46. Conall
Conall
As the large forms come closer I brace and transform into my hound. Ivy's hands curl into the fur at my back. My hound and I are nearly feral right now, ready to fight and kill and die to keep our mate safe.
But as the figures in the distance come into focus and step into the light of the full moon I relax, my claws retract. I look back over my shoulder. Ivy's big frightened eyes find my face.
"It's okay. They're on our team." Her shoulders drop and she cocks her head.
A dragon, large and winged with molten red eyes and night-black scales, surges over the hill and latches onto whole clusters of the mutant bats Ada's been fighting.
A man covered in tattoos follows on foot, his skin pale and wet-looking in the moonlight.
Colt, the ferryman. The bottom half of his body is a writhing mass of thick coiled tentacles that lash out, grabbing and suctioning redcaps and pixies.
A snarl behind us has me spinning Ivy so she stays at my back.
Puppy snaps out in front of Dolly. Five vampires stare back at us.
A well-fed, socially adjusted vampire is like anyone else, just pale and living off blood and allergic to the sun.
Reasonable people. And then you have vampires like these five.
Feral, blood-starved monsters. Their skin is mottled and torn in places where they've resorted to drinking their own coagulated blood.
Their mouths hang open, teeth ragged but still sharp.
A war cry tears through the air as a group of centaurs led by Killian charges the feral things.
"Conall." Ivy's strained voice has me turning. The glowing lines are now red. As red as her blood.