The artificial calm ripped away in a surge of rage. His own thoughts came flooding back, sharp and cold. And hungry.
His vision stayed red. His muscles still coiled tight, screaming to move, to strike, to feed. The prey stood in front of him, throat unprotected, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
Part of him, the part that was still Dr. Harold Blackstone, screamed to stop.
He shoved the thought down and took a slow, deliberate step forward.
He breathed in, the prey’s scent flooding his senses. Sweat and leather and the iron-sharp smell of blood pumping beneath skin. Living. Warm.
From his jaw came the welcome sensation of his fangs extending. Sharp and sweaty.
Prey.
Except it wasn't.
Confusion surged up, halting his next step. This prey was wrong. Not prey at all.
Prey that wasn’t prey.
His head turned slowly to the side. More prey that wasn’t prey.
The fear rolling off them hit him hard. Thick. Sharp. The one on the floor drowned in it.
Fear and panic that strong could only come from true prey.
His lips pulled back in a snarl. The prey that wasn’t prey in front of him jerked back.
He tensed, gaze locking on the weak one on the ground, the one softly crying. Take him. His hunger demanded it.
Something cracked hard across his back.
"What are you waiting for? Feed! Obey me!" A shrill voice. A hated voice.
He spun. Breathed deep.
Yes…
Here was true prey. Several of them. Scattered all around, armed with weapons. And a pair of the foul ones, smelling of rot and death. But the hated one was close. Close enough he wouldn’t have to chase it.
It was screaming at him. “OBEY ME! FEED!”
It lifted a weapon to strike and swung.
A guttural snarl tore from his throat as he lunged and his jaw clamped down on the arm.
He was rewarded with the sharp crack of bone and the screaming of the hated voice.
His hands shot up, locking on the arm. He savaged it, jerking his head side to side. Pulled back and bit again, harder, deeper. Again the cracking of bone. The tearing of flesh. The beautiful screams rose even louder.
Attackers hit from both sides. The unclean. The foul ones. They wrapped their arms around him, his head, his body, pummeling him. One tried to bite into his shoulder, the teeth grinding on his armor. The pain was nothing. He savaged the arm again.
All around him was a flurry of motion. The armed prey. Stumbling back. They smelled of fear. Their hearts hammering.
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One raised a weapon and fired at him. He felt the impact in his side, a hard solid punch that knocked him back. The arm separated in his jaws with a wet crack, the hated one staggered and collapsed to the floor.
The prey that weren’t prey were moving now too, rushing the ones with weapons.
He dropped the arm, turned and grabbed the foul one whose teeth were locked on his shoulder. He swung his free arm up, an iron fist crashing down on the top of its skull. It flew back and hit the floor, unmoving.
The other foul one let go and lurched away, following the hated one. The hated was fleeing, helped by one of the other armed prey.
No. Mine.
He moved to chase, but one of the armed prey stepped forward and hurled something. A fire. A torch. Spinning end over end. A part of his mind screamed a warning.
Danger!
But, no. One of the prey that wasn’t prey stepped in front, the torch bouncing off them in a spray of fire.
Another prey raised its weapon and fired. The one who had taken the fire spun back, staggered and fell to the floor. The smell of fresh blood.
Rage welled up. His gaze locked on the prey as it bent over its weapon. Harry stepped toward it. It looked up, met his eyes. Its face twisted with sudden terror. It dropped its weapon. Stepped back. Harry stepped forward again. It turned to run.
Harry chased.
He caught it at the top of the stairs. Launched forward, arms outstretched. His shoulder drove into its back.
Stone steps slammed against his side, driving the thing that was shot into him even deeper. They crashed down several steps, tangled together and slammed to a stop half way down.
The prey struggled, clawing and kicking. Desperate to get away. Harry twisted, pinning it down and locked one arm around its torso, the other hand grabbing its head. He wrenched it to the side, exposing the neck. It thrashed and bucked. He bent low, mouth opening wide, and his fangs sank deep into the side of its neck.
Warm blood flooded his mouth. The prey screamed, then the sound cut to a wet gurgle. Its heartbeat hammered against his lips. Frantic. Then slowing. He drank deep. The struggling weakened. Stopped.
He kept drinking.
The frenzy bled out of him in a rush, leaving his body heavy and his mind raw.
He slumped back and shoved the limp body away, watching it slide down a few more steps.
Pain flared in his side. He looked down. Just below his ribs, the end of a fat arrow, the kind from a crossbow, stuck out between the links of his chainmail.
His shoulder ached. But there the armor had held.
He checked his meters.
H: 143 .. 142 .. | V: 170 .. 169 .. | TM: 0%
High. Already ticking down.
He grabbed the end of the shaft in a fist, locked his jaw, and tore it out.
:: Damage: -22 [Health]
H: 118 .. 117 .. | V: 167 .. 166 .. | TM: 0%
Good. No need to heal. Next to the meters was a stack of messages.
Read them later.
Above him, shouts and the clash of metal. They were still fighting.
Awareness slammed back into him. An image flashed across his mind. Someone had been shot.
He pushed himself up. He had to help.
A wave of dizziness and fatigue washed through him, but not as strong as the last time he’d used frenzy. The new skill levels were helping.
Should have raised it to three, Harry.
He shook his head to clear the memory of how close he’d come to attacking someone.
Was it Cedric?
He had just steadied himself when he heard the door below him open and looked back. An undead stood at the bottom of the steps, starting up, glowing eyes locked on his.
Harry stepped down to the body of the guard he’d drained and waited until the undead was only a few steps below.
He burned vitae, strength surging through him, grabbed the dead guard, and hurled the body into the undead. Bones cracked as they tumbled down. The sound dragged up the memory of earlier. He smiled at the image of Korven running, the stump of his arm clutched tight, leaving a trail of blood.
Shouts and the clash of steel echoed from above.
He spun, pushed vitae into speed, and rushed up the steps.
***
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