Chapter 5: The Loyal Weapon
Lucius
The Chain Bridge loomed against the Budapest skyline, its stone lions watching the river with carved indifference.
Rigel moved through the waterfront district with purpose, checking shipping manifests nailed to container doors, pausing to examine scuff marks on concrete. Hunting. Looking for Lycan signs in the industrial maze of the port.
I shadowed him from two hundred meters, using cargo containers as cover. Blood Appraisal tracked his [ 92 BP ] signature like a crimson beacon. Easy to follow. Harder to approach without triggering vampire senses honed by decades of warfare.
The port was quiet. Too quiet. Late shift workers had gone home hours ago. Security guards patrolled in predictable patterns, easily avoided. The only sounds were water lapping against pier supports and the distant rumble of traffic on the Pest side bridges.
Something was wrong.
Rigel felt it too. His posture shifted—shoulders tighter, hand drifting toward the pistol at his hip. He stopped at a junction between container rows, head tilted, listening.
I froze behind a rusted forklift. Waited. Watched.
Three heartbeats registered at the edge of my enhanced hearing. Fast. Strong. Coming from the darkness ahead of Rigel's position.
[ BLOOD APPRAISAL DETECTING NEW SIGNATURES ]
[ TARGET 1: LYCAN (ALPHA CLASS) - 238 BP ]
[ TARGET 2: LYCAN (SOLDIER) - 65 BP ]
[ TARGET 3: LYCAN (SOLDIER) - 65 BP ]
[ WARNING: COMBINED THREAT LEVEL EXCEEDS HOST COMBAT CAPABILITY BY 847%. EVASION RECOMMENDED. ]
238 BP. The Alpha. My mind flashed to the metro tunnels—the massive Lycan that Trix had died protecting. Raze. Had to be.
Rigel drew his pistol. Silver rounds—I could smell the metal from here, sharp and toxic. He'd spotted something. Was backing toward better cover.
Too late.
The ambush triggered from three directions simultaneously.
Raze burst from a container door, seven feet of muscle and fury, already mid-transformation. Clothes shredded as his body expanded, bones cracking and reforming. The two soldiers flanked from side passages, one carrying a submachine gun, the other wielding claws that caught moonlight like curved daggers.
Rigel fired fast—three shots center mass into Raze. Silver rounds punched through hybrid flesh, blood spraying. The Alpha didn't slow. His backhand caught Rigel across the chest and sent the Death Dealer crashing into a container wall hard enough to dent steel.
The soldier with the gun opened up. Bullets tore through Rigel's coat, his shoulder, his thigh. Not silver—standard rounds. Meant to wound, not kill. They wanted him alive.
"For questioning? Or for something worse?"
I pressed myself against the forklift's chassis, calculating. The smart play was obvious: wait, let the Lycans finish Rigel, then scavenge whatever they left behind. Maybe catch a wounded soldier on the retreat. Minimal risk, modest reward.
But watching Rigel stagger upright, throat slashed and bleeding, something else clicked into place.
He was going to die. Ninety seconds, maybe less, judging by the arterial spray. His Blood Appraisal signature flickered: [ 78 BP ] and dropping. If he died here, the Lycans would consume him. Destroy any BP value. Leave nothing but ash and failure.
Alternatively...
"Save him. Let him owe you. Walk through Ördögház's front door as a hero instead of a beggar."
The calculation was cold. Clinical. The surgeon making triage decisions under pressure.
I drew the pistol I'd stolen from the black market. Three rounds remaining. Not silver—I couldn't afford the good ammunition yet. Standard vampire-killers, designed for weaker targets than an Alpha Lycan.
But the soldiers were another story.
I stepped from cover and fired.
The first round caught the gunner in the temple. Clean shot, center mass of the skull. He dropped like his strings had been cut. The second soldier spun toward me, claws raised, mouth opening to howl—
Second round through his open mouth, exiting the back of his neck in a spray of red.
Two down. One Alpha remaining.
Raze turned from the bleeding Rigel, yellow eyes finding me across thirty feet of blood-slicked concrete. Recognition flickered in those inhuman features. He remembered me from the metro. Remembered the fledgling who'd fled while his packmate died.
"You."
The word came out distorted, filtered through a throat designed for howling rather than speech. He released Rigel, letting the Death Dealer slump against the container wall.
"Little vampire. Running won't save you this time."
I raised the pistol. One round left. Aimed at his face.
"Who said I'm running?"
He laughed. The sound was somewhere between human amusement and animal snarl. Then he charged.
Thirty feet closed in under a second. Fledgling speed was nothing compared to Alpha Lycan velocity. My single shot went wide—shoulder instead of skull, barely slowing him. His hand closed around my throat, lifting me off my feet with contemptuous ease.
"Brave. Stupid. But brave."
Claws pricked the skin beneath my jaw. One flex and he'd tear my head clean off. Blood Appraisal tagged him at [ 238 BP ]—enough power to crush me without effort.
"This is how it ends? Three days in, choked out by an oversized wolf?"
Then silver exploded from Raze's spine.
Rigel. On his knees, throat still gushing, but steady enough to plant a combat knife directly between the Alpha's vertebrae. The blade sank to the hilt, silver burning through Lycan flesh with audible sizzling.
Raze roared. His grip loosened. I dropped, hit concrete, rolled.
The Alpha spun, trying to reach the knife embedded in his back. His movements were wrong now—jerky, uncoordinated. The silver was poisoning his nervous system, disrupting the neural pathways that controlled transformation.
"Retreat!"
The command came from somewhere in the container maze. More Lycans? Backup? Raze snarled but obeyed, staggering toward the shadows. His body shrank as he ran, bones cracking back to human configuration, the knife clattering to the ground as his form shifted around it.
Thirty seconds later, the waterfront was quiet again.
I pushed myself upright, checking for damage. Bruised throat. Scraped palms. Nothing that wouldn't heal in hours. Rigel, on the other hand...
The Death Dealer sat against the container wall, hand pressed to his ruined throat. The bleeding had slowed—vampire regeneration fighting to close the wound—but he'd lost too much. His signature flickered between [ 72 BP ] and [ 68 BP ], dropping with each heartbeat.
"Who..."
The word came out as a wet gurgle. He was trying to ask who I was. Why I'd helped.
I crouched beside him, pulling János's wallet from my coat. The family photo went in my pocket—I wasn't ready to lose that reminder yet—but the wallet itself had a credit card with a reflective surface.
"Hold still. Let me see the damage."
The throat wound was bad but survivable. Partially severed carotid, torn muscle, probable damage to the windpipe. In my old life, I would have called for OR prep and a vascular surgeon. Here, vampire biology was doing most of the work. The flesh was already knitting, new tissue growing to replace what Raze had torn away.
"You'll live. Probably."
Rigel's eyes focused on my face. Clear now, despite the pain. Calculating.
"You're... not Death Dealer."
"No."
"Not coven."
"Not yet."
I pulled his hand away from the wound, checking the healing progress. Good color. Strong pulse. He'd be mobile in an hour, fully recovered by dawn.
"My sire was killed three weeks ago. Lycan ambush, District Seven. I've been surviving alone since then. Hunting them when I can."
The lie came smoothly. Practiced. Believable because it contained just enough truth.
"Tonight, I saw you leave Ördögház. Followed you to ask about joining the coven. When the Lycans hit..." I shrugged. "Seemed wrong to let them win."
Rigel studied me for a long moment. Blood still leaked from his throat, but slower now. His signature stabilized at [ 74 BP ].
"You killed two Lycans."
"They were distracted."
"You shot one through the skull from forty feet."
"Surgeon's hands." I waggled my fingers. "Steady."
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half cough. Blood bubbled at his lips, but his eyes held something new. Respect, maybe. Or at least recognition of useful skills.
"What's your name, fledgling?"
"Lucius. Lucius Vane."
"Rigel." He extended a bloody hand. I took it without hesitation—vampire bonding gesture, according to the fragments I'd absorbed. His grip was weak but sincere. "You saved a Death Dealer's life tonight, Lucius. That debt requires payment."
[ QUEST COMPLETE: INFILTRATE COVEN SOCIETY ]
[ REWARD: +10 BP ]
[ CURRENT BP: 56/100 ]
[ NEW RELATIONSHIP: RIGEL - TRUSTED ALLY (45/100) ]
I helped Rigel to his feet. He leaned on me as we walked, arm draped over my shoulders, weight heavy but manageable. The bleeding had stopped entirely now. By the time we reached Ördögház, he'd look like a veteran returning from successful combat rather than a soldier who'd nearly died.
"Kraven will want to meet you," Rigel said as we crossed the bridge. The mansion glittered ahead of us, amber windows promising warmth and danger in equal measure. "He rewards those who serve the coven well."
"I'm just looking for a place to belong."
The lie tasted bitter. But necessary.
"Rigel's a good soldier. Loyal, brave, honorable. When I drain him—if I drain him—I'll make it quick. Professional courtesy."
[ WARNING: EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT FORMING. MAINTAIN STRATEGIC OBJECTIVITY. ]
I dismissed the notification and kept walking.
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