46. Predation
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
PREDATION
Serun, Lord of the Undercity
They are parasites, the lot of them.
To make sure Saya is safe here in Sancliff while she slumbers, still recovering from yesterday’s ordeal at the fuel station, Serun decides to cleanse the city of slayers.
“Do you think vervain grows out here in the fucking sand?” a slayer with a whiny, nasally voice says.
Serun’s ear flicks at the irritating sound, but he waits, lurking in the shadows.
“I mean, the last place was in the fucking woods. Why are we out here, where nothing grows, while Leon and his team are sitting cosy by the oasis in Yornshire?”
Serun grimaces. Sancliff is a desolate city. Nothing grows, and he doubts anything has grown in some time. Humans don’t come here anymore, according to Zack. But now, they’re here to hunt for vervain.
“Enough complaining. At least we aren’t in the Mount Royal group. Nightwalkers are a pain to deal with, especially since we are trying to be cautious. Now shut up and focus.” A woman with short blond hair rolls her blue eyes at the man who can’t stop damn complaining.
Serun reaches out to his sister through their bond. “Send your lover to Mount Royal, Maeve. Slayers have crossed the border and are looking for vervain. I’d rather not have them get any closer to the Undercity.”
“Done, brother. He will get there as fast as he can.”
The slayer mutters another complaint, his flashlight piercing dead streets filled with newspapers, broken glass, and sand in every fissure it can find. Windows are boarded shut, the wind whispering through the dark, empty buildings.
“Fuck, I need to piss,” another slayer speaking for the first time says as he directs his flashlight down an alleyway. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Serun’s finger twitches, and lines of shadow rip away, following their prey. Then, he looks up at the others, unsuspecting fools ready for slaughter. They should never have touched his kamai.
“There’s no way vervain fucking grows—” The whiny man stops walking, causing the others to do the same. He points his light at the woman’s shadow, revealing enough for Serun to realise his anger had gotten the best of him.
“What is it now?” the woman turns back and hisses, to find her companion staring at her shadow. Following his line of sight, her entire body tenses. “What the fuck?”
Her shadow stretches unnaturally and she stumbles back, her breath quickening.
“Serun,” the complaining halfwit growls.
Serun’s shadows pin the woman in place and pitch-black hands wrap around her throat. Then, with a gargled choke and a snap, her head now faces behind her. Serun releases his hold and the body slumps to the ground.
Whips of ink attack when one of the other slayers tries to pull his weapon. Blood spurts as the shadows tear down his body, sawing him in half vertically.
None shall live. No slayer will exist after what they tried to do to his kamai.
“Fuck this!” The outspoken slayer flees back the way he came, the others following close behind.
Serun lifts a finger, and there is a howling scream. Pieces of the slayer closest to him fly past in thick, meaty chunks. Another scream rends the night as Serun’s shadow grabs a slayer by the legs and drags him in.
The last slayer turns into the alley that the very first went down to relieve himself earlier.
After Serun folds up the slayer he was holding, breaking his spine and cracking bones, red eyes turn to the alley.
The escaping slayer’s flashlight darts up walls and across the stone pathway in complete panic.
Serun saunters towards him, and the slayer slips and falls forward into a trash can, which tips over and rolls through a puddle. He thrashes for a moment, then rights himself and retrieves his flashlight in a terrified frenzy.
The light brings the sticky fluid now covering him into sight.
Blood.
“What the fuck?” he breathes, as something wet hits him in the eye, and he points the flashlight upward to investigate.
A cruel grin spreads across Serun’s face.
A dead slayer hangs suspended above the alley, flesh and sinew attached to the walls like a spider’s web. Blood drips from the violent creation, splashing into the puddle below.
The last slayer’s blue eyes bulge from their sockets, and he chokes out a breath, trying to rise.
The scent of his warm urine wafts up when he sees Serun’s red eyes before him.
The Nightwalker Lord rises from the shadows, long and clawed hands dripping red, and a malicious laugh echoes through the night.
“S-Serun,” he stammers. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he growls, taking a step towards the slayer who immediately shuffles back. “What a funny question when you are in my house, disrupting my home, invading my borders, and touching my wife, slayer.”
The slayer moves to scramble back when Serun steps on his shadow, but his entire body locks into place, paralysed by shadow magik.
Serun closes the gap between them and crouches in front of the slayer. His claws rake through the man’s shadow, and corresponding lines of blood seep through his blue jeans. Serun’s eyes crinkle, and he digs his claws in deeper until the bloodstain becomes a large, oozing wound.
“You seem like the talking type,” Serun says as the slayer shrieks. The Nightwalker Lord’s claws continue to split the slayer’s flesh. “Tell me, slayer: who sent you here, and what do you know about vervain?”
Through gritted teeth, he says, “You can manipulate minds. Why don’t you do it already and get it over and done with!”
“Where would be the fun in that? I want to hear you scream.”
The slayer’s cries cleave the night as Serun peels the skin from his body piece by bloody piece.