Darkness 5: Regenesis
It's light.
Must've been out for a while.
I'm sitting under an old stone bridge, with my back against one of the arches, facing the river. It's still flowing, trickling over the stones. Peaceful, tranquil even.
What happened?
I don't want to think about it, but I have no choice. The images flash before me now, as if I hadn't been unconscious for the Light knows how long.
Mulvaney, staring at me in terror, each arm restrained by an officer, Max standing over him, crowing at his defenseless prey.
He's dead now.
I'm not sorry.
Mulvaney, broken and spent, weeping tears I never knew he had onto the wet ground.
Not crying now, but standing, his face lowered and hidden in shadow, more dead than alive.
He stopped crying for me.
He still stands, immovable as he ever was, as the black shapes speed towards us. One foot behind the other, for greater power. Shoulders relaxed, for flexibility and speed. Sword point upright, steady as mine never was, and as his never will be again.
The wolf I killed, headless, still standing for that brief moment before the body crumpled for lack of direction, black blood spurting high into the air.
Mulvaney's face, disappearing finally beneath a sea of black fur, blood-spattered and tight-lipped, determined to make his last stand one that would be howled about under the moon for eons to come.
As clear as if they were shouted now, his final words to me, his desperate shout for me to run, to save myself and abandon him.
He's gone now.
He's gone.
Forever.
Then I see the huge dark shape smash through the old doorframe and make straight for me, bearing down on me with its red eyes fixed on my throat, and its muzzle spattered with blood.
I see fire, all around me. The werewolf, trying to put out the flames that dance across its fur, devouring flesh and scorching hair. The timbers of the house crackle and snap under the relentless tide of the blaze, bringing crashing to the ground at last the house that witnessed death, burying the wolf along with his victims of years ago.
My arm is the last thing I see, broken and bloody, the jagged bite marks scattered across it, weeping red blood into the soil around me. Pieces of bone are visible here and there. I retch even recalling the image, knowing that if I look down, I will see that that gruesome spectacle is part of me, that it is my blood and my bone.
Against my better judgment, I feel my eyes slowly sliding downwards, until I know that if I were to open my lids, I would see my arm.
I wait.
I open my eyes.
What I see...
Is nothing?
I see no blood, no bone. All I see is my arm, as it was before the events of that night. There are only two visible differences: a small, jagged scar in the shape of a bite, running from my elbow to the middle of my forearm. The other difference is a slightly darker patch of hair around the scar.
Have I been out for so long that a potentially fatal injury has had time to completely heal?
Unbidden, his voice comes to me through the wind:
'Do yeh have any strange mark on yeh? Like a bite or some such?'
_ _
The werewolf.
The Bite.
I stare at my arm, more horrified now at what I see than at any gruesome spectacle I might have seen before. My entire body starts to tingle, perhaps with nerves, perhaps with... something else.
I can't think straight.
The images flash before my mind again, faster and faster, a whirl of darkness and fire and blood.
I stagger to my feet, stumbling against the wall of the tunnel as the sudden lack of oxygen hits my brain. I cannot move, and I lean against the wall for a few seconds, breathing hard. It occurs to me that this must be the first time I have stood up in at least a week, maybe even longer.
The stones in the wall are cold, jagged and uncomfortable, and as soon as I feel I can stand on my own, I do, staggering slightly as my legs are still numb.
I can still see the pictures before my eyes. Two in particular stand out for me now. They are the two images of the werewolves I killed. The first headless; the second with its face alight and dancing with flames.
As I gaze upon these pictures, uncertain why they are so vivid and clear to me amongst all the other horrors of that night, a sudden and powerful wave of exhilaration hits me.
It strikes me with a force so powerful it seems almost real, causing me to drop onto one knee.
I can see every second of their deaths. My eyes shut involuntarily and I see myself back in the dark garden, not as the terrified boy with a sword, but as a silent observer, watching from the shadows. I can walk around this scene, and I do, but neither that boy or the burly man standing near him come close to matching the intrigue that the soon-to-be corpse of the werewolf fills me. I can smell fear on the air, seeping from the boy like a cloud.
It smells... delicious.
I see him decapitating the werewolf in slow motion. There is no grace or skill about it: it was a lucky swing, from the arm of one never destined to be anything more than a novice bladesman. But still, the death is clean, and the death is good. The blade slices through the wolf's fur and into its flesh, barely slowing as it severs the neck muscles asunder, slipping between the neck vertebrae and parting the head from the rest of the body as the stroke completes itself. I watch the wolf's head separate from the animal's body in slow motion, leaning closer and inhaling deeply, trying to smell the gorgeous scent of gore and death that filled the air on that night. I can almost smell the warm scent of blood, and the idea of warm, rich red blood fills me with a powerful thirst. I want to see more blood, I want to spill it, I want to rip, I want to tear, and I want to_-_
_ _
I stagger upright, opening my eyes wide and gasping for breath, gulping down great lungfuls of clean air, which washes out the foul taste of blood in my mouth. I feel the inside of my cheeks with my tongue and realize that the blood was my own, the flesh of my cheeks ragged and bloody from my having bitten it in my frenzy. I gasp in sudden pain as the wind gets into my mouth, stinging my torn cheeks. I realize that my knee is damp and I stand up suddenly, leaning against the tunnel wall for support. Another wave of bloodlust hits me and I scream, punching the stone wall of the tunnel in rage and confusion. I feel my knuckles split and hear my bone crack as my hand is broken, and I scream again, this time in pain as the bloodlust departs once again. I cradle my useless left hand, and suddenly realize that I cannot taste blood anymore. I feel my cheeks with my tongue again, and find that they are perfectly healed, as though I had never bitten them open in my blood-crazed madness.
My arm, nearly bitten off. My cheeks, torn asunder by my teeth. My hand... I can move it again already...
I'm healing at an insane rate, faster than anyone could ever possibly heal.
Well, anyone without supernatural aid. But I... I have that kind of help.
I'm changing, changing into something unholy, something foul. And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Oh, there are my cheeks again... They taste nice...