• Kyrie ran his pale fingers over the dark green fabric of a curtain. The velvet was smooth and heavy, and Kyrie embraced the tactile pleasure. Through the openings of the heavy curtains shot the needle-like light of the rain-drenched streetlights below.

    “You’ve always served the clan first, Kyrie.” Ryne said from behind him. Kyrie turned, his gaze following the flow of the fabric to the ground, finally raising his eyes to look upon his comrade. His brother looked through parted brown hair with guilt. He hated himself for the request he was making. Losing control, Ryne tore his gaze from Kyrie’s blue eyes. “This isn’t fair of me to ask. This isn’t your responsibility and I should be going.” He said through a stiff jaw. Kyrie raised his gloved hand and placed it on Ryne’s bony shoulder.

    “You have no right to ask,” he said, “but I have less right to refuse. You shouldn’t die when you have such a future”.

    “None should die, especially you”. Kyrie’s hand slid from Ryne’s shoulder as he traversed the room.

    “Maybe I won’t” Kyrie whispered as he walked from the room.


    The series of warehouses the stretched down the street had once held shipping goods, and Kyrie could still recognize the stink of fish that pervaded, though the Infectum had purchased the entire stretch of buildings to house their operations. Kyrie pushed the heavy door open, snapping the attached padlock as he pulled it open. Within stood countless long crates. Makeshift coffins. The slaves of the Infectum needed to rest surrounded by the earth in which they died, unlike the masters. Unlike Kyrie and his clan.

    “You’ve come, Pedes Mortuus?” Laughed the wolf master from atop the towers of coffins,

    “The Blue Talon is wise to pay the blood debt”.

    “I don’t intend to pay, Tursus”. The master smiled, his rough, wild hair bristled. As he fell gracefully from his tower, so emerged a score of his wolf slaves, standing feral on their back legs, glaring and aching for the taste of Kyrie’s death. They approached in a line, the entire group surrounding Kyrie upon reaching him. As they pounced upon him, Kyrie unsheathed his rapier, tearing through the attackers. The bodies lunged and slid to a lifeless stop as they piled, but soon the sheer numbers overtook the vampire, knocking him to the ground as teeth and claws tore at his body.

    “This isn’t a game, Kyrie”.

    “Of course not”.