Robert McDale felt like he was sitting on a cloud. The sun had set, the inn was silent, and he had only owls for company. As he exited the Village Hall, he hummed to himself, now devoid of the weight that had previously crushed him.

McDale was starving. It was a slow process, but each year their harvest shrank and their livestock failed to reproduce. He wasn’t sure why—they’d called on witches, priests, and druids, but none had been able to determine the cause. Was there something in the air, or water? Without knowing, all he could do was paint over the cracks and hope a solution would present itself in time.

And it had. He’d worked furiously by candlelight, arranging the weekly bean harvests, and considering setting aside a day every year to celebrate the Giant’s arrival. Though he’d been sceptical at first, she’d convinced him. That wasn’t the face of a man-eating monster.

He strolled through the village, toward his house on the eastern rim. It was stone, cosy but functional, with wooden shutters and a modest plot. Being in charge didn’t mean he got to live better than anyone else.

There, his wife, Maggie, and daughter, Natasha, would be waiting. The thought of them warmed him, even if they were likely both asleep by now. He did this for them. Perhaps the Giant was an excellent actor, and viewed them as nothing more than finger food. It was a risk, he knew.

But he had to take it.

At last, he wouldn’t have to watch Natasha go to bed early because she was hungry. He wouldn’t have to feel the onrushing helplessness as, day by day, Maggie’s cheeks grew sallow. When Natasha grew up, she wanted to be a weaver. He had to make sure she got there smiling.

Approaching his home, he heard dirt crunching. He stopped. The path he was on cut directly from the square, passing only two domiciles. Neither stirred. He’d been able to make his way through the darkness with sheer familiarity, but that only went so far. He could barely make out the outline of a man in front of him.

“Hello?” he said.

“Sorry, Robert.” He recognised that voice. Brian.

“For what?”

The figure charged, and he staggered back, his heart leaping. Dull heat spread through his abdomen as he gasped, pain overwhelming his senses. What was going on?

The taste of copper filled his mouth, viscous moisture flowing from the hole in his torso. With a sickly tearing noise, Brian removed the knife.

Why couldn’t he feel his legs? He collapsed, choking, and reached toward the shadowed outline of his friend.

“Why?” he gasped.

“You almost doomed us all,” said Brian, voice shaking. “But don’t worry—I’ve found somebody to clean up your mess.”

Brian retreated, and Robert’s eyelids drooped. He could feel himself fading.

His final thought was of Maggie and Natasha, the beautiful blue eyes they shared peering at him lovingly.

***

Jack woke up strapped to an altar.

He struggled, leather bindings digging into his skin, making him hiss. Torches lit the room, set into the walls. These were bare stone, but rough tapestries decorated them, faded and fraying. Stained glass windows—depicting an angel smiting a demon—reached all the way to the ceiling, which was tall enough Salia would comfortably fit inside.

Before him, six rows of wooden benches extended toward double doors, with an aisle in the middle. Pews. He craned his neck, looking behind him, but there was nothing but a pair of iron candlesticks on the altar. Testing the straps again, he grunted.

Razor? he thought, searching for something sharp enough to cut his cuffs. He found nothing, and she said nothing. Where the fuck are you?!

“It’s not nice being ignored, is it?”

His chest flared. Now’s not the time for that, I’m a prisoner!

“You’re resourceful, I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

Growling, he clenched his fists. His wasn’t the only predicament—if he’d been captured, Salia was probably in danger too. A deep sense of foreboding washed over him.

He had to get back to her.

“Do not worry, my child.” A familiar man stepped from behind the altar, his arm bound to his chest. “It will all be over, soon enough.”

Jack sneered. “Father Joshua. And here I thought you wouldn’t leave your flock.”

“They are all dead,” he said, voice empty. “Killed by a witch.”

“A witch?” Though it could be a coincidence, he doubted it. “Where is she?”

“Secured,” said another voice. A burly soldier followed after Joshua, a sword hanging from his waist. Jack felt him before he saw him, his voice carrying with it a pressure that reminded him of his worst hangovers.

“I do this for them,” said Joshua. “For Ronan and his wife, for Angus, for Paul and for Jill, and—”

“Can we hurry this up?” said the soldier. He looked nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m trained to deal with witches, not demons.”

“Of course, Major Cunham.”

Wait, they thought he was a demon? And that leather would be able to hold him?

How stupid were these people?

Extending his good hand, Joshua set his features, a cross wrapped around his wrist. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

Seriously? They were trying to exorcise him?

Ensuring Salia’s safety was the priority, so he needed to escape as quickly as possible. Lydia could take care of herself.

His brain clicked.

As Joshua continued in Latin, he thrashed and screamed, glowering between them and gnashing his teeth. Joshua started trembling, and Cunham took a step back, his aura shrinking. Good. Let them fear.

“You fools,” said Jack, adding gravel to his tone. “You have made an enemy of the future king of Hell! You’re right next to the Winchesters on my shit-list, motherfuckers!”

Cunham baulked, his breaths uneven.

As Joshua’s chant reached a crescendo, Jack arched his back. Howling, he opened his mouth wide, like he was belching smoke. Then, he let his head loll to the side.

“It is done,” said Joshua, crouching and patting Jack’s shoulder. “How do you feel, my boy?”

He moaned, his eyelids flickering. “It was in me. I remember everything.”

“Not to worry,” said Joshua. “Whatever you did, it wasn’t you.” Smiling, he undid the restraints. “God will forgive you.”

Jack stood, rubbing his wrists, and regarded the candlesticks, squirming beneath Joshua’s stare. When he touched one, it was cold and solid, so he nodded, picked it up, and marvelled at its weight.

Then he cracked the priest’s skull with it.

The sound echoed through the room, Cunham’s jaw hitting the floor as Joshua’s limp body did. Blood splattered across the improvised weapon.

“But will he forgive you?” said Jack.

Cunham drew his sword, taking an aggressive stance. He wrinkled his nose. “I knew it. Priests don’t like to believe it, but people can be just as bad as demons, and now one’s killed him. I hope you’ve made your peace with God.”

“Oh, he don’t care,” said Jack, dropping the candelabra with a thump. “I’ll give you one chance: walk away and don’t look back.” It was best if he could avoid fighting. That was time he didn’t have.

“Never.”

“In that case…” He mirrored Cunham’s posture, willing Razor to his grip. “You better pray hard as you can for forgiveness, and hope it’s enough.”

A beat passed. Another.

Razor? Showtime!

She harrumphed.

Advancing, Cunham snarled. “Forgiveness? I’ve spent my life doing the Lord’s work, and you want me to ask for forgiveness?”

“Tell you himself, yeah? Nice little dream sequence, seventy-two virgins at the end, what?”

“Shut up!” He was almost within reach. Another step, and he’d be able to cleave Jack’s head off. Razor was longer, but that didn’t matter if she wouldn’t appear.

Please. You don’t want me to die, right?

“I’m undecided.”

I’m sorry, okay! You were right, I shouldn’t have ignored you.

“I was right about the Giant?”

No.

“Hmph. It’s a start, I suppose.”

She materialised.

Cunham stopped dead, goggling at Jack’s katana. With a yell, he swung. Jack raised Razor.

Clang!

The sound of shattering metal reverberated, a shower of shards exploding as their blades collided. Razor cleaved through Cunham’s sword like water. The impact rattled his arms, driving needles into his shoulders, and he grunted.

Stammering, Cunham gawked at the broken hilt he held.

Jack repositioned his feet, ready to charge.

Cunham dropped the weapon with a clatter. Then, he ran.

Rather than chase, Jack exhaled slowly, scanning the room. Nothing would be useful, so he hurried toward the front door.

Major was a military rank, but Cunham had worn no uniform or insignia aside from his cloak. He’d worn no armour—which, despite what movies and books told him, he knew was uncommon—and spoke of his training, which lay in combating witches.

Witches.

Lydia.

But if that was all, why target him? She may have been smarmy, but she wasn’t the loose-lipped type, so he doubted they knew of their connection. Joshua had assumed he was possessed, and tried to exorcise him.

The answer seemed obvious—this wasn’t about him.

He exited into the brisk night, the air still and silent and eerie. Shuddering, he advanced into the square.

If he was a maniac Hell-bent on killing a Giant, where would he hole up?

***

Jack crept up the Village Hall’s steps. There were no guards outside, which made him pause, but he had no better ideas. If he knew exactly how they planned to attack, it would be easier to protect Salia.

Please, he thought, just hang in till I get there.

“You do know she can’t hear you?”

You’re not helping.

“I told you this wouldn’t end well.”

It ain’t over yet.

He desperately wanted to believe that. His stomach churned and roiled as he shoved the double doors open, revealing an expansive chamber with a dim glow. All the shutters were closed, but candles sat in holders on the plain wooden walls. These illuminated a clear floor leading to a podium.

Laughter.

A low chatter washed over him. This drew his attention to a cluster of blankets in the corner, on which sat four men wearing breeches and heavy boots, spears and a sword scattered about them. They chuckled and joked, their postures easy, paying no attention to the cool air swirling in or the captive trussed next to the podium.

It was Lydia. Though she was unconscious, bruised, and missing her jacket, she seemed okay, so he turned his attention back to the others.

As he heard their rough voices—talking about beer and women, and praising the hero who’d set out to slay the monster—a fire rose through his torso, enveloping his entirety with quivering rage.

“Oi!” he yelled, and four shocked expressions faced him. “Let’s have a recap, shall we: your priest’s dead, and that Cunham dick ran off and abandoned you. So…” — snarling, he pointed Razor at them — “who do I need to kill to save Salia?”

He was done trying to find a better option. There wasn’t one.

“Oh, now you’re speaking my language.”

One of the men, a lanky fellow with messy black hair, grabbed a spear and stood. “Major Cunham would never do that!”

Another, who had beady eyes and gappy teeth, picked up the sword and spat. “Salia? That the Giant’s name, is it?”

The other two raised their spears, joining their friends in a line formation.

“Soulless creature like that don’t deserve a name,” said one.

His vision flashed red. “The only soulless ones here are you!”

He sprinted toward them, drawing Razor back to strike. As he approached, three spears jabbed at him.

Choking on his heart, he launched himself upward, sailing over the weapons and slicing the ends off two as he flipped. The severed blades clanked to the ground. Their eyes bugging, his opponents stared at the broken hafts.

He lurched, gravity pulling him down. Easing into it, he aimed a foot like an arrow at the face of a spearman, feeling the connection’s crunch jolt up his leg.

“Not good enough. Use me!”

They crashed into the floor, the sound of cracking and splattering bouncing off the walls. Even as he hopped off, the man’s skull crunched beneath his boot. Without stopping, he lashed out to his right, slicing through the swordsman’s neck.

“Yes! More!”

His head, its brows raised and tongue lolling, thudded to the floor.

Not yet. It wasn’t enough—his blood still boiled, searing the inside of his veins. He didn’t need their information anymore. He knew from their conversation only one man had set out, and intended to confront Salia directly.

So he whipped around, batting aside a broken spear and running through its wielder. Gurgling as his flesh squelched, he dropped his weapon, clinging to Jack’s as he forced it further in. Blood snaked down the blade. Razor cackled. Jack twisted, slowly, delicately, watching the light drain from the man’s eyes before ripping Razor out his ribs in a spray of bone and gore.

His attention snapped to the last one.

A rancid smell crawled up his nose, emanating from the growing puddle at the spearman’s feet. His weapon clattered as he threw it down, trembling.

He rushed for the door.

Jack’s nostrils flared, a growl scratching his throat. They were monsters, and by their own code, monsters had to die.

“That’s right, partner. No mercy!”

Ice replaced the heat within him, and he hefted up the fallen spear, the only one still intact.

His muscles screamed as he launched it at his fleeing enemy.

It struck between his shoulder blades, piercing through his chest with a wet ripping noise, and he gasped before pitching forward, dead.

You’ve changed your tune.

“Didn’t I tell you? My number one priority is bloodshed.”

He shuddered.

“Jack?” By the podium, Lydia stirred, tugging her restraints. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he said, striding over. Blood coated his hands and face, making his throat flex. The sight of the corpses, however, filled him with stony disinterest. “Turn around.”

She made a face, but did it anyway. A pair of iron shackles, carved with runes he didn’t recognise, adorned her wrists. He didn’t even think about it. Razor could cut and kill just about anything, so there was no need to waste time. A metallic crack resounded as he sheared through, and they thumped to the ground.

Rubbing her forearms, she faced him, lips parting. “It really is you. What are you wearing? And where are we?”

“Local colours,” he said, “and we’re in a village called McDale, just outside some forest. You can thank me later, by the way. You alright?”

“I think so. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he lied, “I’m fine.” He could almost hear ticking.

“I was tracking you,” she said, “when these idiots caught me. I learned a lot.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I followed the trail of Giant footprints. You weren’t exactly inconspicuous, you know.”

His mouth made an ‘o’ before another question popped into his mind. “And how did those goons get the better of you?”

“They didn’t. There was another one, he’s after—”

“I know,” he said, biting his lip. His legs twitched, the urgency driving him on. “Let’s go.”

She furrowed her brow. “Where?”

“Where else? To save her?”

“The Giant?” Narrowing her eyes, she huffed. “Jack, I came here to save you. There is no way I’ll let you endanger yourself for—”

“You won’t let me? What, you gonna stick me to the floor like when we first met?” He loomed over her, glaring deep into her green eyes. “How’d that go, again?”

She stared back, unflinching.

“If that was Jess out there,” he said, leaning down, “would you take that?”

Sighing, she averted her gaze. “Fine.”

They left, stepping into the still night. Jack rubbernecked, trying to make out shapes in the pitch-black. Nothing. He’d need his eyes to adjust again.

The frigid grip of fear wrapped around him. Each second was one wasted.

“I don’t like this,” said Lydia.

“Noted. Now,” he said, pointing up, “go time.”

With another sigh, she hooked her arms beneath his shoulders. “Try not to soil yourself this time.”

Taking off, they glided over the gloomy landscape, his vision finally adjusting and showing him the silhouettes of farms. Finding things in this darkness would be near impossible, but he refused to give up. A bird-eye view could give them an advantage.

Of course, the massive bonfire blazing on his and Salia’s plot was more than a little helpful.

“Over there,” he said.

“Really?” she replied. “I honestly thought that was an unrelated fire.”

He relaxed a little, feeling like a missing fragment of his soul had slotted back into place. “I missed you.”

“Me too.”

As they drew closer, he spotted Salia—her features fraught—sprawled on her ass, backing away from an advancing swordsman. Shadows of the firelight flickered across his short profile, revealing black hair, a green cloak, and a grim expression.

“That’s him,” said Lydia. “Levi.”

Though one piece had returned, there were still gaps, shards he’d yet to recover. One lay achingly close, but trapped behind a maelstrom of hatred.

He’d punch through it.

“Lydia,” he said, “remember Azure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He makes a good example.”

She paused, stammered, then said, “Are you saying you want me to—”

“Yep.” As they spoke, Levi closed the distance, and Salia clawed the dirt, sobbing. “Just think of me as a prick-seeking missile.”

“Very well.” She pulled him back by his collar, making his innards jump. “On your head be it!”

She threw him.