Zane stood in the acid rain, his body throbbing like a struck bell.
The power from Slag's soul was so potent, so overwhelming, that the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.
The shadows were clinging to his shoulders were dark and thick, like semisolid oil.
He was high and he was strong.
And he was being stared down by what he described as an angel of death.
The woman stood ten feet away, her Icey blue eyes unblinking. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword.
She was perfectly, terrifyingly calm.
"So, demon," she hissed, her voice a low drawl. "What the fuck are you?"
Zane's first instinct was to lie. His second was to run.
He did neither.
He was so high on Slag's soul that he was feeling a strange, giddy confidence. And besides, his new skill, his Whispers, was still active.
He could hear her. Not her despair because she had none.
His skill has upgraded again, and he could hear her analysis.
This skill worked with thoughts directed at him? Or is it because it's her. A Spark, was it?
<...no blade... no training... total amateur... but the power... gods... it's filthy... it stinks of the end...>
He realised that she was a predator, just like him. But she was a different kind.
"What are you?" Zane countered, his voice going low with a tough growl that surprised even him.
The power from Gart and Slag had settled in his chest, making his voice deeper.
The woman's head tilted.
"Me?" she said, as if the question was obvious. "I'm a Spark. I'm a Blade and I hunt."
"You... you fed," Zane said, stating the fact. He'd heard her thought.
<...tasted like copper... good...>
Her eyes narrowed. The air around her grew colder.
"You heard that?"
Zane didn't answer, trying to keep the stoic expression on his face. He just watched her.
The woman let out a long, slow breath. It plumed in the cold air.
"So that's your trick," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "You're a mind-reader. A... a Reaper. You feed on the end."
She said the word "end" with a faint trace of disgust.
"And you?" Zane pushed, his new-found power making him bold. "Slag's dying thoughts... he was screaming. You fed on that."
"Of course," she said, her voice full of pride. "I feed on the Spark. The terror. The thrill. The moment the heart hammers and the blood sings."
She took a step closer.
Zane instinctively tensed, the shadows on his shoulders rising like hackles.
"You..." she said, her blue eyes tracing the shadows on his body, "are a vulture. You wait for the meal to die and you pick at the rot."
"It keeps me alive," Zane spat.
"It makes you stink," she countered, but there was no malice in it. Just observation. "Gods, you stink of the grave. You're a bottom-feeder that eats the embers of life, Sump-Demon."
Zane felt a flash of anger. "That 'ember' just resurrected me. And it helped me kill Gart."
The woman laughed. A short, sharp, barking sound.
"You killed Gart? That fat fuck in the hallway?" She pointed her chin at Slag's body. "You didn't kill this one. You were on the ground, dying in your own piss, until I showed up."
She was right. And that pissed Zane off more.
"You 'helped' me," Zane said, "so you could what? Kill me yourself?"
"Kill you?" She looked almost... disappointed. "Why would I? You're not a threat. You're not a challenge. You're a just fucking rat of your god. A new, interesting kind of rat, but still a rat."
She sheathed her sword fully, the shing of the blade settling into its scabbard echoing in the alley.
"I hunt for the thrill, demon. You... you're a just a janitor cleaning up the mess. There's no sport in killing you."
<...filthy... but strong... that shadow trick... where did he go?... need to know that...>
Her curiosity was saving his life.
"I'm Zane," he said, forcing the word out.
The woman stared at him. "A name? You have a name?" She laughed again. "That's rich. Fine, 'Zane.' I'm Silas. Now you know a name doesn't make you any less of a ghoul."
Silas turned her back to him, a move so casual it was a profound insult.
She was that confident he couldn't hurt her.
She knelt by Slag's body.
Not to loot it.
'She had already done that,' Zane realized. She'd taken his shortsword while Zane was high on the soul.
No, she was looking for something else.
She grabbed Slag's left hand, pulled off his gauntlet, and checked his wrist.
"No mark. Just a scrub," she muttered. She did the same to Gart. "Nothing. Just Sump-rats."
"What are you looking for?" Zane asked, his voice still a growl.
Silas stood up. "Doesn't concern you, creature. Just know this."
She turned to face him, her Icey blue eyes deadly serious.
"You're being too loud," she said. "Messy cause you're new. That makes you a problem."
"A problem for who?"
"For everyone. You think these Rusted-Nail pricks are the big players? They're nothing. They're the guard dogs and you just killed two of them. The real boss of the Nails, a fucker named Rivet, is going to hear about it. He's not just a thug. He's smart. He'll send everyone."
Zane felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain.
The high from the souls was already beginning to fade. The hunger, that familiar, cold void, was stirring in the deep.
"But he's not even the problem, either," Silas sighed, her voice dropping. "He's just a man. You... you're not."
She pointed a bandaged finger at him.
"There are other things in this city, Zane. Things that hunt and feed. Sparks like me... and... other things. Things that hunt us."
<...the 'Purifiers'... the 'Church'... he heard her mind whisper, the thoughts like ice-cold needles.>
"Stop being sloppy," she said, her voice pulling him back. "You leave a stain. You're sitting there, glowing in my senses like a fucking bonfire of death. You might as well be ringing a dinner bell for every real predator in Nuln."
The confidence Zane had felt that white-hot certainty, was gone. It had burned away with the Essence.
He was back to being Zane. A cold, scared rat in a flophouse closet, only this time, he'd just pissed off the whole sewer.
"What do I do?" he whispered. The question was pathetic, an old habit.
Silas laughed.
"Do? You die. Probably. Or you just get smarter."
She started to walk away, her leather duster swishing in the filthy street.
"Get clean," she called back over her shoulder. "Control your stink. Learn to hide what you are."
"Wait!" Zane called out.
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"How?"
Silas was silent for a moment.
"You're a vulture," she said, her voice faint in the rain. "You feed on the dying."
"So?"
"So... stop eating like a starving dog. Stop gorging. Learn to siphon. Learn to store. Or the next time you light up like that, it won't be a Blade that finds you."
"It'll be a fucking Exterminator."
She raised a hand in a mocking wave and melted into the smog.
Zane was left alone.
He was standing in the street, the rain soaking him to the bone.
At his feet, two fresh corpses were a stark reminder of his new life.
The high was gone.
The hunger was back.
And now, he was being hunted.