ash

Damien can only hear Pabla's screams and the enraged snarls of the werewolf, frothing at the mouth and blood splattered all over its matted grey fur, as he wrestles with it, dagger in hand, his bloodstained wings limp from over-exertion. One large, deep gash runs down the werewolf's body, and one of its hind legs has been rendered useless, its tendons sliced by Damien's vicious dagger.

The werewolf's claws have slashed ugly bloody streaks of torn flesh all over Damien; tears of pain blur his vision. Vaguely he can hear Angelica whimpering as the life slowly drains out of her mangled body, and then a sigh as terrifying as a hoarse scream; Angelica is Kindred ash scattered across the asphalt ground.

Damien can feel his pulse pounding in his ears; it is an unnaturally fast AngelicaAngelicaAngelica as he stabs his dagger back into the werewolf's chest and drags it painfully downwards in a bloodied, frenzied movement. He doesn't know what he's doing as he pulls of his gloves, bloodstained and ripped, and shoves his hand into the wound.

Pabla is screaming again; it is DOMINIC and I'msorryi'msosorry. Damien crouches bleeding and sobbing uncontrollably on the ground, surrounded by blood, and

Ash.

…

Gabbro is expressionless, as he stands motionless on the pavement, not looking down to the Kindred ash scattered at his feet. He doesn't speak when he sees Julio coming out of the apartment entrance dragging behind him the huge briefcase that he used as a transporter.

"Der bastard tötete Merox." Gabbro says quietly once they're in the van, Gabbro sitting next to Julio as he drives. The bastard killed Merox.

Julio doesn't look at Gabbro; he forces his gaze on the road. "Merox was a good man."

From his window, Gabbro watches the white strips demarcating the highway lanes zip past them so quickly that they blur into one long, white line. "Merox was a good man."

They say the last eulogy to a Kindred man who killed his own brother.

…

The werewolf died from a jagged slash down its chest, and its rapidly slowing heart throbbing against the skin of Damien's bloodied fingers.

Pabla cradles the viola gently, running her fingers over the varnished wood, sniffing gently the smell of rosin left behind on the strings of the instrument.

Her hand is shaking violently as she brings the knife plunging through the smooth wood, slicing downwards in a jagged motion. And then, as if the instrument is scalding hot, she flings it into the fireplace and turns away, pretending not to hear the odd twanging sounds of the strings snapping under the high heat, and the crackle of the fire becoming gleefully louder.

Melted metal and ash will be all that is left in the end, Pabla knows.

It is strange how easily perfection can be destroyed.