The big vampire tried to push himself up. One knee. Then both hands. His broken leg dragged behind him. His efforts were for naught—Dante's arm didn't budge an inch.
He couldn't stand.
"What about..." Dante said, looking down at him. "Staying? Don't you understand?" Forcing his hands downward on the vampire's shoulder, bearing him deeper into the ground.
"There's no way, where did he come from... he's just like the master," thought the vampire, sweat rolling down to his eyes, stinging and blinding him.
The vampire's yellow eyes flickered. Not with anger. With something else. Fear.
He whispered under his breath. Quiet. Almost too quiet to hear.
"Damn it, woman... do something..."
Sarah heard it. Her head snapped toward the big vampire. Woman? What woman?
Then she felt it.
A shift in the air. Not wind. Not energy. Something deeper. Like someone was reaching into the room from far away.
She looked at the hybrid.
Its red string — the one attached to its chest — was vibrating. Pulsing. The dark red was bleeding into black. Then something new. A yellow thread. Thin. Barely visible. It stretched from the hybrid's chest... up through the ceiling. West. Toward the building they'd just left.
The woman in the chair, Sarah realized. The red-eyed woman.
She's controlling the hybrid now.
The hybrid stopped twitching. Its body went limp for a second. Then its head snapped up. Its red eyes were gone — replaced by yellow. Glowing. Hungry.
Its broken legs — shrunken and useless — began to swell. Regrow. Bones knitting. Muscle reforming. In seconds, the hybrid stood on two legs again. Taller than before. Arms long. Fingers like blades.
It turned its yellow eyes toward Sarah.
"Shit," Sarah whispered.
The hybrid took a step forward. Then another. Its movements weren't twitchy anymore. They were smooth. Controlled. Like a puppet on strings — but the puppet master knew what she was doing.
Dante looked at the hybrid. Then at the big vampire still kneeling on the ground.
"You called for backup," Dante said.
The big vampire smiled. Blood in his teeth. "She's not backup. She's the handler."
The hybrid lunged.
Fast. Faster than before. The yellow strings pulled taut, and the creature moved like it had never been injured. Arms wide. Fingers stretched. Sarah didn't have time to dodge.
Then Dante moved.
One second he was standing over the big vampire. The next—gone. Not a blur. Not a dash. Just absent. He reappeared next to Sarah. His arm wrapped around her waist. He pulled her sideways.
The hybrid's claws passed through empty air where Sarah's chest had been.
Dante set her down. Ten feet to the left. Safe.
The hybrid's yellow eyes tracked him. Its head tilted. Cracked smile returned.
"You're... quite fast," it said. The voice wasn't its own. Too smooth. Too calm. The woman's voice, coming from the hybrid's mouth.
Dante didn't answer. He just stood there. Hands in his pockets.
Sarah breathed hard. Her shoulder ached—she'd twisted something when Dante grabbed her. But she was alive.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Dante nodded. Never taking his eyes off the hybrid.
"Stay behind me," he said.
The hybrid took a step forward. Then another. Its long fingers dragged along the ground, scraping concrete.
"The boy is dying," the hybrid said—the woman's voice again. "The girl is exhausted. And you..." It smiled wider. "You're just one man."
Dante cracked his neck. "I'm no man. I'm the dog they send to take care of pests."
The hybrid laughed. High-pitched. Wrong.
"Same thing," it said.
Then it charged.
Its long arm swung—a wide arc aimed at Dante's chest. Dante stepped back and left. The claws missed by an inch. Then the hybrid felt it—a punch. The moment she missed, she got punched.
Then he stepped back to his original spot. Like nothing happened.
The hybrid blinked. Swung again.
Dante stepped right. Missed. Punch. Back to center.
Again. Dodge. Punch. Return.
Again. Dodge. Punch. Return.
Countering every time.
The hybrid's arm smashed into a pillar. Concrete cracked. Dust fell.
Dante wasn't there anymore. He was behind the hybrid. Tapped it on the shoulder. The hybrid spun. Swung.
Dante was back in front of it. Hands in his pockets.
"Oh, you're always so close," Dante said. "Try harder. You got this."
The hybrid snarled. Veins forming around his face. Swung left. Dante ducked. Swung right. Dante leaned back. Swung overhead. Dante sidestepped.
Every time—back to the same spot.
The hybrid's arm hit another pillar. Then a wall. Then the floor. Craters everywhere. Dust everywhere.
Dante didn't have a scratch.
"Third time's a charm," Dante said. "Maybe four."
The hybrid screamed. Swung wild. Its face turned red with anger.
Dante dodged. Returned. Dodged. Returned. Dodged. Returned.
Thirty-four times.
Kínitos looked on in awe at what was going on. They were just a blur, but even then he could tell Dante was just playing with the creature. Each punch being far from its mark and a relaxed face on Dante's face told Kínitos that this fight would soon be over.
The hybrid's arms were shaking. Its yellow eyes flickered—the woman's control slipping.
"You're... always... so... close," Dante said, punctuating each word with a dodge.
From the outside, it looked like teleportation.
From Dante's eyes, it was a slideshow.
The hybrid's arm moved forward. Slow. Like honey pouring in winter. One inch at a time.
Dante had time to think. Time to yawn. Time to clip his nails if he wanted. Here it comes, he thought. Same swing. Same angle. Same speed.
He stepped left. Walked around the arm—casual, like crossing a street. The claws passed through the air where his chest had been.
He jumped. Landed on the hybrid's forearm. Walked up it—step, step, step—like stairs. The hybrid's eyes widened. In slow motion. Perfect.
"At this speed I would need to transfer the heat and then carry the 6," Dante thought to himself.
Dante reached the shoulder. Pulled his fist back.
Then he punched.
The hybrid's head snapped sideways. In real time, it was a blur. In Dante's perception, he watched the skin ripple, the teeth fly, the yellow eyes go dim for a second.
He jumped off. Landed back in his original spot.
Hands in his pockets. As he pulled out a lollipop, handing one over to Sarah. Grabbing one. "Thanks," she said.
The hybrid stumbled. Caught itself on a pillar. Shook its head.
"You're slow," Dante said. "And I'm bored."