luring me in. The flawlessness of her aura is a true sign of her potent bloodline. I let the veil of shadows fall so she can see me.

Reflected in her eyes, I am nothing but a monster.

She springs to life, charging in the opposite direction. Smart. I"ve met this girl, not long ago, in more civilized circumstances. She used to be beautiful. Now, she looks delicious. I place myself in front of her to block her course, moving too fast for her to see. My demon exults as she collides with us, her delicate skin brushing ours.

A distraught whimper escapes her lips, and her striking, green eyes widen. Searching for an explanation, she peeks over her shoulder to where I was standing a second before. Furrowed brows betray her confusion, and her gaze jerks back to me. She draws a sharp intake of breath, her jaw slightly agape.

She doesn"t recognize me. The black eyes and cloak don"t help trigger her memory, and fear oozes from every pore of her fair skin as she shrinks away.

My brain is muddled. Like an alcoholic forced to stare at the purest scotch ever made, I thirst for a sip of witch"s blood, my entire mouth desiccated. Sandpaper drags against my tongue, and I swallow hard.

"Please," she begs.

The Collective presses against my mind once more. I don"t have the luxury to explain. I throw Alana over my shoulders and feel her shiny waves of hair crash against my back. Vain struggles rock her body, the wind muffling her sobs and cries as I run to my car.

A few stepsfrom my goal, a blinding pain sends me stumbling, and I drop my precious cargo. The Collective"s voices slip under my defenses.

"Not now,"I protest through the mental link.

"We"ll kill her, Liam. No. Better yet, we"ll make you kill her,"one rotten voice snickers.

In my mind, I see Alana"s slender body lying in a puddle of blood. Witch blood is my kryptonite. What I wouldn"t give for a taste… But I can"t. Using witch"s blood makes it easy for them to read my thoughts and manipulate me.

The roars relent, and the silence is deafening. The other demon spent a lot of energy to push into my brain for that short time, which means he"s close. Too close.

Let him come,my beast boasts, starved for a challenge. My human side prompts me to hurry.

Alana fled about two hundred feet in the wrong direction during the interlude, so I rip the cloak from my body, trusting my regular clothes to spook her less, and capture her in my arms once more. She screeches at my inhuman speed.

"Alana, let me help you." I press on her shoulders, my fingers digging into her skin. "I"m Liam Walker." Recollection paints her features. Alleluia. "We need to leave. Now."

Her muscles relax under my palms, and relief washes through my hazed brain as she abandons herself to my grasp.

Dazed and drunk by her closeness, I whiz to the car, settle her back on her feet, and open the passenger side door.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins when an imposing silhouette crashes down from the roof of the adjacent building to the hood of my car, smashing the front half to smithereens. Smoke rises from the engine as it whines and coughs its last breath.

The demon has arrived.

Fuck.

Four other men with military grade rifles join him and fan out on either side.

"Liam Walker, never had the pleasure, but your reputation precedes you. I"m Jim Olsen." He hops to the ground, sight riveted on Alana as he speaks.

"Never heard of you." I"ve never met him, but he"s definitely older and more powerful, not a beginner that"s still hooked on blood. Otherwise, he would have lashed out at her without thinking. "Not cool trashing my car."

His frosty glare assesses me with confidence, and it hits me: I"m going to lose.

The speed and stamina brought on by a regular fix of witch blood is significant. Sobriety weakens me. Cornered, I analyze my options. If I fight, I"ll lose. If I try to run with her in tow, the snipers will shoot, her blood spraying everywhere. I shudder at the thought.

My inner devil rejoices, offering me a tempting alternative.

No.I"ve spent years learning to shield my mind from them. Years of not giving in, years of not falling off the wagon, not counting the miserable months during which the withdrawal from blood ripped my soul to shreds. All this pain endured only to give up now? For what? For this one girl? She"s not worth it.

I can disappear without a scratch, leave her behind, her meaningless death added to a lengthy list I never mull over. The only trouble is: she"s not just another witch.

My brother cares for her.

My opponent motions for his men to wait. They are pawns and don"t understand the stakes. The demon not only expects me to use her blood, he"s counting on it, willing to sacrifice a queen to check a king. I slice open my palm in a swift, fluid motion. A dark red wave splashes from the cut.

I put our fate in her frail hands and close her fingers around the hilt of the blade. "Do it too."

Disbelief is written across her lovely face as she meets my gaze.

"Do it." If she doesn"t, she"ll die. If she does, I"ll die.

Lips pressed into a determined line, she cuts herself. Heartbeats hammer at my temples, and my throat bobs in anticipation. I take one last breath as a man before giving in to the evil I used to be. There is no other way.

I seize her wrist, hard enough to bruise her, and crush our wounds together. The intoxicating essence cascades through the blood link. Its potency and savor is exquisite, and I hiss, labored breaths rocking my lungs.

The rush of power rakes through me.

The Collective pushes in. "Good boy, Liam. Now turn her over, and your defection will be forgiven."

"Never." My nerves pulsate in euphoria. Age, experience, strength, numbers, weapons, none of that matters anymore. A blood channel to a newborn witch is unbeatable.

I am unbeatable.

The devil in front of me sneers despite my newfound superiority. The distinct timbre of physical closeness allows me to recognize his voice among the swarm in my mind. "Welcome back to the fold."

I let go of Alana and launch at him, but my murderous grip only finds air, his form vanishing without warning. I howl in disappointment.

Gunshots thunder in my direction, tearing through the murky fog, and metal mosquitoes drill my skin. The bullets spurt back out and bounce off the ground with a distinctive clink. My enraged demon murders the four men as I revel in her taste.

One foot on the throat of the only man still alive, I wait for his bothersome gurgles to subside, until all I hear is the regular thump of a lonely, quickened pulse.

A sense of peace washes over me as I absorb the scene I painted.

The organic palette transformed the achromatic asphalt. The crisp whiteness of bones from mangled ribcages is sprinkled in the narrow street. Guts snake out of ripped abdomens in bluish-purple streaks, and the soft pink of torn muscles contrasts with the grayish yellow of fat that was once flesh. A flamboyant crimson shade of barely-dead blood polishes the canvas with its profuse, pungent strokes.

Death is art, and I"m a devoted artist.

A spark of life clashes against the hues of destruction. The witch is huddled on her scraped knees in the center of the carnage. She"s been drained to the point of exhaustion, and, yet, I need more. My cells are vibrating in need, gasping for her. Oxygen is obsolete. I fall to my knees beside her and pull her palm closer. The red liquid seeping from the cut possesses me, and I lick it. A steely zest invades my senses. I hum.

Without a doubt, the sweetest I"ve ever had.

I kiss her pulse point, and she flinches. God, I want to bathe in her blood.

"Do it,"the voices urge. "Drain her and come back to us." I picture her bound to my bedpost as I carve intricate patterns into her skin with the alluring red ink. "Don"t fight it! Come home, Liam."

Their constant pressure only strengthens my resolve. I summon every ounce of self-control I have left and hold my breath to block her scent. My hand glides across her wrist to her upper arm, and I yank her body closer. Her heart flutters; I can"t think.

With my other hand, I grab the phone in my pocket and pass it to her. "Call Thom."

"Let me go," she pleads.

"I can"t." I convey repentance in my voice, a difficult task given my altered state.

The pull of the blood tugs and twists my intestines, punishing me for my restraint. Enthralled by her fragrance, different from any other, I hide my face in the crook of her neck. She tries but fails to extricate herself from my firm grip, her squirms taunting me.

The next thing I know,we"re not alone, and my senses flare. There"s a man here with us. I crouch next to my girl, ready to protect the spoils of my battle. Ready to kill. The sight of my brother makes me pause, but I"m willing to slice him in two if it means I can keep her.

A foul, acidic stench assaults my nostrils as a tailor-made aconite bomb explodes at my feet. It"s a weapon of my invention, the linchpin of the "in case of emergencies" arsenal, which Thom nicknamed humorously the "if Liam goes apeshit again" kit. Junior has better faith in me than myself. To him, it was a superfluous precaution, but I treated it as crucial.

As usual, I"ve been proven right.

Before I can exhale the poison, my little brother pulls out the family colt and shoots me three times in the chest. The special iron rounds we crafted together bite into my flesh, unforgiving. Oblivion comes over me like a soothing wave as Thom"s expression of absolute disappointment digs deeper than the bullets ever could.

I am a devil after all.