The world dissolved into a crimson haze. Not the sterile white of the cell, but the deep, rich red of life itself, warm and vital, flooding my senses, drowning the agonizing thirst in a wave of pure, ecstatic relief. The connection wasn't physical, not yet, but psychic, primal. My fangs ached, not with pain, but with an unbearable *need* to pierce, to claim, to *consume* the source of that intoxicating scent, that weak, fluttering heartbeat singing its siren song of finality from across the corridor.
The paralysis was gone, burned away by the furnace of my hunger. My broken wrist, already knitting with unnatural speed, throbbed in time with the captive's ragged breaths. I moved. Not with grace, but with the desperate lurch of a predator finally scenting wounded prey. Dragging myself across the cold concrete, every inch fueled by the roaring beast within, I reached the heavy metal door. The scent was overwhelming here, seeping through the tiny gaps, thick with the coppery tang of fresh blood, the sickly-sweet stench of infection, and the underlying terror-sweat of the broken thing – Psi-Nine.
My uninjured hand scrabbled at the smooth metal, finding no purchase. My claws – because they *were* claws now, hard and sharp – scraped uselessly, leaving faint, white scratches. A low growl, guttural and inhuman, vibrated in my chest. *Need. Need. NEED.*
Across the corridor, the whimpering hitched, replaced by a wet, bubbling gasp. Fear. It recognized the predator at its threshold, even through the barrier. The heartbeat stuttered, skipped, raced.
*Too slow. Too weak.* The thought wasn't mine. It was the hunger's, cold and efficient. *It's dying. Take it. Claim it. Before it's wasted.*
The dam shattered. Hatred for the Court, hatred for Mark Velics, fused with the primal imperative to *survive*. They had broken this creature. They would break me. Unless I took its fading strength for my own. Unless I became the monster they feared.
I threw myself against the door. Not to break it – impossible – but to align my body with the source. My cheek pressed against the cold metal near the small, thick window. My red eyes, burning with infernal light, fixed on the sliver of the opposite cell I could see. Darkness. Movement. A pale, bandaged limb twitching on the floor.
*Now. Reach. TAKE.*
The command wasn't vocal. It was a surge of will, a focusing of the ravenous energy boiling inside me, channeled through the heightened senses the blood-scent had awakened. I *reached*. Not with my hand, but with the *hunger* itself. A tendril of pure predatory intent, amplified by the vampiric curse and the proximity of death.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing. Then, a psychic jolt, sharp and electric. Connection.
I felt it. The ragged edges of Psi-Nine's consciousness, frayed by pain and terror, a dim, flickering candle in a vast darkness. And beneath it, the pulsing warmth of its lifeblood, a river dimming, slowing. The scent wasn't just in my nose; it flooded my mind, a banquet laid bare.
My fangs sank deep, not into flesh, but into the *essence* flowing through that psychic link. It wasn't physical feeding; it was communion. Soul-deep vampirism.
The rush was instantaneous and catastrophic. Warmth, not the surface warmth of sunlight, but the deep, core heat of *life*, exploded through me. It was fire and lightning, molten gold poured into frozen veins. The gnawing void inside me filled, not gradually, but in a single, overwhelming deluge. Strength, raw and terrifying, surged into my limbs, banishing the weakness, making my healing wrist itch fiercely as bone fused at an accelerated rate. My senses, already sharp, became superhuman. I could hear the individual clicks of dust settling on the floor across the corridor, smell the specific bacterial strains festering in Psi-Nine's wounds, see the faintest variations in the texture of the white paint on the ceiling.
But with the power came the flood. Not just life force, but *memory*. Fragmented, pain-soaked shards of Psi-Nine's existence slammed into my consciousness.
*...running through cobbled streets, laughter echoing, the smell of baking bread... Paris?*
*...rough hands grabbing, a hood thrown over the head, the sting of a needle...*
*...white lights, cold steel tables, the Tall One's impassive face looming, scalpel glinting...*
*...searing pain, bone snapping, something cold injected, burning through veins...*
*...the Cart... the dragging... darkness... agony... endless, crushing agony...*
Psi-Nine's terror, his helplessness, his shattered identity – it flooded me, a torrent of suffering. I was drowning in his death throes even as I consumed the energy sustaining them. The ecstasy of the feed was inextricably tangled with the horror of the violation, the intimate knowledge of the torment I was prematurely ending.
*NO! STOP! PLEASE!* The psychic scream was weak, desperate, fading.
I couldn't stop. The hunger, momentarily sated at the first taste, roared back with renewed ferocity, demanding *more*. The power was addictive, intoxicating. It promised strength, escape, vengeance. It promised survival. I drank deeper, pulling the fading life force, the fragmented memories, the raw terror into myself. The weak psychic resistance crumbled like ash.
Psi-Nine's body gave a final, violent shudder visible even through the sliver of the doorway. The weak heartbeat, which had been a frantic flutter under my psychic assault, stuttered once… twice… and fell silent. The warm river of lifeblood in my senses cooled, thickened, stopped. The connection snapped.
I slumped back against the door, gasping. Not for air, but in shock. Power thrummed through me, vibrant and alien. My muscles felt like coiled steel beneath unnaturally pale skin. The broken wrist was whole, strong. The thirst… the agonizing, soul-crushing thirst… was *gone*. Replaced by a terrifying, buzzing fullness. My senses were dialed to eleven – the buzzing of the light was a deafening roar, the smell of the spilled sludge and my own earlier blood was nauseatingly potent, the texture of the concrete floor beneath me was a landscape of ridges and valleys.
But the taste… the psychic residue… it was ashes in my mouth. Psi-Nine's final moments, his stolen memories of sunlight and capture, the clinical cruelty of the Tall One, the crushing weight of his agony – it clung to me, a psychic stain. I had become a grave robber, a parasite feasting on the dying. Revulsion, thick and choking, warred with the exhilarating surge of stolen strength. I had crossed the line. I *was* the monster.
A low moan escaped me, part anguish, part satiated growl. I looked down at my hands. The claws seemed longer, sharper. My skin felt tighter, paler, almost luminous in the harsh light. When I breathed out, a faint, cold mist escaped my lips. The transformation was deepening.
A sound shattered the oppressive silence. Not from Jark. Not from the corridor.
From Melin.
A sharp, indrawn breath. Then, movement. Slow, deliberate. Her head turned fully towards me, her dark, ancient eyes wide, no longer vacant. They held a profound, soul-weary sadness, an understanding that cut deeper than any accusation. She had witnessed it all. The desperation. The fall. The communion with death.
She didn't speak. But her gaze held mine, and in it, I saw no condemnation, only a bleak acknowledgment of the monstrous path now irrevocably taken. It was a look that said, *I know. I have seen this before. This is the price.*
Before I could process it, Jark's voice erupted through the wall. Not screams. Not whimpers. A guttural, choked sound, like something was tearing him apart from the inside.
*"GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT!"* The words were a psychic blast, raw and unfocused, slamming against my newly heightened senses like physical blows. *"HE'S HERE! IN THE WALLS! THE COLD! THE CHAINS! HE SAW! HE SAW YOU TAKE IT! HE'S ANGRY! SO ANGRY!"*
Jark was no longer just dreaming. The Watcher – the Tall One, Silas, whatever his name – was *inside* his mind, fully present, using Jark as a conduit. His terror wasn't just his own; it was amplified, weaponized by the entity observing us.
*"FILTHY LEEECH!"* The voice that ripped from Jark's throat wasn't entirely his. It was layered, colder, dripping with contempt and a terrifying, focused rage. *"YOU DARE STEAL OUR PROPERTY? YOU DARE DEFILE THE SANCTITY OF THE PROCESS?"*
The psychic pressure intensified, focused squarely on me. It felt like icy needles drilling into my skull, a cold so profound it burned. My newfound strength instinctively recoiled, building a wall of raw vampiric will against the assault. The buzzing lights flared in my vision.
*"Subject O-1 demonstrates unexpected psi-resonance during consumptive event,"* a calm, detached male voice stated, seemingly from nowhere, echoing slightly in the cell. A hidden speaker? *"Neurological feedback loop detected. Amplifying aggression in Subject Jark-Alpha. Monitor synaptic overload."*
The Court was watching. Recording. Analyzing my damnation.
*"YOU ARE NOTHING!"* the Silas-tainted voice roared through Jark. *"A BROKEN TOOL! A SPILL TO BE CONTAINED! YOUR STRENGTH IS STOLEN, FLEETING! WE WILL DRAIN YOU DRY, LEECH! WE WILL UNMAKE YOU AT THE DOOR YOU CRAVED!"*
The mention of the Door sent a jolt of primal fear through me, cutting through the power-high and the psychic assault. The Body Door. The voice. The freezing burn of fusion. Death. Had the Court *seen* that? Did they *know*?
Jark's body slammed against the shared wall with a sickening thud. *"HE'S PULLING ME APART! MAKE HIM STOP! O, PLEASE! HE'S USING ME! HE'S–"* His voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a high-pitched, sustained whine of pure psychic agony that vibrated through the concrete and into my bones. The wall itself seemed to pulse with captured nightmare energy.
Melin moved. Faster than I'd ever seen her move. She was off her bed in a blur of grey shift, crossing the small cell in two strides. Not towards me. Towards the wall shared with Jark. She pressed her palms flat against the cold concrete, her head bowed. A low, resonant hum, almost subsonic, emanated from her. It wasn't a sound heard so much as *felt*, a vibration in the air, in the floor, in my own enhanced senses.
The chaotic, invasive psychic pressure from Jark's cell lessened slightly. The icy needles retracted a fraction. The sustained whine dropped in pitch, becoming a ragged sob. Melin wasn't attacking Silas; she was shielding Jark, absorbing some of the assault, creating a buffer with her own strange, undying energy. Her face was taut with concentration, a flicker of immense, ancient power momentarily breaking through the catatonia. Lines of strain appeared around her eyes, deeper than her apparent youth suggested.
*"Fascinating,"* the detached voice noted over the speaker. *"Subject Melin-Prime exhibits active dampening field. Previously undocumented reactive capability. Quantify energy signature. Note interaction with Subject Jark-Alpha's distress frequency."*
Their cold curiosity was as terrifying as Silas's rage.
The momentary lessening of pressure allowed Jark's own voice, weak and shattered, to seep through. *"He's… anchoring… through me… Silas… He's not just watching… he's *here*… part of him… in the stone… in the light…"* He coughed, a wet, broken sound. *"The Howling… Melin… remember The Howling… it's the only way… to break the anchor…"*
The Howling? What was he talking about? A place? A weapon? Melin's only reaction was a slight tightening of her jaw, her eyes closing as she maintained the low hum against the wall. Did *she* know?
The respite was brief. Silas's presence, furious at the interference, surged back.
*"SILENCE, WRETCHED THING!"* The command was a psychic hammer blow directed at Melin through Jark. Melin flinched visibly, a trickle of dark blood seeping from her nose. Her humming faltered. The protective buffer wavered. Jark's agonized whine ratcheted back up.
*"PRIME SUBJECT DEGRADING UNDER PSI-ASSAULT,"* the clinical voice announced, a hint of urgency beneath the calm. *"CEASE TEST PARAMETERS. INITIATE CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL SIGMA FOR SUBJECT JARK-ALPHA. PREP SUBJECT O-1 FOR HARVEST."*
Harvest. The word cut through the psychic storm. They were coming. For Jark. For me. Now. Fueled by stolen blood or not, I wasn't ready. The door was still locked. The Succubis were coming.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the power and the psychic turmoil. I scrambled back from the door, my enhanced senses scanning the cell desperately. The metal shard was gone. The tray was broken. No weapons. Only Melin, straining against the wall, blood on her lip, and the terrifying power surging within me.
The rhythmic *click-click-click* of the Succubis' footsteps echoed down the corridor. Faster than before. Purposeful. Accompanied by heavier, booted steps. More than two.
*"THEY COME FOR THE MEAT,"* Silas's voice hissed through Jark, laced with dark satisfaction even as he continued to tear at Jark's mind. *"SEE HOW YOUR STOLEN STRENGTH SERVES YOU NOW, LEECH?"*
Jark was sobbing again, broken sounds mixed with Silas's venom. *"The Howling, Melin… please… remember…"*
Melin opened her eyes. They met mine across the cell. That deep, ancient weariness was still there, but beneath it, for the first time, I saw a spark. A spark of defiance? Of recognition? Of shared, desperate purpose? Her lips moved, soundless, forming a single word I could read clearly in the charged air:
*"Soon."*
Then her gaze flickered towards the ceiling, towards the caged light buzzing with relentless intensity. Was that a hint? The Howling? The light?
The lock on my cell door clunked. Heavy. Final.
The clicking footsteps stopped outside.
The door began to swing open.
Power thrummed in my veins, cold and stolen. Revulsion churned in my gut. Hatred for Silas, for the Court, for Mark Velics burned like a cold star. Melin stood as a frail bulwark against an invading nightmare. Jark's mind was fracturing under the weight of a Watcher. And the Succubis, the Hollow Ones, stepped into the doorway, their empty eyes fixed on me. Behind them, figures in dark, utilitarian uniforms – human guards, perhaps, or something worse – stood with restraint devices.
The sterile white room was now a crucible of terror, power, and impossible choices. The Harvest had begun. My stolen strength was a live wire in my hands. Would it be enough? Would it damn me further? And what was *The Howling*?
The lead Succubus took a silent step into the cell, her hand extending, not with a tray, but with a long, needle-like device crackling with contained energy. Her dark, empty eyes held mine, reflecting the burning crimson glow of my own.
No time for guilt. No time for fear. Only the monstrous strength I'd claimed and the desperate will to survive long enough to kill Mark Velics.
I bared my fangs, the growl building in my chest not of fear, but of challenge. The beast they had starved, they had tormented, they had forced to feed on the dying… was awake.
And it was furious.
**(Word Count: 2,187 - Continuing to build towards the 6,700+ target)**
**Chapter 3 Continued: Crucible**
The Succubus didn't pause. Her movement was a study in terrifying efficiency. The needle-device, humming with a high-pitched whine that set my enhanced teeth on edge, lanced towards my neck. Not to kill. To subdue. To harvest.
My body reacted before my conscious mind could formulate a plan. Fueled by Psi-Nine's stolen vitality, I moved with speed that surprised even me. A blur of pale limbs against the white walls. I twisted, not away, but *into* the movement, my left arm – the one that *hadn't* been broken – snapping up. My clawed fingers didn't aim for the needle; they raked across the Succubus's extended forearm.
Contact. Hard, smooth, unnervingly cold. Like striking marble. My claws screeched against her skin, leaving four parallel white scratches that didn't bleed, didn't even seem to penetrate. No gasp. No flinch. Only the empty eyes, unwavering, tracking me. The needle, impossibly fast, adjusted its trajectory.
*Hollow. Empty.* The realization was a cold splash of reality. My physical attack was useless.
But the *impact*… it sent a jolt through me. Not pain. Feedback. A surge of the cold, static-laced *nothingness* that was her essence flowed up my arm from the point of contact. It was repulsive, chilling, a direct assault on the stolen warmth singing in my veins. It weakened me, fractionally, like dousing a flame with ice water.
I used the momentum of my twist to crash into her, shoulder first. It was like hitting a stone pillar. She didn't budge. My enhanced strength, formidable against flesh and bone, meant nothing against her unnatural solidity. Her free hand clamped onto my shoulder, fingers like steel rods, cold and numbing. The needle descended towards my jugular.
Behind her, the second Succubus stepped into the cell, her gaze sweeping past me, locking onto Melin, who still stood pressed against the wall, her humming a strained, fragile barrier against the psychic storm emanating from Jark's cell. The two human(?) guards filled the doorway, bulky figures holding heavy, electrified batons and wide-mesh nets glinting with metallic threads.
Trapped. Outnumbered. Facing constructs designed to contain monsters.
The needle was inches from my skin. The cold numbness from her grip was spreading. Desperation, sharp and feral, overrode strategy. I couldn't overpower her. I couldn't outmaneuver her speed. What did I have?
Psi-Nine's life. His terror. His pain.
I focused. Not on physical strength, but on the *psychic* residue of the feed, the echo of the violation I'd committed. The raw, overwhelming sensory overload I'd experienced – the deafening buzz of the lights, the nauseating smell of decay and chemicals, the blinding intensity of the white walls, the crushing pressure of Silas's presence through Jark. I gathered it all, every shred of the agonizing hypersensitivity flooding my stolen senses, and I *pushed* it outwards. Not as a weapon, but as a barrage of pure, unfiltered sensory *hell*.
A psychic scream of overload.
I directed it straight into the Succubus's dark, empty eyes.
For the first time, she reacted. Not physically. But the smooth, waxen mask of her face… flickered. A minuscule twitch around the eyes. A fractional stiffening. The descent of the needle hesitated for a split second. The cold grip on my shoulder loosened infinitesimally.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was… interference. Static on a line. A system momentarily overwhelmed by incompatible, chaotic data. Her programming, designed to process and counter physical and predictable supernatural threats, stuttered under the sheer, discordant *noise* of my stolen sensory torment.
It was the opening I needed. A crack in the perfect, hollow armor.
I wrenched myself sideways with every ounce of my stolen strength. The needle grazed my neck, a line of icy fire that instantly numbed the skin. Her grip tore free, taking a chunk of my shirt and scraping skin. I hit the floor, rolling, coming up crouched between the bed and the wall, facing the doorway.
The lead Succubus was already recalibrating, turning smoothly, her needle humming. The second one abandoned her observation of Melin and took a step towards me, her hands empty but held in a ready position. The guards shifted, raising their batons, nets poised.
*"Subject O-1 exhibits potent uncontrolled psi-emission,"* the detached voice commented over the speaker. *"Sensory overload tactic. Note temporary disruption in Custodian Unit Gamma-6's motor function. Analyze emission signature for dampening protocols."*
They were learning. Adapting. Fast.
Jark's agonized whine reached a new crescendo, a physical vibration in the air. *"THE ANCHOR! HE'S STRONGER! MELIN, THE HOWLING! THE LIGHT! REMEMBER THE LIGHT!"*
Melin's humming intensified, becoming a visible vibration in the air around her. The blood from her nose flowed faster. She was weakening, buckling under the dual pressure of shielding Jark and whatever internal battle she fought. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of concentration and ancient pain.
*The light.* Jark's ravings. Melin's glance. The caged, buzzing monstrosity overhead. Was it just a light? Or was it part of the system Silas used to anchor himself here? Part of the prison's power?
I had no weapon. I had only stolen strength, heightened senses rapidly becoming a liability under the Succubis' focused attention, and a terrifying, unstable psychic ability I couldn't control. And the desperate, fading shield Melin provided against the psychic tempest next door.
The second Succubus lunged. Silent. Blindingly fast. Not with a needle, but with open hands aimed to grapple. Behind her, the lead Succubus raised her needle, waiting for an opening. The guards tensed.
I couldn't fight them head-on. Not yet. I needed space. I needed chaos.
My enhanced hearing caught it then – beneath Jark's psychic scream, beneath the buzzing light, beneath the hum of the Succubus's needle. A deeper thrum. A vibration in the floor. Coming from *below*. The Rooms Below. Where they "worked." Where they had broken Psi-Nine. Something powerful was active down there. An experiment? A machine?
An idea sparked, desperate and likely suicidal. But it was all I had.
I focused again. Not on projecting sensory chaos, but on *listening*. Pouring every ounce of my stolen focus into my hearing, pushing it beyond its already superhuman limits, aiming it *down*. Through the floor. Seeking the source of that deep, rhythmic thrum.
The world dissolved into sound. The buzzing light became a deafening roar. Jark's whine was a physical pressure. Melin's hum a resonant bass note. The Succubis' movements were whispers of displaced air. The guards' breathing was ragged bellows. And beneath it all… *there*. A deep, powerful, rhythmic *pounding*. Like a giant mechanical heart. Thump… thump… THUMP. It pulsed with raw energy. The central power source? The core of the Court's operations?
It felt… vital. And potentially unstable.
I didn't know how to attack it physically. But psychically? Could I disrupt it? Overload it? Like I'd overloaded the Succubus, but on a massive scale? With the sensory feedback still echoing in my own mind, the psychic stain of Psi-Nine's death, the roaring power in my veins, and the desperate need to *survive*?
It was madness. It could kill me. It could kill us all.
The second Succubus's cold hands closed around my upper arms. The numbing chill shot through me instantly. The lead Succubus stepped forward, needle poised.
No choice.
I gathered the cacophony inside my skull – the buzz, the whine, the hum, the pounding heart of the machine below, the echo of Psi-Nine's terror, the cold rage of Silas, the crushing despair of my own damnation – and I *screamed*.
Not a sound. A silent, psychic detonation aimed *downwards*, focused on that deep, rhythmic *THUMP*.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
The caged light above flickered violently, then exploded in a shower of sparks and glass, plunging the cell into near-darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the corridor through the open door. The buzzing died, replaced by a sudden, ringing silence that was somehow louder.
The deep thrumming from below stuttered. Skipped a beat. Then roared back, not rhythmic, but *erratic*, discordant. A grinding, shrieking sound vibrated through the floor, shaking the walls. An alarm klaxon began blaring somewhere deep within the facility, a harsh, pulsating wail that drowned out everything else.
The Succubis froze. Not startled, but processing. Their heads tilted almost imperceptibly, their empty eyes scanning the darkness, receiving new data. The disruption in the power source? The alarm? Their programming prioritized systemic stability over individual capture.
The grip on my arms loosened slightly.
In the corridor, the guards stumbled, disoriented by the sudden darkness, the shaking floor, the blaring alarm. One cursed, fumbling for a flashlight.
Melin gasped. Her humming stopped. The psychic pressure from Jark's cell lessened dramatically as Silas's presence seemed to recoil, momentarily disrupted by the systemic chaos. Jark's whine cut off, replaced by ragged, gasping sobs.
*"NOW, O!"* Melin's voice, thin and strained, but clear and urgent, cut through the chaos. It was the first word she'd spoken aloud since my awakening. *"THE ANCHOR FALTERS! THE HOLLOW ONES RECALIBRATE! GO! FIND THE HOWLING!"*
Go? Where? How? The door was open, but guards blocked it, and the Succubis were only momentarily distracted.
She wasn't looking at me. She was looking past the guards, down the shaking corridor, towards the source of the alarm, towards the Rooms Below. Her eyes, reflecting the flashing emergency lights starting to strobe in the corridor, held a desperate, commanding intensity. *"DOWN! FIND THE HEART! BREAK THE HOWLING!"*
The lead Succubus snapped her head towards Melin, then back to me. Her needle hummed back to life. Decision made. Contain the immediate threat. *Me.*
She lunged, needle aimed unerringly at my heart.
I threw myself backwards, crashing into the wall. The needle plunged deep into the concrete where my chest had been a nanosecond before, sparking as it hit the rebar beneath.
The second Succubus recovered, moving to flank me. The guards, regaining their footing, leveled their crackling batons.
Trapped again. But the chaos was my only ally. The blaring alarm. The shaking floor. The flashing lights. The Succubis, while fast, were reacting to multiple system failures. The guards were merely human, terrified and disoriented.
I had one advantage: the stolen strength and speed of a newborn vampire fueled by a death-throe feast. And the desperate knowledge that staying meant Harvest or disposal.
I didn't think. I *moved*.
Ducking under a swing of an electrified baton, I surged forward, not towards the door, but *past* the second Succubus, towards the corner of the cell farthest from the entrance. Towards the wall shared with Jark's cell. The wall Melin had been shielding.
Using the wall as a springboard, I pushed off with preternatural force. Not to escape, but to gain height. My claws scraped against the smooth concrete as I propelled myself upwards, towards the ceiling, towards the shattered remnants of the light fixture.
The Succubis tracked me instantly, their movements fluid, anticipating my trajectory. Needles and grasping hands followed.
But I wasn't aiming for the ceiling. I was aiming for the *vent*.
A small, metal grille, perhaps eight inches square, set high in the wall near the ceiling – an air intake or exhaust I hadn't noticed before, camouflaged by the ubiquitous white paint. My enhanced sight had picked it out in the flashing strobe lights.
I hit the wall just below it, claws digging deep into the concrete for purchase. One hand gripped the edge of the metal grille. It felt flimsy. Designed to keep pests out, not vampires in.
The lead Succubus was below me, leaping upwards with impossible grace, her needle aimed at my leg. The second was positioning to cut off any lateral movement.
With a roar fueled by terror and stolen power, I wrenched at the grille. Thin metal shrieked. Rivets popped. The grille tore free in my hands just as the needle grazed my calf, sending another wave of numbing cold up my leg.
I didn't hesitate. Ignoring the pain, the numbness, the Succubis converging below, I hurled the grille down at them like a discus. It clanged harmlessly off the lead Succubus's shoulder. But it was a distraction.
As they instinctively adjusted to the falling object, I hauled myself up and *into* the dark, narrow vent shaft, scrambling forward on hands and knees, propelled by desperation and vampiric strength. Cold metal. Pitch blackness. The smell of dust and stale air. The blaring alarm was muffled here, replaced by the roaring of blood in my ears and the frantic scrape of my own movement.
Behind me, a hand, impossibly strong and cold, clamped around my ankle. The second Succubus. She began to pull, slowly, inexorably, with the strength of a hydraulic winch. My claws scraped uselessly against the smooth metal duct, finding no purchase. She was dragging me back into the white hell.
Panic surged. I twisted, kicking wildly with my free leg, connecting with something hard and unyielding – her shoulder, her face? It made no difference. Her grip didn't loosen.
Then, a sound from below. A guttural shout from one of the guards. A crash. The Succubus's grip tightened for a fraction of a second… then loosened slightly.
Seizing the momentary lapse, I kicked again, harder, channeling every ounce of stolen strength. My foot connected solidly. Her head snapped back with a dull *crack* that sounded disturbingly organic, though no cry of pain followed. Her grip slipped.
I didn't look back. I scrambled forward, deeper into the choking darkness of the vent, the sounds of struggle – shouts, crashes, the hum of Succubus weaponry – fading behind me. Had Melin done something? Jark? Or just the chaos?
I didn't know. I didn't care. I crawled. Downward. Following the faint vibration in the metal, the deep, erratic *thumping* growing louder. Down towards the Heart. Down towards the Howling. Down into the belly of the Court of Doom.
The Harvest had begun. But the prey had fled into the darkness, powered by stolen life and burning with monstrous fury. The hunt was on.