London

9:50 p.m.

Mordred freed himself from Rain’s grasp and knocked her back. He stumbled forward, her great blade still lodged in his gut, weighing him down like an anchor. With one great pull, he dislodged it and tossed it before her, smirking and reaching for his scythe. They circled each other, both of them enveloped by rain and fierce winds. The bun to Rain’s hair came undone and her curly pink hair fell to her shoulders, drenched.

She retrieved her sword and raised it high, as if it were weightless. Mordred embodied death in every aspect: his black robes, thin limbs, bald head, and his weathered scythe. However, even a man who epitomized death itself could not escape its grasp. Rain’s face reflected on his blade and she could smell the blood, iron, and lingering death on it.

A piece of the scythe was missing, sliced away by Rain’s sword, edges jagged. The two of them resumed combat, connecting blades. For a man so feeble, Mordred held back the full weight of her sword. He pushed against her and her feet left the ground. In that time, Mordred slashed her belly, leaving a deep gash.

Rain winced from pain and studied the wound. Blood left a dark stain in her wine colored dress, but she merely shrugged and readied herself. In her lifetime, she had cut down enough people to know whether a wound was mortal or superficial. She knew the different ways flesh tore and sounded when it met steel.

Her blood glazed against Mordred’s scythe, and his blade regenerated. Rain tilted her head at the scythe’s minted appearance; almost as if newly forged.

Mordred chuckled. “This scythe can regenerate using the iron from blood. Coincidentally, I too can revive myself with it. If I feast on enough of your blood, perhaps I can retrieve my body…”

He licked the blood off the scythe; the effects were instant. Color returned to his ghoulish face and she could see a light in his eyes. A light that was absent ever since his revival. Mordred moaned as more pepper colored hair sprouted on his head.

“You’re a Shaytan too?” Rain inquired.

“Don’t be so surprised,” Mordred answered, his voice flat. “You and I share the same mother. The same creator. She, from whom all others are made. Drake isn’t the only one out there. It’s a big bad universe, little girl.”

9:52 p.m.

Sir Tristan stood his ground as he fought Lyn and Drake within the bowels of the dungeon. Water poured from holes in the ceiling, flowing through the paths of human bones and skulls. Rusted chains and shackles hung from the halls, limbs still attached to some of them. Lyn glanced at one, its lid in the likeness of a nun, stone face staring solemnly. Drake’s voice delivered her from hysteria and she snapped her head towards him.

“Lyn, take this!”

He hurled the crucifix, and she caught it midair. Drake charged Sir Tristan, pinning him to the ground by the shoulders. She presented the silver cross, and it glowed in Tristan’s presence. His body decayed and the duo’s victory seemed assured.

“Drake!”

Lyn lunged towards him, throwing her body over him just as a massive sword took Drake’s place. They rolled over a pile of debris, hollow bones crunching beneath them. Lyn opened her eyes; she laid on top of Drake, hands against his chest. She could feel his warmth and his racing heart. Then it steadied at her presence. The heart never lied.

He raised his head to realize both his hands groped her ass. They exchanged a glimmer; both of their countenances a bright red.

Drake sighed, but a faint smile pulled his lips. “We should probably…”

Lyn twiddled a stand of hair in her fingers. “Yeah, we probably should.”

They nodded and turned towards Tristan, where Mordred stood by his side, looming and planning. In Mordred’s arm was a defeated Rain, her body bruised, bloodied and beat all to hell. He tossed her aside and shouldered his scythe. Compared to Tristan, Mordred looked very much alive; his youth bountiful and plentiful. However, this was a farce. Drake knew him well, and he lacked the substance to be defined as viable. He peeked at Rain, and deduced from her faint heartbeat and coursing blood that she was alive, hanging on by a thread.

Tristan looked over his shoulder at Rain. “Drake, you know you won’t be able to stop us before the lightning hits. This time, everything will be gone. From dust we are born and to dust we shall return…”

“Don’t quote scripture to me,” Drake tersed with a sneer. “I told you a long time ago; the only true equalizer — is death.”

Thunder boomed and shook the clock tower. The eye of the storm glowed, purple lightning conjuring within, lashing out and striking the city’s tallest buildings. Drake took the cross from Lyn. She hesitated as he pried her fingers open and held them against his lips.

“Lyn, those hands of yours. They were made to bring people joy. You wanted to be a cosmetologist. You would have married a good man, had a family of your own and been happy. But I turned you into a killer. You’re not a killer Lyn, remember that. Thank you — for everything.”

The crucifix’s light shimmered.

Lyn gasped. “I’ll never be happy if I can’t be with you! Why are you saying this-?”

He shoved her away and sprouted his wings, hurling full speed into Tristan and Mordred. They skyrocketed, Acheron’s blade embedded in Mordred’s chest, and his other arm wrapped around Tristan. As they climbed the sky, Mordred hissed and sank his jaws into Drake’s neck, his wretched scythe falling. Drake yelped and Tristan impaled his chest; blood-soaked arm blooming from Drake’s back like some crimson flower.

But Drake continued, securing his grip around Tristan, and exonerating him with the crucifix’s light. Dust and ash fell from his corpse as his grasp loosened and he fell. Mordred released his jaws from Drake’s neck, his face bright like a peach.

“What are you doing! You know this fall won’t kill either of us!”

At this height, the city looked nothing more than square patches of fabric on a quilt. Mordred’s eyes widened as Drake ignored his words, taking them higher into the storm. The lightning snapped, reaching out its jagged fingers towards them.

“You’re going to use your blade as a lightning rod!” Mordred said, panic in his voice.

Drake wore a smug as a hellish bolt of purple lightning electrocuted them, its energy surging through the steel in Mordred’s back, obliterating him. It paralyzed Drake’s body, and he glared, but directed his blade towards the sea. The lightning burst his ears and blistered his eyes shut. But he let it flow past his body and into the horizon of the sea.

There was a brief flash, and night resumed. A mushroom shaped cloud formed above the sea, shooting water and steam miles high. The ripple waves capsized every boat in its vicinity and decimated the London harbor.

And Drake fell from the sky, like God’s third choir of angels being thrown from heaven…