Zane felt a high. He felt powerful.
But he definitely was fucked.
The heavy THUD of boots on the rotten stairs was the sound of his new-found confidence shattering.
"Gart screamed like a bitch!" a voice roared from below.
"Spread out! Boss wants the innkeeper or whatever is here!"
Zane was standing in the middle of the narrow, pitch-black hallway. At his feet, Gart lay in a cooling pool of his own blood, guts, and filth.
He had maybe three seconds.
His first instinct, his human instinct, was to run. But where? Back into the closet? They'd find him. Into the dead woman's room? A dead end.
His second instinct, the vulture's instinct, was to hide.
He pulled once more.
Not even thinking about it. He just willed the skill.
The shadows in the hallway—thicker than any he'd ever seen—closed around him. The Umbral Cloak enveloped him, swallowing his form, his sound and his scent.
He wasn't visible anymore. He was just a cold spot in the hallway.
He pressed himself flat against the wall, right next to the doorway of Room 4.
Just like a stalker, a predator.
The first Nail hit the top of the stairs.
He was a mountain of a man, bald and pale and he carried a heavy, spiked mace.
Zane's Whispers skill which was now running on premium fuel, picked up his thoughts instantly.
<...fuck... fuck... what a stink... Gart? That you?...>
The Nail called Slag saw the body.
He froze, an expression of horror written across his face.
"Gods..." Slag breathed.
The second man named Bolt came up behind him, a crossbow in his hands. He was smaller, wiry, and his eyes darted everywhere.
"Where is he?" Bolt hissed. "Where's the fucker that—"
He stopped when he saw the scene.
The hallway was a slaughterhouse.
The door to Room 5 was kicked in. The door to Room 4 was blown off its hinges.
And Gart, their squad leader, was lying face-down in the hall, impaled on his own fucking cleaver.
"What... the hell..." Bolt whispered, his crossbow raising.
<...Gart's dead...> Slag's mind was a static-filled shout of pure panic. <...Rat-boy... he was right... he was right! The Sump-Demon! It's... it's real!...>
<...how...> Bolt's thoughts were sharper, more focused, but laced with cold terror. <...he fell? No... look at the room... fight... it got him... where is it?...>
They were terrified. Their despair was a sharp, acrid scent, like burning copper.
To Zane, it was delicious.
But he couldn't feed right now because he was hiding.
He was standing five feet away from them.
He could feel the power of the Umbral Cloak sucking the Essence from his reserves. The brute strength from Gart's soul was being burned to keep him hidden.
He was running on a timer, and he had to move.
"It's here," Slag whispered, his eyes wide, staring into the impenetrable darkness of Room 4. "I can... I can feel it. It's... cold."
"Shut up, Slag!" Bolt snapped. "It's a fucker hiding somewhere, not a ghost. Find him! Check the rooms!"
<...fuck that... fuck that... I don't wanna go in there...> Slag whimpered in his own head.
"I'll... I'll check the dead bitch's room," Slag said, his voice shaking.
He edged past Gart's body, giving the dark closet of Room 4 a wide berth, and stepped into Room 5.
Bolt stayed in the hall, his crossbow sweeping back and forth. He was covering the closet, the hall, the stairs.
He was the smart one so he was the dangerous one.
Zane was still pressed against the wall, right behind him.
<...where is it...> Bolt's mind raced. <...can't be in the walls... it's a man... where is the man...>
Zane had to move.
The drain on his Essence was accelerating. The cloak flickered, like a dying lightbulb.
He had to get past Bolt. Down the stairs.
Now.
"Nothing!" Slag yelled from Room 5. "Just the dead plague-rat" Gart shouted.
"Then it's in the other room!" Bolt shouted, his nerves fraying. "Get out here! We go in together!"
<...fuck that... fuck that...> Slag whimpered.
Slag stepped back into the hallway, his mace held out like a talisman waved to protect him.
This was Zane's chance.
Both gangers were together, staring at the dark closet of Room 4 where he was no longer hiding.
They were blocking the stairs.
Zane glided out from the wall, a patch of moving darkness.
He was right behind them.
"Okay," Bolt breathed, levelling his crossbow at the closet door. "On three. One... two..."
Zane couldn't wait. The cloak was guttering.
He channelled the Essence he'd taken from Gart. The brute force. The heavy, thuggish power.
He shoved this time.
Pushing Slag from behind, in the centre of his back, with all his new-found strength.
It was like a fucking truck hit him.
"GAAAAH!"
Slag flew forward with immense speed, shrieking in terror, smashing head-first into Bolt.
CRASH!
The two Nails went down in a tangled heap of limbs, mace, and crossbow.
Bolt's crossbow loosed with a TWANG, the bolt sinking harmlessly into the ceiling.
"IT'S BEHIND US!" Slag screamed, scrambling on all fours, his mace forgotten.
"IT'S ON ME! GET IT OFF!" Bolt shrieked, thrashing under his partner's weight.
They hadn't seen a thing. They'd just been hit by an invisible, supernatural force.
Their panic was so pure, so absolute, it was like a symphony to Zane, but he didn't wait to listen.
He bolted.
He sprinted past the flailing gangers and dove for the stairs. He could have just left with the cloak.
"Yeah, why did I do that again? Pettiness? Anger."
The Umbral Cloak died while he was running.
The shadows ripped away from him like burning paper. The Essence was gone so quickly.
He was visible. He groaned in frustration.
"THERE!" Bolt screamed from the floor.
TWANG!
Zane didn't look back.
He heard a bolt whiz past his ear and shatter against the wall in front of him.
He threw himself down the stairs, taking them three at a time, his body screaming in protest.
He hit the bottom landing, skidded on the greasy floor, and crashed through the common room.
"STOP THAT FUCKER!" Slag bellowed from the stairs.
The few conscious tenants in the common room didn't even look up, their minds too full of their own issues.
Zane slammed his shoulder into the front door of the Sump-Pit.
He burst out into the pre-dawn light, the acid rain hitting him like needles.
He was out. He was alive.
He felt empty.
The high was gone. The strength was gone. All the Essence he'd taken from Gart and the woman was spent, burned away by the Cloak.
The hunger was back.
It wasn't a vortex or just a hole this time.
It was an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.
He stumbled into the middle of the filthy street, gasping for air.
"I... I..."
He had to feed. Right now. Or he would die.
"Behind you!" he heard Slag roar from the flophouse door.
Zane tried to run, but his legs were jelly. The withdrawal was so fast, so total, he could barely stand.
He tripped over a loose cobblestone and crashed to his knees.
'This is it,' he thought. 'I'm done. They've got me.'
"Get him!"
He heard the heavy boots splashing through the gutter filth, running right at him.
He braced for the mace.
CLANG!
The sound wasn't a wet thud. It was a sharp, deafening ring of steel on steel.
Zane looked up, blinking through the rain.
Someone was standing over him.
A woman.
She was tall, dressed in a patched, long leather duster.
She held a gleaming, silver shortsword in one hand, easily parrying Slag's heavy mace. Her other hand, wrapped in dirty bandages, was held low.
Her face was hidden by a low hood and a grimy cloth mask, leaving only her eyes visible.
They were a startling, icey blue.
"Two Nails on one unarmed Sump-rat?" she said, her voice a low, mocking drawl. "Quite the unfair sportsmanship."
Slag stumbled back, his arm vibrating from the impact. He looked at her sword, then at her.
<...fuck... a Blade... Why is a fucking Blade in the Sump?...>
Zane didn't know what a Blade was.
He just knew this woman's despair was a perfect, cold silence.
She had none. A brave fucker.