Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

Warnings: Contains harsh violence and language

Timeline: This story takes place seven months after Small Favor, two months after Heart Burns, and thirteen months before Turn Coat and Hell Bent.

Attention: If you are interested in reading the rest of this story, please follow it. I'm weighing interest, as the first Dalca story met with minimal enthusiasm.

Demon Child

Chapter 1

June 18th, 1943 - Schwalmtal, Germany

Rău Dalca waited with bored indifference as the would-be sorcerer prepared to kill a child.

The man's words were foreign to Dalca, which was in turn a foreign concept to him. In his many years on the earth, he'd heard almost every language mankind had invented for itself. But despite his age, there were things that predated even Dalca.

The rest of the ritual dealt with blood and death and power, things he was all too familiar with.

He had no trouble seeing in the hospital basement where the members of the Schutzstaffel Ahnenerbe had prepared the ritual site. When necessary, his eyes could shift into a reptilian form that allowed him to view the world with thermal vision. He could track each crisply uniformed Nazi as they moved about the room, the heat of their bodies providing all of the light he needed.

Such an ability was not required that night, though, as the room was well lit by the sacrificial fires that burned in the central cauldron.

The round iron pit stretched ten feet across and stood nearly five feet deep. It had been segmented with thin metal walls, dividing the cauldron evenly. The pattern left six triangular sections that surrounded a large hexagonal vat. To Dalca, the entire thing looked distinctly like a Star of David enclosed in a circle.

When he'd said as much to Hauptsturmführer Schröter, the man hadn't appreciated the comparison.

A bronze statue loomed over the cauldron, its metallic flesh seeming to move in the dancing firelight. The goat-like legs of the figure formed the rim of the iron pit. Captain Schröter knelt before it where the hooves joined, his own arms raised with palms turned upward in a cradling gesture, to mirror the limbs of the russet effigy.

The statue's human torso was straight, as were the bat-like wings spreading out behind it. The bull's head, complete with curving horns and flaring nostrils, seemed to be looking down at Schröter, its three obsidian eyes winking darkly in the firelight.

The captain had taken great pains to put the ritual together based on ancient texts the Ahnenerbe had found. A steady beat of drums accompanied his chanted words. While Schröter had elected to wear ceremonial robes, the six Oberschütze drummers were dressed in their Schutzstaffel dress uniforms. While crisp and striking, Dalca wondered if doing so might be complicating matters. After all, the Third Reich's blasphemous use of the Hindu swastika would seem to conflict with the captain's painstaking efforts to duplicate an old Canaanite ritual to summon a god of blood and fire.

The different sections of the cauldron each burned with washed coals, pagan woods, and ceremonial oils. As Schröter reached the crucial juncture in the ritual, more Nazi riflemen stepped forward with the offerings. One man stood beside the first of the six triangles with a bowl of flour. Another carried a box of live turtle-doves, their wings broken so that they could not take flight. An ewe, ram, calf, and ox were carried to the remaining four triangles. Each had seen their tendons cut, so that they could not struggle free. Their pitiful bleating was barely audible over the barrage of drum-beats.

Finally, a plank was lowered over the pit to allow two riflemen to carry the final offering to the statue's brazen hands, which loomed empty over the central vat. The men lifted a young boy between them, shuffling their feet in unison as they moved closer to the recessed fire-pit.

The boy, who likely had not seen his fourteen summer, did not squirm as they deposited him upon the open hands of the statue. His arms and legs had been bound together so that he could not hope to escape, not that he would know to try. The wretch had been pumped so full of drugs that his mind had been broken.

After the men stepped away, the plank was removed as Schröter's voice reached a fever pitch. His fingers dipped into a blood-filled bowl, before tracing out the final piece of the ritual on the floor before the cauldron. When his red-stained hands rose above his head in supplication, Dalca lifted his right hand out toward the brazier.

His arm was glowing with an inner light as he channeled some of his power out into the world.

Flames shot up as Dalca ignited the coals, just as the SS riflemen tossed their living sacrifices into each section. Tongues of fire shot up from the center, licking at the boy in the statue's grasp; the pain was enough to cut through his narcotic stupor. His scream was lost in the beat of the drums, until its faded away with his last breath. Eventually his limp form became so traumatized by the fire that it slipped between the hands and into the pit.

The drummers kept their beat as Schröter finished the ritual, his voice haggard as he screamed out the last of the magical words. When the chant ended, so too did the cadence, leaving the basement silent save for the roar of the flames.

Five minutes passed, before Schröter finally rose, his face twisted with frustration. Yet another failure ate away at his confidence, but his shoulders were still set with determination. Schröter glanced behind him, his dark gaze settling on Dalca. "Standartenführer Fürst, if you would."

In response, Dalca relaxed his arm, releasing the power he'd drawn upon. The flames in the cauldron tapered off, leaving the room shadowed under the glowing embers.

The others in the room all broke into motion. Each of the drummers removed their instruments and carried them to the side walls, away from the ever-present heat. Those that had supplied the offerings exited out a side door, while Schröter himself jotted notes into his little black book.

Dalca remained where he was, strategically located behind one of the short columns that held a bowl of incense. A dozen of them had been placed about the room; incense and oils that the ancient text had called for, but were most likely there to help with the rancid odor as the main offerings burned in the cauldron.

Once he'd finished his notes, Hauptsturmführer Jürgen Schröter motioned Dalca forward. In response, Dalca snapped a crisp full-armed salute that might have been just a touch patronizing, and then approached the man. The captain bore the insubordination well; he'd been preparing the ritual site for over a month, and Dalca had been with him for much of that time. Schröter knew that Dalca was no believer in the Third Reich's cause, nor did he care if the would-be sorcerer succeeded in summoning the old god.

He was only there for the payment.

Schröter passed the blood bowl to Dalca when he reached him. "Once more."

Dalca took the bowl wordlessly. With it in hand, he retreated back to the far side of the room, well behind the incense bowls. There, in the shadows, he found a dying man hanging on the wall.

Railway pins had been driven through his forearms to hold him in the crucifixion form, although chains around his limbs and neck carried their fair share of his weight. Steel manacles enclosed his wrists, although they lacked any chains themselves. To those unaware, they might wonder at their presence.

Dalca honed in on the intravenous line in the man's right arm. With an ease born of repetition, he balanced the bowl and tube in one hand while turning the knob on the line. Freed from confinement, the man's blood flowed freely into the bowl. It quickly filled, at which time Dalca twisted the knob a second time.

The young man groaned as his life-force was drained from him, his head rising just enough to watch as Dalca placed the bowl on a side table. Retrieving a small chalice from the same table, Dalca repeated the process. A hiss escaped the man's corpse-like lips as Dalca filled the cup, before once again stopping the flow.

"You will die for this," the man rasped, his voice as dry and cracked as his flesh, and sounding much older than his twenty-something years. His hair had been a brilliant blond when Dalca had first captured him, but was now filthy and limp as it hung about his head like sweat-soaked rags. His once lively hazel eyes were the color of storm clouds in the shadowed bunker, and his pale skin had grown gaunt as they drained him.

He'd looked the part of the ideal Aryan. If only he hadn't been working for the other side, he might have been spared.

"I doubt that," Dalca replied, his tone non-confrontational as he lifted the chalice to his lips.

The man growled at the sight, and a modicum of fight was restored to his beaten demeanor. A spark lit his eyes as he drew on what inner power he could, as if he might break free of the chains that bound him. As if he might be able to effect some level of vengeance before he breathed his last.

Considering that he was a Warden of the White Council of Wizards, he might have done just that, had it not been for the thorned manacles around his wrists.

The warden's defiance disappeared as the steel spikes bit into his wrists. Designed by someone that had truly hated mortal wizards — or, knowing the individual, had found them simply inconvenient at times — the manacles activated whenever the bearer attempted to use magic. Whether the power was drawn from inside or out, it did not matter. The spells in the metal would make sure that the wizard's mind suffered while it shunted their magic elsewhere.

With the manacles in place, the wizard stood no chance of casting any spells that might have freed him. But what his attempt did succeed with was infusing his blood with his power and spirit.

Dalca's smile grew as he topped off the cup with a fresh sample, and drank the wizard's spiritually infused blood, taking his power for himself.

Despite appearances, blood alone held no satisfaction for Dalca, nor his kind. It was the power that came with the blood that interested them; the spirit that permeated the sanguine fluid of mortal veins.

The rest of his family would scoff at the idea of drinking blood to obtain a mortal's power. It was beneath them. And yet, due to circumstances beyond his control, Dalca found himself dependent on the crude method of lowly vampires to obtain his sustenance.

Dalca drank deeply as the man's consciousness fled, until a frustrated voice sounded behind him.

"Fürst!"

With a sigh born of growing impatience, Dalca discarded the cup and retrieved the bowl. He left the dying wizard behind, and returned to the cantankerous Nazi that he was considering strangling before the night was out.

By the time he made it back, he noted that several of the riflemen had returned, carrying another round of sacrificial offerings. Each was grim-faced and resolved; those with weak constitutions had already been weeded out hours earlier. Those capable of finishing the job brought more animals in, along with another young boy.

This one was perhaps a year or two younger than the last, which made him the youngest of the dozen or so they'd already sacrificed that night.

Dalca passed the the bowl of blood back to the would-be sorcerer. "This wellspring will run dry before long."

"It would last longer if you did not sample it between every attempt," Schröter snapped, his dark gaze narrowing beneath his bald scalp. While the captain might be foolish to believe his attempts at summoning a god would work, he was also observant.

"I'm just warning you," Dalca replied as he looked at the bronze statue. "It looks like you should have used iron, like I said."

A flush came to Schröter's cheeks that had nothing to do with the unbearable heat in the room. "The sources said to use a bronze statue."

"That's fine, but the arms are sagging," Dalca informed him, nodding toward the burnished limbs that hung above the cauldron.

Schröter turned to look, and couldn't miss the apparent sag. The continuous exposure to Dalca's spellworked flames had weakened the metal, deforming what had been a painstaking effort to mold realistic arms and hands. Metal was already dripping from the clutching fingertips. To Dalca's eyes, the entire statute looked molten, as if it might collapse into a scalding pool of metal at any moment.

"We must do as the ancients said," Schröter replied, although he was sounding less sure after a dozen failures. "It will last until we've found the correct name."

Dalca shrugged, and retreated back behind the incense as Schröter peeled back one of his sleeves. Another red line appeared across his flesh as he cut himself, allowing his blood to drip into the bowl of empowered wizard blood.

Once that was done, and his robes had been adjusted, the man began his ritual again. It was a long-winded chant that Dalca worked hard at ignoring. Unlike song lyrics, ancient rites were not something you wanted to memorize. Not if you wanted to have a peaceful night's sleep ever again.

Dalca's mind drifted as the ritual droned on, and yet another sacrifice was prepared. He found himself idly wondering if any of it was worth the effort.

"Do you… realize… what you're doing…" came the feeble voice of the young man behind him.

Dalca turned, and saw that the wizard had regained consciousness. He strolled over, more interested in him than in the nonsense being spouted across the room. "They're trying to summon an old god."

"You all… have no idea…"

"Stow it, wizard," Dalca groaned impatiently. "It's hard enough listening to that fool drone on. I don't need you adding to it."

The wizard tried to turn his gaze to Dalca, but his focus wavered. "You are messing with forces—"

"Yes, yes," Dalca mumbled. "Forces beyond our comprehension. Power beyond our control."

"This is no laughing matter," the wizard managed.

"Everything you mortals do is laughable," Dalca retorted. "Why should this be any different?"

The wizard finally managed to lift his eyes. "What do you hope to gain?"

"Personally? Not much," Dalca admitted. "I was brought in to assist that arschloch over there," he said, pointing a thumb over one shoulder at the raving lunatic in the white robes stained red with wizard's blood. "All I'm getting is you and your giggle water." Dalca tapped the intravenous line for emphasis.

The wizard's gaze narrowed. "You want my power."

"Well I'm not interested in you for your looks, Sunshine," Dalca replied wryly.

"Why are you doing this?" the wizard asked. "Are the rumors true? Are you some demon controlled by Kemmler?"

Dalca laughed at that. "A demon? No. Heaven forbid."

"Then why are you helping them?" the wizard gasped, the last of which was barely a whisper as his fatigue ebbed.

"Kemmler is helping me with a little problem," Dalca admitted. "You might say I have some… digestion issues. In return, I'm helping him bring about his Apocalypse. Which means this month I'm helping this Kraut."

"What does Kemmler need with an old god?" the wizard asked, his dirty golden eyebrows twisted in confusion.

"Nothing," Dalca confirmed. "He doesn't give two shits about any of this. Neither do I. But if Himmler's occultists can summon up demons and raise hell for you guys, then so be it."

"And so you align yourself with darkness—"

"Wizard, I am darkness," Dalca said with a roll of his eyes, cutting him off. "I'm the darkest thing liable to show up in this forsaken place, no matter how much shouting that chrome-dome does."

The bald sorcerer, if that's what you could call someone with no real magical talent, continued his chanting, his voice reaching a fever pitch. He was clearly worked up, and was anticipating something great once they tossed the latest boy into the flames.

Dalca had no taste for such sacrifice. It was a waste of perfectly good power, all in the name of some ancient god that was mostly likely dead or locked away in Oblivion. Better to let the kids grow a few more years, until their lives were ripe for the picking.

Instead, he stood by while the fool sang his heart out. Dalca was simply glad that after that night, it'd all be over.

Only, it seemed that it would be over before the Kraut was done.

A flicker in the light drew Dalca's attention, drawing his eyes to a small form that appeared on the edge of the incense bowl.

The figure was tiny, standing no taller than four inches or so. Her skin was a dark blue that bordered on navy, which was mostly concealed behind her miniature SS uniform. The custom-made outfit had been modified to accommodate her more unique attributes, which included a long thin tail and gossamer gliding wings.

The pearlescent airfoils were just folding down across her back as the tiny fairy righted herself. She snapped a sharp salute of her own, although there was a mocking twist to her lips as she did. The water vâlvă held no more love for the Nazis than Dalca himself did, and her sharp anglerfish teeth appeared as she shot him a snide grin.

"Mara," Dalca said softly, somewhat surprised by her presence. "I thought you were steering clear of this?"

"I am, my lord," the fairy said as her black orbs focused on his cobalt eyes. Her head tilted to one side, causing the two illicium on her forehead to bob in that direction. "I thought you might want to know that several wizards are about to arrive."

A rasping laugh from behind confirmed that the wizard on the wall had heard her comment. "I warned you, monster."

Dalca rolled his eyes. "Go warn Herzog," he told Mara. "Make sure his Wolfsherzen hold them off as long as possible. I'll take care of things here."

The wizard's dry bark drew his attention back. "You think some tame lycanthropes are going to stop Wardens of the White Council?"

"Not my concern," Dalca replied as he checked his weaponry.

His Luger and black-bladed stiletto were both holstered on his left thigh, while his black-bladed sword hung above them on his hip. Dalca drew several inches of dark steel from the scabbard. Engravings ran the length of the cusped falchion; ancient spells that made it more powerful than any mundane weapon. The metal was mottled like all Damscus steel, save for the smooth edge that was sharper than any blade crafted by mortal hands.

It was an old blade, one that had taken countless lives over the centuries. And in the wane light, Dalca knew it was ready to take more.

With wizards in-bound, it would need to be.

The young man's eyes drifted down to the sword, his scowl returning. "When they see that blade, they'll know you for what you are," His gaze rose, a deep hatred burning in his eyes. "Dubhlainn."

Dalca's own gaze hardened. "Then this won't make matters worse, will it?"

Before the wizard could respond, Dalca darted in. His teeth grew long and sharp before sinking into the wizard's neck, and the man gasped as Dalca drank his life away.

The sense of power surged as the wizard fought back, but the thorned manacles prevented him from casting anything. Dalca drank deeply as the wizard's blood became enriched with power. He drank quickly, before all of it could be dispelled by the manacles.

He drank, and by the end, he was drunk with the wizard's power.

When he heard the man's heart stop, Dalca withdrew, knowing no more power would be taken. Even if blood remained in his veins, it would be as lifeless as the man's eyes. There was almost a pleading look on the wizard's face. No doubt he had tried to organize his thoughts to cast a death curse on the monster that killed him, but the manacles and blood-loss had prevented that, as they always did.

Satisfied with the power he'd taken, Dalca removed the thorned manacles. After securing them in his pockets, he turned back to the room, where he found Schröter completing the ritual.

At the appointed time, Dalca's arm rose, and the flames rose with it. The drugged boy screamed just as an explosion rocked the basement of the hospital. Dust fell from the ceiling as an odd cry erupted from the child's lips, before being extinguished by the roar of the flames and the beat of the drums.

Schröter tensed where he knelt, poised and waiting for the god he had summoned.

But the boy did not fall into the central vat, as all the others had. Dalca studied the statue, and realized what had happened before anyone else.

Dalca quickly moved forward, which caused the captain to scowl. "Fürst, what are you—"

"We're done here," Dalca informed him.

"It is not yet finished!" Schröter hissed angrily. "We must try again.

Dalca looked up at the towering flames. "No, your statue is done," he said, pointing. The fires had obscured the corpse of the boy, so Dalca released the power he'd channeled into the conflagration. The flames of the inferno dipped, revealing the sagging molten arms of the statue that still held the sacrifice above the pit. They'd shifted slightly, leaving no space between them for the remains to fall through. "The bronze got too hot. It's not going to let the boy slide free, much less hold another."

Another explosion rocked the room, this one hitting hard enough to knock several of the smaller braziers and incense bowls over. Schröter staggered as a high-pitched whine pierced the air.

He and Dalca both looked to the statue, which was now leaning forward over the sacrificial pit. The heat had done more damage than they'd realized, and the entire thing was beginning to drip molten bronze into the cauldron. Liquid metal ran down the arms and over the corpse of the last sacrifice as the wings seemed to fold in on themselves. It was surreal to watch the brazen bull head dip down, as if consuming the body of the boy in its grasp.

When the third explosion hit, the waist of the statue finally broke, and the mass of molten metal descend into the burning embers.

Dalca seized Schröter by the elbow and began to drag him to the door. The drummers and assistants had all fled already, some before the final chant had even concluded.

The bald man tried to wrench his arm away, but Dalca's grip held fast. When that failed, the captain fell back on his supposed superiority. "Release me!"

"No," Dalca said as he dragged the man away. Another blast rocked the room, and a crossbeam at the far end collapsed. Schröter flinched at that, but Dalca kept both of them moving.

"But the ritual is not complete!" he screamed, gesturing back at the burning pit with his free hand. "Moloch has not come!"

"I don't think he will be," Dalca informed him. "Just try again next month."

"Impossible!" Schröter shouted in reply. "I'll have to wait a year at least, until the next Hot Moon!"

"Too bad," Dalca said as he pulled the man out into the hallway. The lights hanging overhead shook back and forth as another loud boom echoed across the facility. "If we can get you out of here, you can try again then."

"But Himmler will not give me more time!" Schröter argued. "The Führer demanded results!"

"Fine, whatever," Dalca said, cutting him off as they reached the bottom of the steps leading out of the bunker. The looming form of Herzog was descending at speed, and Dalca shoved the sorcerer toward him. "Tell Herzog all about it. But we have to leave now."

If the captain was ignorant of the peril, the alpha of the lycanthropes in his service was not. Standing several inches over Dalca's own 6'2", the lieutenant looked nothing like a beastly berserker. His lantern jaw was smooth and clean shaven, and his dark eyes were intelligent and controlled despite feeling the pull from the full moon.

"Captain, we must leave," Herzog said, his voice softer and higher pitched than one would expect of such a large man. His form was lean, with taut muscle concealed by his sharp Nazi regalia. To outward appearances, he seemed like a gentle giant.

That was the furthest thing from the truth. Dalca had seen him and his Wolfsherzen in action. They were all savage brutes, men and women alike. And Herzog was their undisputed leader; his soft voice and cultured appearance concealed the killer lurking within.

"Very well, Scharführer," the captain replied readily enough. His sudden agreeableness caused Dalca's teeth to grind in irritation.

The three made their way up the stairs to the first floor, where the sound of battle echoed through the hospital. Gunfire erupted toward the front of the building, so they steered themselves toward the rear. Dalca quickly replaced the standard-magazine in his Luger with another, knowing he'd need all of the firepower he could get, what with wizards on the prowl.

Up ahead, the hanging light suddenly tilted toward the hallway to the left. Dalca's free hand blurred to his sword hilt, and the black blade was drawn by the time the Warden of the White Council came into view.

The man's eyes widened when he saw the dark weapon, and hastily began to draw his own as he thrust a crooked wand at Dalca.

Whatever spell the warden cast was met with a wall of black light that was enshrouded within an ultrascarlet nimbus. It was one of the trademark spells of Dalca's kind, available to only those of his bloodline. The spell of unraveling broke down the chemical bonds between elements, disintegrating everything it touched. The unnatural dark light was normally cast offensively as a bolt of lightning, but could be cast into a defensive shield as well.

Between the unraveling darkness and the scorching nimbus, the shield could withstand almost any physical or magical attack. Dalca heard an explosion on the far side of the shield he'd cast, but didn't waste time wondering at what it might have been. The dark barrier shimmered and disappeared as Dalca thrust his black blade through the backside, his arm moving at preternatural speed.

Caught off-guard, the warden didn't have time to finish drawing his own weapon. The tip of Dalca's sword pierced his belly as a look of shock blossomed across his face. Clearly unprepared for death, the wizard did not have a death curse prepared as Dalca wrenched the falchion up across the man's body.

The curving tip of the blade cleaved through him all the way up to the neck. Blood sprayed across the hallway as the wizard collapsed, coating Schröter from head to toe. Herzog and Dalca had both pivoted away to avoid the arcing fluid.

"Take his sword," Dalca ordered before licking the blood from his own. Power made the liquid tingle between his lips, and he made sure to store a little bit away in his reserves. As he cataloged the unique power of the wizard he'd slain, he spotted a second figure running forward. "I'll meet you in the tunnel."

Herzog obeyed without question, quickly sliding the warden's blade free from its scabbard before leading Schröter away.

"Eric!" the approaching woman screamed, seeing the dead warden at Dalca's feet. Her wide-eyed gaze rose to take in his sword, and her face paled as she realized who she faced. The woman's voice filled with a familiar tone of rage. "Dubhlainn!"

Along with the nickname came a wall of pure kinetic energy. The wizard's empty hand thrust forward, although Dalca noted that it was not bare. What looked like a slim gauntlet graced the fingers and back of her hand, no doubt her version of a spell foci.

Dalca braced himself for the spell she unleashed even as his dark shield sprung up before him. The air whipped around either side of it, cutting gouges into the walls and shattering the windows to the rooms on either side.

His shield protected him from the powerful onslaught of raw energy, but the cost of sustaining it was too great to simply leave in place. Especially when facing someone with an enchanted blade that could cut through any warding spell. Dalca released the shield with a thought, and the inky black wall disappeared in a flash.

With the shield gone, Dalca could see the curved warden sword coming. His own rose to meet it, and the two enchanted blades clashed together like a clarion bell.

The woman drew her weapon away, only to swipe again. She moved quickly for a mortal, but was much too slow to match Dalca's supernatural speed. He didn't press an attack, though. His eyes tracked her movements, anticipating each twitch for the tell that it was.

It was a delicate balance, fending off a wizard. A sword swipe would be followed by a spell, and Dalca had to be ready for both. In only a brief time, the woman must have flung half a dozen spells in his direction. He could feel the power she summoned, and knew from experience just how large of an attack it would invoke.

Red-rimmed shields of black light deflected wind bursts, fireballs, and kinetic blasts. And as each was turned away, Dalca would parry the subsequent sword thrust, only to shield against the next spell. They danced quickly, the warden and the beast, until it ended quite suddenly.

When an ascending crescent swipe with the blade left the woman's empty hand forward, Dalca knew she'd have a spell prepared. His shield sprung up just as three shimmering white spheres shot from her forward-thrusting palm. He angled the scarlet-trimmed wall to deflect the blasts to one side, and released it as soon as the spheres glanced off the surface.

With the shield blinking in and out of existence faster than expected, the warden wasn't ready when Dalca's left hand rose to train the Luger on her. Her own shield sprung into place as he took aim, the wall of pure energy enough to stop even his enchanted rounds.

But it wouldn't stop his black blade.

Distracted by the threat of the gun, and unused to fighting an enemy with a weapon as resourceful as her own, the warden reacted to the firearm rather than the sword that Dalca swung low. As the enchanted weapon rose, it cut through her shield as if it wasn't there. The spells on the blade unmade her own casting, and the woman's eyes widened one last time before the Luger round snapped into her forehead.

The enchanted bullet exploded, unleashing enough kinetic energy to cause her head and neck to erupt into a fountain of gore.

Dalca's shield popped in and out long enough to spare him from the messier bits. As she collapsed, he quickly holstered the Luger and retrieved her blade. The slim curving sword fit well enough into his own scabbard for the moment.

He made sure to sample her blood as well, savoring the fleeting sense of power that faded all too quickly upon death. There was enough remaining to memorize her unique magical signature, and then Dalca was heading back in the direction he'd come.

As Dalca ran down the hall, the hanging light overhead bobbed as Mara leapt from it. After signaling Dalca, she'd watched as he'd killed two wardens of the White Council in less than two minutes. When she alighted on his shoulder, her grin was fierce and proud.

"Excellent work, my lord," she said as Dalca ran to catch up with the others. "Another two to add to the collection."

"I told you not to call me that," Dalca replied by rote. It was an exchange the two had repeated countless times over the years whenever the water vâlvă lapsed. "How many more?"

"Two more wardens, and the Bad One," she said, her joy at seeing him kill battle mages fading with that last proclamation.

"Shit," Dalca hissed as he cut down a hallway. "Where is he?"

"To the rear."

"Can we get to the…" Dalca began, only to trail off when he spotted Herzog and Schröter up ahead. They'd stopped at one of the doors that led outside, rather than making a break for the brick outbuilding that led to the escape tunnel.

When Dalca reached them, he could see why.

Their destination was a good thirty yards outside of the hospital. Knowing that Allied forces were growing ever closer along the western front, Dalca and Herzog had made sure to plan for an expedited departure. The escape route lay in an outbuilding, where a trap door concealed the stairs leading down into the sewer system.

In the event of an attack, Herzog's Wolfsherzen were to secure the path. While some would aide in the defense of the facility, the majority would make sure their pack leader and the man he reported to could make good with their escape.

Herzog's pack of lycanthropes was the largest Dalca had ever seen. Counting twenty-four including the leader himself, the Lieutenant had made a fierce fighting unit that benefited from the ferocity and strength offered to their kind.

Fueled by the full moon, each lycanthrope was a force unto themselves. Their reflexes were beyond anything human, and their physical prowess was remarkable. They didn't transform into beasts like weres, but they were far more savage than their shape-shifting counterparts. Old legends said they were berserkers that possessed the soul of a wolf rather than the body of one, and from what Dalca had seen, they weren't wrong. Dalca knew that one the Wolfsherzen had killed half a dozen Allied soldiers in twice as many seconds.

And that had been one of the least remarkable members of Herzog's pack.

But in a world full of magical creatures, they were far from the most dangerous.

Outside, a dozen of the deadly lycanthropes littered the ground before a single mage.

He wasn't that tall, all things considered. The wizard looked less like an impenetrable wall and more like a whiskey barrel. And yet as Dalca watched, the man gestured with a dark staff in one hand, and three charging lycanthropes all lurched into the air, grasping at their necks.

The three hovered in place as the short wizard strode forward. As he made his way toward to the central door at the rear, his unruly beard and bald pate was revealed. His eyes were narrowed, doubling the wrinkles on his aged face.

He paid the struggling lycanthropes no mind as he walked past them. Dalca could see that each was grasping at their neck, as if some invisible force was choking them to death while dangling them in midair.

If it had been any other Council wizard, the Wolfsherzen would have been spared a death by magical means.

Unfortunately, it was no mere wizard they faced that night.

One lycanthrope had the good sense to reach for the firearm at her hip. Her Luger cleared the holster and pointed blindly after the departing wizard, the slim barrel shaking as the fierce warrior tried to concentrate on both killing the enemy and struggling to breath.

Without casting a look back, the wizard twitched the dark staff in his knobby hand.

All three lycanthropes died as their necks snapped.

When the wizard entered the building, the three collapsed to the ground.

"Go," Dalca urged quietly. "Now."

A low growl was emanating from Herzog's throat, a rare display of the beast lurking within the man. Dalca could see the madness creeping in at the corners of his eyes, and knew he wanted to avenge his pack-mates. As their alpha, it was all he could think of in that moment.

But if Dalca had learned one thing over the years, it was this:

No-one stands against the Blackstaff.

"Go," he repeated, shoving the lycanthrope. The man turned on him, his lips peeled back in a snarl as his lantern jaw tensed. But Dalca's gaze was hard. "Do your duty."

There was a quick and brutal war in Herzog's mind, as the two disparate thoughts fought it out. But his training overrode his beast, and the lycanthrope turned to lead Schröter out the side door and toward the small brick building. Dalca was on their heals, grateful that he wouldn't have to put the man down.

Letting the other two pull ahead, Dalca kept any eye out behind them. It seemed the wizards weren't attacking with the Allied forces, which meant this wasn't a full incursion across enemy lines. There was no perimeter to worry about, but escaping through the tunnel would have avoided even that.

As Herzog wrenched open the door to the outbuilding, the door they'd exited through exploded outward, the windows around it shattering under an incredible force.

Dalca turned to face the Blackstaff as he charged out of the main building. The man's gaze was dark, and grew darker when he recognized the black blade Dalca bore.

"GO!" Dalca roared at the other two. Mara shot after them, knowing that if Dalca was laughably outmatched by the Blackstaff, she was even more so. They all disappeared into the brick shed, and Dalca heard the sound of the floor hatch being swung open. He listened to the sound of their steps retreating down the hidden stairs, even as he watched the furious wizard charge.

When he heard the others reach the tunnel, Dalca started running backward. He regretted having picked up the fallen warden's sword, if only because it now meant he had to carry his own blade. He had a plan, but it'd be risky while holding an enchanted sword that could cut Dalca just as well as it'd cut the warden's shield.

He was only a few steps outside of the building when the Blackstaff thrust his namesake in Dalca's direction, and a wave of unrivaled power ripped through the air.

Dalca's hands rose before him, bearing the black blade as if it could ward off the spell. It wouldn't, but it allowed him to focus his shield, and the black wall of light appeared just moments before the Blackstaff's power crashed into it.

The shield cracked and splintered as Dalca was thrown backward. His momentum carried him through the gaping door of the shed. The broken edges of light along his ward spell sizzled as they struck the door-frame.

Dalca liked to think that the spell was powerful. The wood disappeared as his shield passed through it, leaving a cloud of particles in its wake. Harder materials didn't break down quite as quickly as magic and flesh, but the wood didn't stand a chance.

With one of his most powerful spells, Dalca destroyed the door-frame.

With very little effort at all, the Blackstaff destroyed the building.

Brick walls burst apart under the wizard's blast. Ceiling joists shattered into splinters as the spell struck with hurricane winds. The entire building rocked and bowed under the force of the Blackstaff's will, before it all came crashing down on Dalca. Several tons of brick and mortar and tile collapsed around him as he fell backward.

But his aim was true, and as Dalca fell, it was into the recessed stairwell.

He hit hard, the impact enough to drive the air from his lungs. He rolled backwards down the stairs, losing track of his sword edge as it tumbled about. The air filled with dust and debris as the building descended with him, and when he finally rolled to a stop, bricks cascaded across him.

"Shit," he groaned as he pushed himself up. He'd managed to hold on to his sword, but he hadn't controlled it. A gash had been cut into his left bicep, and his own blood trickled down the edge of the blade.

"I've got it," Mara said as she soared down the tunnel toward him. Her tiny clawed fingers touched Dalca's neck tenderly as he stumbled to his feet. He could feel her water magics working their way through him as he began to weave his way down the tunnel. The way behind him was blocked by debris, but the Blackstaff was no fool; he'd realize they'd fled to the outbuilding for a reason, and he could clear the path in no time.

Dalca charged down the tunnel at breathtaking speed. By the time he reached the far end, the wound in his shoulder had closed. He charged up the steps and through the building well beyond the hospital's grounds, and then out into the sparse forest beyond. He could see the other two up ahead, the more resilient Herzog all but dragging their charge.

There was a get-away car waiting not far from there, and Dalca ran after the others with purpose. But a sound behind him caused his pulse to spike, and he twisted around as he skidded to a stop. "Go!" he shouted at Mara. The tiny fairy obeyed, zooming after the others as Dalca turned back. Power surged into Dalca's empty hand as black sparks snapped between his fingers.

It took him only a moment to realize that the Blackstaff had not caught up with them. He started to sigh with relief, only to have his breath freeze in his throat as something lurched awkwardly within the far shadows.

As it grew closer, Dalca's eyes trained on a small figure in the distance. It stood far beyond the escape tunnel exit, all the way across a street back at the edge of the town. Even Dalca's superior eyes could barely spot it from that far.

It was short like the wizard, but much slimmer than his burly form. Its hands appeared to be empty as it stumbled forward, its movements oddly disjointed. Dalca tensed, knowing that nothing human could have caught up with them that quickly on foot.

When the figure stepped into the light, Dalca stared.

Three black eyes, each rimmed in amber light, stared right back.

Dalca blinked, unable to move. The body shone under the streetlight, the molten bronze having cooled into a new metallic flesh over the form of the last sacrifice. When it moved, it was with stiff, jerky movements, as if the joints were not free to twist and bend beneath the cold metal.

It was impossible. Dalca had watched the body burn, the flesh incinerated by magically fueled fires. He had watched as it had been doused in molten metal, before being buried in the fiery cauldron beneath the mass of the bronze idol. The sacrifice could not have lived.

And yet the boy stood there, his three glowing eyes fixated on Dalca.

The streetlight overhead popped, pulsing brightly before burning out.

When the light was gone, so too was the boy.

Dalca heard the car start in the distance. The others had reached it, and were prepared to leave him if he didn't catch up. Mara might slow them for a moment, but the fairy was bound to aid them just as Dalca was. There was little she could do to prevent them from leaving.

After taking one last look toward the empty stretch of sidewalk beneath the streetlight, Dalca turned and fled.