Two uniformed figures, pale-faced and clad in dark tunics, rushed from a side corridor, their hands already reaching for the silvered crossbows slung across their backs. Revaz never turned. He moved like a shadow, a blur of muscle and black fur, closing the gap in one silent bound. The first guard barely registered the movement before a massive paw swatted him from his feet. The man’s head twisted at an impossible angle as he crashed into the wall, a sickening crunch echoing through the chamber.
The second guard, faster, managed to loose a silver-tipped bolt. It whistled past Revaz’s ear, embedding itself in the steel support beam behind him. The beast showed no reaction to the near-miss. His focus was solely on the struggling guard. One swipe of his hand, blunt claws shearing fabric and flesh, tore the crossbow from the man’s grasp. Then, with a casual flick, he tossed the weapon aside, and the guard followed it, a broken doll flung across the room.
Blood slicked the gleaming floor. Revaz, his movements economical, stepped over the felled bodies. His gaze never left Tamar, but his path intersected with Elder Gela, who had almost reached the lowest step of the metal staircase. Gela scrambled, his eyes wide with a terror that finally eclipsed his cunning.
“No, Alpha! My loyalty! It was… a necessary realignment!” Gela shrieked, pressing himself against the cold metal.
Revaz paused. A low, vibrating sound resonated from his chest, a sound of unadulterated fury that caused the very air in the room to thrum. Gela looked up, his face a mask of pleading. The wolf's hand, thick with muscle and dark fur, shot out. It wasn’t a blow; it was a grab. It closed around Gela’s outstretched arm, a grip that swallowed the limb whole. Gela’s scream was cut short, replaced by a wet, tearing sound.
Revaz refused to pull. He twisted. The arm, still clutched in Gela’s sleeve, separated from the elder’s torso with a sickening pop and squelch. Gela collapsed in a heap, a geyser of scarlet staining the polished floor, his remaining hand clutching the stump where his arm had been, his eyes rolling back in his head as he spasmed.
Kostava, the landlord, watched the carnage without retreating. The demise of his guards and the pack elder barely registered beyond a flicker of annoyance. His grand plan was crumbling, but the prize remained. Tamar was still strapped. Her blood, the antidote, the weapon against his immortal frailty, was right there.
“A regrettable setback,” Kostava hissed, his pale lips peeling back from elongated canines. He launched himself forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes, moving with a speed that belied his refined appearance. He aimed for Tamar’s exposed throat, a quick, desperate attempt to claim what he needed before the beast reached her.
Tamar, however, had spent years perfecting the art of dealing with aggressive, entitled patrons. She saw the lunge coming, an instinct honed by countless coffee-fueled altercations. As Kostava’s face, a mask of desperate hunger, drew near, she didn't flinch. She twisted her wrist against the restraint, the friction of the iron clamp digging a shallow cut into her forearm. A bead of blood welled up, bright and red against her pale skin.
With a grunt of exertion, she met Kostava’s lunge with her own, not recoiling, but leaning into it. As his fangs brushed her skin, seeking purchase, she shoved her bleeding arm directly into his gaping mouth. His pupils shrank to pinpricks against the sudden, blistering sting.
He recoiled, a choked gasp tearing from his throat, his hands flying to his face. The drop of her toxic blood, slick on his tongue, ignited immediately. His skin crackled, turning to ash at the edges, his immaculate suit fraying into dust. A low, gurgling scream escaped him, and then, with a sound like dry leaves caught in a sudden breeze, he disintegrated. A fine, grey powder, smelling faintly of ozone and old parchment, settled on the draining chair, on Tamar’s arm, on the gleaming floor.
Tamar watched the last wisps of her landlord vanish. “Huh,” she mused, wiping a smudge of ash from her cheek with her good hand. “Guess that means I don’t owe rent for last month.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the whimpering of the dismembered Gela and the heavy, ragged breathing of the beast that had been Revaz. He stood before her, a hulking silhouette caked in crimson. Blood from the guards, Gela’s arm, and charred ash clung to his fur, his teeth, his claws. He was a walking nightmare, a symphony of carnage, and he was staring at her with those same black-swallowed eyes, no recognition, only the deep-seated hunger of an apex hunter.
He took a step. Then another. The distance closed. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his huge frame, smell the metallic tang of fresh blood and the musk of his feral rage. His snout wrinkled again, a low, guttural growl resonating from his chest, a sound that promised oblivion. His head dipped, those ivory fangs centimeters from her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
Revaz, the gentle, overprotective guard dog, was gone. This was something else entirely. Something that wanted to tear her apart. Her straps held firm, the chair a cage that delivered her straight to the monster.
She didn't flinch. She didn't scream. With her free hand, still streaked with Kostava’s dust, she reached into the pocket of her oil-stained apron. Her fingers fumbled for a moment, then pulled out a crumpled, damp piece of cardboard, perforated at the edges.
She held it up, directly in front of the brute's snarling muzzle. “Alright, dummy,” she deadpanned, her voice flat, utterly devoid of fear. “I think this is your tenth coffee. It’s free.”
The beast froze. The snarling stopped. The black eyes, so utterly devoid of humanity, flickered. For a split second, a flicker of something else—a spark of amber, a hint of deep, familiar brown—struggled against the encroaching darkness. A low whimper, almost human, escaped him.
The ground rumbled. A section of the far wall, already weakened, gave way with a shower of dust and debris. Through the newly formed gap, a figure crawled, dragging himself into the chamber. His skin was a lattice of angry red burns, his clothes charred rags, but his eyes, though bloodshot and rimmed with pain, held a dangerous, manic gleam. Malkhaz, Revaz's father, pulled himself fully into the room, his burned hand clutching a small, black device with a blinking red light and an ominous red trigger toggle.