Cheshire is fighting the dog, my crows are pecking at Mahiri, and both Bashe and Shane are unaccounted for. As the violence breaks out, the crowd–which to this point had mostly continued their various forms of entertainment–starts to panic and make for the exits, a throng of not-quite-humanity pushing in different directions and creating chaos that I hope to use as cover from the fucker with a crossbow that I just sicc’d crows on.

This is an absolute nightmare.

I try to blend into the rush of figments but I’m well aware that I stick out like a bloodied schoolgirl in a crowd of dancers. The cavalcade of sensory data is threatening to overwhelm me again, the movement of the crowd and the screams and cries of panicked clubbers; it’s a mess and I hate it.

I shove past a few figments in skimpy garb, trying to put distance and bodies between me and the reavers, and I glance back at the mess I left behind just in time to see a flaming crossbow bolt sink into a figment right as he passes in front of me. I catch a brief glimpse of the female reaver, Mahiri, bleeding from one eye but no longer being pecked at by my crows. What did she do, shoot them!? Stab them!?

I duck low, grateful for the confused masses blocking off a clear shot, and wince at the poor victim that took a bolt for me. He screams as green-gold flame spreads across his body from the wound in his torso, and the sheer agony of that sound has me wondering if he’s really a figment… but Lena was convincing too. It doesn’t matter either way. This is a mercy kill.

[Prey Upon]: all to mana. I crouch down further and press my hand to a yet-unburned part of the downed man’s leg, then unleash the spell. Shadows spill from my hand and sink into the body of the victim like teeth biting down. I can feel, in some intangible sense, as the tendrils of my magic find purchase within this man’s essence and extract their due. The burning man breathes his last, going silent, and the shadows pull back into my hand with a bounty of mana in tow.

It doesn’t feel anywhere near as good as feeding on Lena did, but there’s an undeniable satisfaction in the feeling of this mana pouring into me. The pleasant sensation helps dull the panic pounding in my chest, but only so much.

I rise from my crouch, still trying to stay hidden in the crowd but needing to move quickly lest I be left out in the open. I stumble away from the corpse of the probably-a-figment and do my best to keep the other figments between me and that archer. A few more bolts sink into clubbers around me as I try to navigate my way toward the exit, but I don’t risk another [Prey Upon]; the crowd is starting to thin as people make their way out the door.

When I feel like I have a moment’s breath, I spare a glance back at the corner I came from and see the giant wolf–Cheshire–take a brutal axe blow from the male reaver–Shane. Cheshire doesn’t see it coming, focused on scrapping with the not-a-dog, and the blade comes cutting in without warning. My heart stops as the axe cleaves through the wolf, separating flesh and bone with impossible cutting power. On panicked stupid instinct I reach out toward Cheshire, a scream half-formed in my throat, but then the bloody halves of her body melt away into smoke and shadow, and a torn notebook drops to the ground in her place.

Cheshire reforms next to me, catgirl once more, and winces. “Sorry about the notebook. We should run.” Her form feels immaterial again; she’s not translucent or anything like that, but I just have this sense in looking at her that she’s less physical right now than she was a second ago.

“Uhh right. Yes. Running time.” I try to ignore the massive whiplash of what just happened and instead focus on getting as far away as possible from the people trying to kill me.

We dash for the exit at full speed–or rather I dash, shoving figments out of the way to make a beeline for the door, and Cheshire just rejoins my shadow to piggyback along. Then I hear an awful barking sound, something halfway between what a dog should sound like and the scraping of nails on chalkboard, and it’s getting closer.

I glance behind me and see the horrible not-a-dog teleporting through the crowd, blinking in and out of existence to bypass the remaining mass of figments and come right for me. For a moment my terror spikes to untenable levels, but then it hits me how injured the creature is: it’s covered in bloody wounds from its scrap with my wolf.

As the monster dog leaps for me, I throw out a hand and scream, “[Exsanguinate]!”

I slam the activation sigil as soon as the spell diagram pops into my brain, and then I watch in enraptured fascination as the dog-creature’s many wounds gush and convulse, blood ripped from the beast’s body in vicious bursts. Crimson liquid soaks into its hairless skin and falls to the floor in waves of red rain, and when it slams into me it is frail, shaking, and even with my paltry strength I’m able to push it off before it can do more than scratch at me.

The monster is pale and bleeding and yelping in pain, too weak now to even rise to its feet. It twitches and whines, body struggling to move bloodless limb in pursuit of its target. I don’t give it a chance to recover, lunging for the beast and snarling, “[Prey Upon]!” as I grab at it. The shadow trick repeats itself, my magic flowing into the dying creature and ripping out its very essence. I don’t specify mana this time, and a part of me is very hungry to find out what a soul tastes like… if this creature even has one.

The taste is altogether different this time: as my magic flows back to me, the flavor of it is neither the intense savory of Lena’s blood nor the muted satisfaction of taking mana from the fallen figment; I still feel a trickle of mana returning to me, the spell’s efficiency paying minor dividends, but what I take from this creature is so much more than mere mana.

A fragment of something glorious slides down my throat, and as it melts away inside me I feel more: more powerful, more capable, more real. It’s like the feeling when I saw Cheshire manifest, yet somehow applied to my own existence, my own self-perception and sense of consciousness. I feel more true than I was a second ago, and I have the overwhelming, terrifying realization that there is still so much more I can become.

I laugh with manic delight as I take my next step on the path to apotheosis, and then I look up from the dog just in time to see Shane bringing his axe down at me. I scream in terror, stumble back, and raise my arms in front of me in desperate survival instinct.

The axeblade sinks into the flesh of my right arm and carves deep, and I scream as white-hot agony lances up my arm. The axe tears through skin, parts muscle and fat, and when it hits bone I can feel my arm splintering from the impact. He rips the axe out and I see the layers of meat that comprise my arm before blood rushes in to fill the vast emptiness.

“You should have joined us,” the reaver says with a shake of his head. “You didn’t have to die here.”

The pain drives every thought from my mind and I cry and fall against the floor–it hurts it hurts it hurts–as the fear comes rushing in and I scrabble to get away on desperate hands and knees but I can’t feel my hand. The reaver comes in for another strike and I can feel in my screaming bones that this is where I die–

–but then Bashekehi is there in between us, lashing out with the flagellant’s scourge.

Shane dodges the attack, his movements so fast as to be blurred, but he keeps his distance, wary, and I realize on second glance that Bashe’s weapon is writhing with those shadows that mark the magic of the Abyss. I stare at the scourge, at the shadows, but it’s hard to hold on to that information because the pain in my arm is still pounding through my whole body. He cut me to the bone, and I don’t have a potion anymore.

I don’t stay to watch the fight.

I sprint for safety, for anything, and throw myself behind the nearest bit of cover–the bar, it’s the bar. Cheshire comes out of my shadow as I slide behind the counter and crumple to the floor, the catgirl looking deeply concerned at the gigantic fucking hole in my arm.

“The cloak,” she tells me, and I look at her blankly. “Use the cloak to manifest me and I can get back in the fight,” she clarifies.

Oh. Right. Fighty wolf. Geist rules. Bodyguard. Focus.

The knowledge comes to me dimly through the haze of anguish, but I comply. I tear the cloak from my shoulders with my working hand and stumble my way through the incantation, focusing on the memory of Cheshire’s prior manifestation. I remember the words, mostly, and the act of will, and the shaping of a visual, though it’s all shaky.

“This cloak your anchor, and dreams your body. Rise, Cheshire, and destroy my enemies!”

Cheshire’s form becomes real again, and immediately she’s back in wolf mode. Now that I actually have a chance to look at her closely, I’m amazed at this latest shape: she’s larger than any wolf I’ve ever seen, lean and powerful, with snow-white fur and a full set of vicious-looking chompers. One eye is gold, the other ice-blue, just like every form she’s taken so far. She’s a perfect specimen, and I absently reach out to feel her fur with my not-bleeding arm. Her fur is wonderfully coarse and dense, and even through the pain it makes me feel a little better.

Focus! We need to perform repairs. I shake my head, breathe deep, and look at the wound: deep and horrible, blood and flesh and visible bone. My arm is useless to me like this. I struggle out of my shirt, the act awkward but doable, and start wrapping it tightly around my injured limb.

It infuriates me that I’ve had to sacrifice clothing for bandages twice in two days, especially now that I’m down to a bra and skirt, but the self-conscious embarrassment isn’t enough to burn away the dread and anxiety I feel knowing that both reavers are still alive out there, armed and hunting for me.

That fear gets a massive spike when I hear Cheshire growl and see her lunge for a target just out of sight. I freeze up in the midst of my bandaging and watch as Cheshire collides with the archer, Mahiri, who appears from around the corner with sword in hand and crossbow nowhere to be seen, blade smeared with black blood that I can only assume to have come from the crows I set on her. “Found you,” the reaver growls.

Cheshire snaps at Mahiri but the reaver is fast, movements blurred like Shane’s were, and dodges each frenzied bite. The reaver sidesteps another bite and stabs at Cheshire, but the wolf becomes a hummingbird for just long enough to fly around the blade before transforming back into a wolf for another bite attack.

The two test each other, trading feints and strikes but never actually drawing blood, careful and wary. Cheshire keeps between me and the reaver, able to project enough aggression to keep Mahiri back but not able to gain any ground. I’m tense, terrified that Cheshire will make a single mistake and there will be nothing between me and the tip of that sword. I have to do something.

Mahiri isn’t bleeding anywhere near as bad as her dog was, but there’s still a bit of red trickling from one eye where my crows pecked at her before they were slain. I don’t know how that will affect my spell, but I have to try.

Cheshire snaps at the reaver, the reaver cuts back, and when Cheshire turns into a tiny bug to avoid the attack I point at Mahiri’s bleeding eye and scream, “[Exsanguinate]!”

What follows is… unpleasant. Mahiri’s eye pulps as the blood is ripped out of it, and she clutches her ravaged socket with the hand not holding a sword. The spell drenches half her face in vital fluids and viscera, the disgusting gory remnants of what used to be an eye. She lets out a cry of frustration and agony, attack rhythm broken, and Cheshire takes advantage of the lapse in flow to go wolf again and make another lunging bite, which Mahiri just barely evades. Cheshire growls at Mahiri threateningly, fur bristling.

The reaver grits her teeth, glances between Cheshire and I, and cedes the bout. She bolts away, back out onto the main floor, and I sag with relief and exhaustion. My arm throbs and wails, but I finish bandaging it and with some help from Cheshire–who returns to her catgirl form to assist me–I manage to get back on my feet.

I lean on the bar for support and survey the scene: all the figments are gone from the club, and out in the center of the space I can see Bashekehi and the male reaver circling each other. Bashe’s scourge still seethes with Abyssal shadow, but Shane has somehow set his axe on fire–classic red-orange fire, not the golden green I’ve come to expect from what must be Summer. Neither of them bear any wounds.

Shane still moves with blurred swiftness, and he strikes on the offensive, forcing Bashe back with every attack, but there’s a caution to his movements; any time it seems like Bashe might have an opening, Shane abandons his attack and pulls back defensively. Probably terrified of getting soul-scarred by that weapon buff.

The other reaver, Mahiri, scrambles over to where she left her crossbow and loads it. I tense, ready to duck, but instead of swinging it around at me she lines up a shot at the incubus. A wealth of literature tropes tell me that shooting into melee is a bad idea likely to go wrong, but just as many suggest that an archer with supernatural skill and ability doesn’t need to give a shit about what’s normally a bad idea.

[Exsanguinate] was brutal but I’ve already used it on the one obvious target, so I prime “[Carrion Swarm]: rats take her!” and unleash the spell.

Somewhere between a dozen to two dozen rats emerge from the dance floor in wisps of shadow and smoke, and the would-be swarm dashes at the female reaver and begins to crawl up her legs, biting and scratching and climbing. Mahiri swears and takes the shot, aim thrown off just enough that the bolt sinks into Bashe’s side as opposed to anywhere more lethal.

The hit still injures the incubus and he falters in his movement, presenting an opportunity for Shane that the reaver quickly takes, but then Cheshire is coming at Shane in wolf form and the reaver pivots to try and sidestep the bite attack. Cheshire goes for his axe arm, not caring to defend herself, and latches on with her fangs even as the axe sinks into her body, a glancing blow compared to the strike that destroyed her form earlier.

I’m terrified and hurting, but the fear of that reaver wounding me again isn’t as strong as the fear of him killing Cheshire again; there’s no way I’ll stand a chance against both reavers with only Bashe at my side.

I start running for the fight, splitting my attention between Mahiri’s struggles with the rats and Shane’s struggle with Cheshire. The male reaver tries to get his arm free but Bashe swoops in before he can and shoves his hand at the back of Shane’s head with a shouted, “[Burning Intensity]: magnify his pain!”

The reaver’s eyes go wide and he lets loose a horrifying shriek. His grip falters and he stumbles, then falls, shoved to the ground by the force of Cheshire’s fangs. Bashe lashes out with the scourge and rakes it across Shane’s bared arm, drawing blood and soul, then steps back and dismisses the spell, shadows vanishing.

I see my chance and dart in. I grab for the dagger at his belt, pull it free, and ram it into his throat. A second scream–gargled this time, broken and rasping–escapes his wounded throat, and I don’t wait any longer to press my hand to his chest and cry, “[Prey Upon]!”

The shadows seep into the dying man’s flesh and dig for his essence. There’s a struggle, something in him fighting back in a way the figment and the dog didn’t, but I twist the dagger with all my paltry strength and the fresh burst of agony and violence breaks whatever is resisting my will. Shane goes limp, the light leaves his eyes, and a fragment of a human being’s soul slips down my throat.

The exhilaration nearly wipes the pain from my battered body, and a manic laugh escapes me from the sheer joy of my victory. I look up from the corpse of one reaver and meet the one-eyed gaze of the second, her sword bloodied with rat guts–black like that of the crows, perhaps some property of my summons–but more rats still scratching at her.

Cheshire growls, bleeding but still manifested, and Bashe hefts his weapon. Mahiri looks between us all, hesitates, and then flees. I’m too tired to pursue, and Cheshire and Bashe show no interest, so the reaver escapes the club and runs off into the city. Part of me wants to follow, wants to keep her from telling others, but I can’t stay on my feet.

All the adrenaline leaves me at once, and then there’s only the anguish and the pain and the horror that I almost just died. I sink to the ground next to the reaver’s corpse and curl in a ball, staring blankly into the glassy eyes of the man I just killed.