For a heartbeat, Zane's blood froze in his veins.

The unsteady, limping steps stopped as every muscle in his wiry body tensed to the breaking point. Slowly, almost as if in slow motion, his gaze turned away from the humans in their worn uniforms and coats and focussed on the disgustingly grinning face of the vampire scion.

Something cracked inside him. The dam of his restraint creaked dangerously with each of the quick, shallow breaths that filled his lungs. The physical pain mingled with the mental pain of the loss he had suffered. His fingers twitched on the sides of his body, and beneath the dark cloak, his shoulders began to shake like the earth just before a volcanic eruption.

>>Badumm<<

The heartbeat thundered in his ears like timpani beats on mighty war drums.

MURDERER!

>>Badumm, Badumm, Badumm!

A roar tore from his throat. But it became a furious growl as his bones cracked and knit themselves back together instantly. Tanned skin gave way to snow-white fur. The wide black cloak fell to the grass and was left behind like a warrior fallen into the night as the predator leaped out from behind Myra.

Zane exploded like a powder keg. His vision blurred in a blood-red mist that cleared all his senses and mercilessly blotted out everything else except for one thought: REVENGE!

"FILTHY BASTARD!"

His sharp claws tore out small tufts of grass as he shot through the night like a lightning bolt. He had only one target: Casimir, the filthy, stinking, undead rat! The wretched traitor! Despicable snake and disgraceful murderer!

The large paws drummed on the ground. The adrenalin and the rage suppressed the pain in his body. He bridged the distance between himself and the filthy revenant with breakneck speed.

Only a stone's throw separated him from Casimir when the latter recognized the impending danger - and frantically tried to put distance between himself and the raging cat.

Zane's lips twitched, already baring the bloodthirsty daggers of his fangs. Then, the click of a bolt rang out in the night.

>>WHAMM!<<

Out of the corner of his eye, Zane saw the muzzle flash. He felt a rush of air as the bullet whizzed just past his muzzle. If it had hit his head...

Then, a scream rang out, fading into a gurgling rattle.

Zane threw his head around and just saw the man fall to the ground. Blood gushed from the torn throat like oil from a spring. The gunman lay lifeless in the grass, his face frozen into a grimace of terror at the last moment of certainty of death.

"Traitorbitch!" Zane heard Casimir hiss, only a few paces away.

Myra stood only a few cat-lengths away from him. The long fingernails of her hand were smeared with the blood of the man lying dead in the grass beside her. Red drops came off the long fingernails and dripped into the grass like shimmering pearls.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat. The feral hunter's sun-golden eyes were interspersed with the red gleam of bloodthirsty savagery on the silver-white moon of the undead. Something in him shivered at the sight of her.

The full lips that could make a man forget to breathe had become a thin line. Every last trace of humanity had disappeared from her undead features. It was as if she had once again become her master's puppet. The ice-cold blood hunter who knew no mercy... Were it not for the dark veil in the shimmering soul mirrors that told of the wild waves of anger and reminded him of the black shadows of his own pain.

Casimir had made a fatal mistake: He had not considered that exposing this sordid murder would also awaken Myra's thirst for blood. He had made one enemy too many.

The big head of the feline predator tilted slightly as it nodded briefly to the undead before the massive skull flew around again to latch onto its next target. Growling, it sucked the air into its lungs, flattened its ears, and bared its teeth.

"Kill them! Kill them both!"

Casimir had retreated behind the line of humans like the greasy rat he was. Casimir held the gleaming bone-handled dagger in his hand as the cultists approached them.

Zane would have liked to snort contemptuously. It was typical for humans to hide behind the expendable peasants or to send others into a fight that the string-pullers had provoked beforehand.

Narrowing his eyes, Zane's gaze swept over the field and the cultists in their brown cloaks—cloaks that dated back to a time when people had fought each other before the veil was torn and the Vaesen came into this world. The emblem on their cloaks shimmered ominously, and it was ironic that a dagger played a central role.

Zane counted eight enemies as he fell back to Myra's side, limping slightly. There were nine of them with the fallen man—nine who wanted to make him a scapegoat and end his life like his brother's.

If he had fully possessed his strength, these few men would hardly have been enough to overpower him. But he was wounded, felt the pain pushing through the savage throbbing in his chest every time he drew the air deep into his lungs and strained the barrel too much. What's more, the followers of what Casimir called this 'glorious time' were all armed.

The barrels of the pistols and rifles glinted in the dark as the people lined up before them. Two stayed a little behind. With the stocks pressed firmly against their shoulders, he recognized the dangerous 98k carbines.

"The guns need to go," Zane hissed to the undead at his back. "Keep them busy for a minute, I..." he was about to offer when he felt a strange chill down his spine. His fur began to bristle instinctively.

It was the same eerie feeling when you didn't feel alone in a graveyard but couldn't find anything. A black mist wafted past him, and the mere sight of the haze moving against the wind, far from any logic, could make your blood run cold.

Many older undead possessed annoying gifts like this. Dissolving or changing their shape, even influencing the weather or animals. Zane had often cursed these shadow creatures because, as enemies, it made them powerful and terrifying. He was glad to have a revenant at his side instead of an enemy for the first time.

"I'll take care of it! Distract her, cat," he heard it whisper in the wind before it clicked again to his left. Instinctively, he threw himself to the side as the bang sounded and small clods of earth hit his legs.

As soon as his paws touched the ground, he pushed himself off the ground and threw himself at the shooter. Metal and bone crunched as the mighty jaw closed around the outstretched hand with the pistol. The cry of pain from the cultist's throat sounded like music to his ears as the mighty paw cut through the night with a relentless slash.

The claws tore through the fabric as if it were made of paper. As it tore the weapon from his hand, a fine mist of blood descended on his fur. The metal shattered between his jaws with a crack. His victim staggered back into the grass and clutched his hand to his bleeding chest. The man's legs wriggled frantically in the grass. He tried to flee backward in an uncoordinated manner, but Zane immediately gave chase. None of these rats would escape today!

His sharp teeth dug mercilessly into the man's throat. Warm blood rushed down his throat, and his battle roar mingled with the dying death sound of his enemy. For a moment, he held his prey between his fangs. The predator felt the lifeblood stain his lips before he dropped the lifeless body onto the grass.

Letting out a battle cry, another soldier rushed forward. Raising the gleaming silver blade of a short sword, he struck a blow at his flank with a grim expression. But for the battle-hardened Cait-Sith warrior, the comparatively slow blow was almost laughable. With a fluid movement, Zane dodged the blade and used the gap to pounce on the nearest human.

The curved claws dug mercilessly into the flesh, tearing deep wounds and breaking bones with their incessant slashes as if they were nothing but rotten branches. Without their weapons, these pathetic creatures had no chance against a vaesen - had they learned nothing from the lost war?

A horrified scream rang out in the background, but this quickly gave way to a gurgling rattle as Myra peeled herself out of her misty form and finished off one of the men in the background. The undead didn't waste any time before she pounced on the next man with a snarl. 'A vampire is as strong as twenty men,' a writer had once written ... foolish idiots.

The crack of a pistol echoed through the night. This time, the bullet hit its target. Zane winced in pain and just managed to dodge the next attacker's blow - at least partially. A searing pain followed the blade as it penetrated his white fur and cut through the flesh near the back line. With a pain-filled growl, the attacker forced him to retreat.

Suddenly, a strange feeling crept into his shoulder—a hot, tingling burn like fire, igniting in his flesh like an ember without anything hitting him. His own pain mingled with a stranger's, and his gaze flickered jerkily to Myra.

Black blood seeped from a bullet wound on her right shoulder before she grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked it upwards. Another shot rang out, and the muzzle flash illuminated the cold features of the undead, whose petrified features resembled a death mask. Even as the cultist struggled to regain his balance, the long claws sliced through the air again, cutting through the throat as easily as if it were soft as butter.

That left only four men - and the greasy rat itself. But even these would follow their comrades to their deaths.

If there was one thing he agreed with the undead today, it was that none of these bastards would leave this place alive.

The calculation was simple: either the cultists or them.