i.
For once in his life, Crane found it hard to fall asleep. Unconsciousness didn't wash over and pull him into a dreamless slumber like it used to. Instead, he laid awake in the shadowy room, staring blankly at the high ceiling in hopes of becoming bored enough to doze off. However—whether it be from the waxing gibbous moon or the tiny vixen that once graced his presence hours ago—his mind had other plans for him that evening.
Thoughts swirled riotously in his head like a violent eddy. Images, sensations, sounds—mostly, if not completely—revolving around her. He forced the palms of his hands over his eyes. God knew Ichabod was far from a sex-depraved degenerate, yet his mind kept finding its way back to the events that transpired earlier. Like the way her supple thighs wrapped perfectly around his hips. How she'd unknowingly taken her bottom lip between her teeth when she was nervous. The endearing way she scrunched her nose when she'd caught him in his Barney Aylmer lie.
The woman was pure sin.
Abigail, he reminded himself. Not "the woman". She had a name; one he'd forget upon a cold day in hell.
Ichabod took in a deep breath of air, hoping to chill his searing skin. His heart palpitated in his chest. His sense of touch heightened. His lengthy canines protruded into his tongue and if his trousers got any tighter he swore he was going to tear them off.
But Crane was a man—a wolf man, but a man nonetheless—and his subconscious did at it pleased. Heavens, that seraphic expanse of smooth skin on her neck was his undoing...
To hell with this! He thought, throwing the thick sheets off of his oversensitive body. Sleep was too far from him to pretend it was coming soon. He stretched his limbs; the burn and pull in his taut muscles was momentary bliss.
He took his signature coat, wrapped it around his shoulders and exited his room. If his thoughts wanted to run amok, they were going to be about the earth-shattering damage he'd left in his quake. Much less pleasant than the ones about the lieutenant, but he digressed.
The empty, barren hallways echoed with each step he took. Cobwebs and dust coated the ground in white, leaving large footprints behind him. It was quiet enough for him to hear the cattle mooing and huffing in the fields outside of the manor.
And that—incredibly so—perturbed him.
This house never used to be quiet. In its long two centuries since being built, Crane couldn't remember a single day where it'd been noiseless. If it wasn't clatter from his large pack the manor housed, then it was from the constant barrage of ambassadors, nobles and royalty flooding the hallways every week. Divine melodies used to dance along each corridor. Delicacies from all over Lycanthrope territories once filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. Elan and exuberance used to draw in nobles like a moth to a flame.
But now?
Crane kicked away a large shard of broken glass on the floor.
This house was nothing. Nothing but dust and shadows. Ghosts. Phantoms.
He felt his claws itching to be stretched, his primal counterpart obviously less than pleased at the turn of events. He pressed his fingertips into his palms.
His legs had a mind of their own as they led him across the tiled floors, exploring the house as if it was his first time again. As if he hadn't memorized every room, trapdoor and hallway like a mantra. But seeing the stark contrast in ambiance from now and then, it might've well been an entirely new building.
He skirted past the enormous kitchen—which at one point held every spice known to man—and the desolate longue room. Past the innumerable doors that led to rooms and closets, others into hidden passageways. Many doors were left wide open—some disturbingly snatched right off the hinges—and let him peer into the deserted living quarters. Books, scrolls and sheets were strewn everywhere in most of them. A few walls were speckled and marred with mold, and for others, blood.
Crane stopped at the splintered doorway to his sigma's room, his fingers curling around the brass doorknob as if it was the offender. This room—like the others—was in complete disarray. That was out of character for his sigma. The man was almost as compulsively neat as Ichabod. Clothes were scattered and piled up on practically every surface. Ink-stained parchment covered his desk and the plush chair beside it, too.
He spotted the younger man's half-packed suitcase on its side. Crane rolled it over, rifling through the dusty garments. Toothbrushes, knives, an empty bottle of lunar essence—the bare essentials. His sigma tried to leave. The red blotches on his sheets told Ichabod he didn't get far.
Crane moved onto the next object of interest; the ink-stained parchments. Although most of it was tarnished and illegible, he could make out a couple of sentences.
—an't watch this madness unfurl before me any longer. The Almighty knows it; He knows I am weak. He knows that whatever will I had left sapped away with my last vial of lunar essence. I—
—ham wants to continue protecting what little there is left to protect. I do not have the heart to tell him that I wasn't born to take up a position as a bet—
—this now, as I stare into the abyss and it stares back, my thoughts continue to reel about the man I assumed I knew like kin. The man who said he would take up after the fallen Parliament and raise us back from the ashes. Our leader! Our Alpha! Yet he, even more so than omegas, showed pusillanimity at the omen of peril. When Bethany told me he fled into the night, I'd sooner thought he was slain than—
The writing ceased. His hands quivered as he set the paper on the desk. Crane swallowed thickly, his face flush and clammy.
God, he did this.
He needed to leave the room.
His thoughts were even more befuddled than before, trying to fill in the missing blanks by sorting through his memories. He knew about Parliament falling—he recalled the entire day in explicit detail. From the flakey, hot scones he had at sunrise to the arduous night he spent planning with his pack to restore order and build a new government.
Hell, he and the entire Lycanthrope people knew that day was coming long before it came. Parliament was corrupted; the council was power hungry. They were less concerned with keeping the supernatural at bay than they were with seizing land and getting rid of nuisances that threatened their positions as supreme. However, their greed came bounding at their heels like a hellhound. Centuries of inflicting injustice under the guise of "the greater good"—an act he unwittingly enforced and believed in once afore—kindled a spark that quickly transformed into a wildfire. People rioted, they revolted.
It was a countdown for all—not just the Lycanthropes. Faes, demons, witches and lesser entities—most of which are undoubtedly extinct now—were at a standby for the day it would all plunge through. Waiting 'til the last councilman was either killed or resigned under pressure.
Because right after that, it would be unadulterated anarchy. Open season for humans.
The familiar, stale scent of his old friend jolted him out of his thoughts. Crane didn't even realize he walked all the way to the war chamber on the highest floor. He ran his fingertips along the icy steel doors, sliding his calloused thumbs over the bolts, nuts and switches. This room was undisputedly the most guarded one in the entire manor—more hexes fortifying these doors than surrounding the house.
Crane made quick work of the locks before pulling them open. They whined and creaked from disuse and rust, sending a shrill noise barreling down the halls. Immediately upon entering, the lights flickered to life. An irritating buzz from one bulb made his skin crawl.
This room, naturally, was less ornate than the others in the house. There weren't any extravagant, golden embellishments on the bare metal walls, no crocheted doilies on each table. Everything in the room was strictly military.
Crane swept the thick layer of dust off the table map, giving the complicated boundaries of the supernatural world a quick once over. God, he remembered the amount of hours he and Abraham spent mulling over this damned table. How many sleepless nights they wasted strategizing, preparing for the collapse of Parliament for the entire plan to fall flat on its ass.
He made it over to the weapon racks on the right wall, eyeing the impressive collection he and his pack gathered. Despite the hollow gape in the pit of his stomach, he felt pride warm his chest. Ancient artifacts, cursed objects, grimoires, poison vials, swords, battleaxes—they spent years scouring the earth for them. So much blood was shed to make sure that these numinous armaments were kept far away from malicious hands.
The few belonging to specific pack members were absent. The wide space where Abraham's battle-axe used to be was covered in grime. He scoured the rest of the extensive assortment for his, coming up dry minutes later. He flexed his fingers, tension building in his body. If anybody got a hold of the Methuselah, they were in for one hell of a surprise when they used it.
Crane was on the brink of turning the entire war room upside down when he found the broadsword on his seat at the table. He picked up the long weapon, unsheathing it to its full length. The thick blade gleamed glossily in the dim light, almost as if it was sentient and welcoming his long-awaited presence. As his eyes traveled down the weapon's form, he spotted a piece of curled paper at its hilt.
He unraveled it, reading over the contents with a heavy heart.
December 13th, 1984
Whenever you decide to stop being a bloody fucking asswipe, you can find me in Purgatory. I'll be there every single day until you arrive.
-A. V. B.
Crane gripped the yellowed paper. His vision swirled. His stomach lurched.
Abraham wrote this thirty years ago. Thirty years. Three-hundred-sixty months. One-thousand-four-hundred-forty weeks. Ten-thousand—
Stop! His inner wolf roared before he could get lost in a plethora of numbers. In the sheer amount of time he spent ambling around in the woods until Abigail somehow knocked him out of his hoodoo-induced slumber.
God, was Abraham even alive anymore? Was any of his pack still breathing today?
Crane stared down at the paper in his hand, his vision blurry. He didn't know where they were now, but he knew where to start.
ii.
The next couple of days for the former alpha was a blur. A whirlpool of emotions and flittering images and sounds he's since stopped trying to make out. And today—this supernaturally-caused cloudy afternoon—was no different.
He spent most of his time outside of his manor, looking further into the abductions, watching the number of missing people climb mercilessly. Even he—the esteemed Lycanthrope philosopher and ex-General—was baffled how the lycans managed to capture an appalling amount of children without leaving a trace behind for him to follow—it was more than infuriating. This only strengthened Crane's need to reach his old friend.
Crane knew where Abraham was the moment he read Purgatory. His beta wasn't residing in the inescapable limbo between worlds, but rather the shabby bar and brothel in Maine he frequented before the war. Ichabod remembered how much he loathed that godforsaken, filthy place. It was a den of iniquity—so vile he was sure the seventh chamber in Hell was their chief inspiration. He couldn't—to save his life—figure out why his comrade treasured that place so much.
Nonetheless, if Abraham held true to his note, he would be there. Ichabod's stalling to pay his old friend a visit wasn't a matter doubt. Before Crane had taken over the pack due to complications with Parliament, Abraham was the alpha. He had faith in his comrade's strength—he was completely sure the man was a survivor.
However, if he were to come face-to-face with his beta again, he doubted he'd be one.
"Mr. Crane!"
He glanced at one of the many people on the property before he found the plump, elderly lady waving him over. He set his wine down a table outside and strode over to the florist. The woman, Amelia Thorne, was the best money could buy in all of New York. Her handiwork and simple—yet brilliant—flower garden designs rivaled those of the nymphs.
Mrs. Thorne stood up from her chair, wiping gray hair away from her round face. Even standing up, the astute lady barely reached his chest. She frowned, scanning the vast expanse of soil being treated to nurture delicate flora.
"You never did tell me what kind of flowers you wanted out here," she started, a musing expression on her face. "But you know what—doesn't really matter. Red brick houses look phenomenal with some achillieas! Oh, butterfly weeds and rudbeckias, too. We could even put some sunflowers in the mix, if you're willing—"
"Anything you choose is fine." Crane interrupted, seeing that the chatty, graying woman didn't plan on stopping anytime soon. It was times like this when he recalled how much older he was than humans. Mrs. Thorne made an "o" with her mouth, elation from having an entire field to design visible.
Crane raised an eyebrow.
Crane pulled his coat closer to his body as a cool wind blew by. While the past few days were mostly filled with empty humdrum, he's made it his mission to restore the splendor of the manor. He's gotten the moldy walls replaced, the technology updated, the busted glasses fixed. Maids and cleaning crews have been zipping in and out of his house all week, getting rid of the musty smell, rodents, and dust. The creamy, marble floors have been polished to the point he could see his reflection anywhere he walked.
And while most of the renovations were done out of guilt for abandoning the house and his pack, he'd be lying if he said wasn't thinking of Abigail the entire time.
Just reminiscing about her made his heart pound and his face heat—this time around he couldn't even blame it on the moon. He had an attraction towards the lieutenant that was beyond the human, secular ideas of romance and desire. It was primal. It was pure.
Like hell did he want to see her again, but their "official" meeting was unpleasant, to say the least.
A few hours later, after Mrs. Thorne and her men left, he headed to the center of Phillipstown. Crane crossed the empty highways. The sun was just beginning to lower behind the tree line, the heavens washed in radiant hues of cream, orange and pink. Thin, stratus clouds surrounded the bright sphere like a halo. Warm air tossed his hair every which way, but he didn't mind.
Phillipstown was a small city with a population barely reaching over ten-thousand; the place was ideal for woodland supernatural life. There were dense forests all throughout the area, prey was abundant, and there weren't many visitors. The nightlife here was a pub short of nonexistent, but yet he still found himself looking for somewhere to get a drink. Ever since waking up, every day has been grueling and unpleasant. Responsibilities he'd fled from in the first place were catching up, hounding him with each passing day. He only had so long before he had to get back to business—he was going to relish the time he had before it.
Crane pulled up to bar's parking lot, hopping out the car seconds later. He wasn't too familiar with the establishment Jimmy's Bar and Steakhouse—seeing that it was built during his absence—but from the smoky scent of beef wafting through the air, it couldn't possibly haven been unsavory.
It smelled delectable, even though animal meat wasn't the kind he preferred.
The building was modest with a cozy aura. The walls and floors were made out of wood, the tables decorated with plaid sheets and a single, low-burning candle in the center. Acoustic folk music resonated throughout the bar. The tavern appealed to an older crowd, he assumed, looking at the men—all who must've been at least forty and older.
Crane sat down on a worn stool, ordering malt whiskey from the top shelf. A woman behind the counter poured his cup, giving a flirty grin as he sipped it. It was a minute later when he finished, already asking for a refill. Not only could he handle his liquor, but human whiskey did bugger all for werewolves. He could down an entire bottle of their strongest drink and feel only somewhat tipsy at the end. Sometimes—such as now—it was maddening.
He didn't want to get tipsy; he wanted to get so inebriated that he couldn't tell up from down or left from right.
The small TV droned on about the news, highlighting a few insignificant stories. He tapped the corner of his glass, listening to mind-numbing reports rather than the gentleman next to his raunchy, obviously fabricated tales.
"—another forty-six people went missing this past week all over New York, making this a record high in the case."
Ichabod sucked in air through his mouth, closing his eyes No matter where he went—or how much he hid—it was evident his omissions were going to keep haunting him like a wraith. He couldn't keep running away anymore, deferring his burdens as if he had the leisure to. As if his negligence wasn't the reason why hundreds have been abducted by lycans.
The woman continued to report about the morbidity of the case. How investigators were left baffled; how the government organizations were grasping at straws for an answer. Terrorists? Mobs? Smugglers? By the time the story passed, there was a crack in his glass for grasping it too tight.
Crane withdrew his hand, sheathing his claws in hopes that no one caught his err. He was getting careless about controlling his body. Mood completely soured, he glared down at his drink. It was a mistake coming out tonight.
"Having a bad day?"
He glanced up, catching eyes with the woman—Shelly? Stella?—who poured his drink earlier. Now, she sat close to him, her blouse unbuttoned daringly low and her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. It didn't take a scholar to know she was interested.
"You could say," he muttered curtly, choosing to stare at the clock instead of her eyes. Crane wasn't a standoffish person—quite the contrary, seeing that living in the bustling manor forced him to be sociable—but he could literally feel heat rolling off of her in waves. She was eyeing him down like a piece of fresh meat and he never needed to leave a situation as hastily as he did now.
She curled a strand of hair around her finger. "You don't talk much, do you?" she smirked. "It's always the quiet ones."
He cleared his throat, his face heating up. "Well, it's getting late; I should—"
"It's only nine o'clock."
"I have business to attend back at home—"
"So do I, but we can make amends."
The lady grabbed the rest of his drink and knocked it back, eyes wild and shameless.
He held back a frustrated sigh. Being an alpha came with its perks and cons. Perks being that people were more inclined to submit to him, to follow his rules committedly without needing to reinforce it. On the other hand, his natural prowess led to situations such as this, where humans and lesser entities were oblivious of their beguilement and acted on a whim. Most times the result wasn't this wanton response, but unfortunately, today was the outlier.
It was when she placed her hand on his inner thigh did he slide out of his chair, tossing a bill on the counter, and marched right out the doors. He was a grown man; he'll be damned before he let a tiny, human woman fondle and feel him up without his consent.
But the waitress was persistent. Her shoes clacked behind him until she grabbed his elbow and spun him around.
"Hey, hey!" she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm coming on strong, but there's just something about you that I can't—"
Crane, out of many options, grabbed her shoulders. She hushed immediately, staring down at her feet and twiddling her thumbs. She was anxious. Nervous. He lifted her head, forcing her to look into his eyes.
"You will go home and forget this ever happened," He instructed, his voice already straining. The flustered woman was now torpid. Not nonplussed, but void of any sentiments or thoughts. She nodded mechanically, body rigid, and walked away. She stepped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.
The instant she left, blood gushed out of his nose in a steady stream.
He let out a silent cry, clutching his head. Everything was white. Everything burned. Each breath he took felt like task and—God help him—it felt like the ground was consuming him whole. He pressed his back against the wall, staring skyward until his vision cleared and the pain dulled into an erratic throb.
iii.
Eastport, Maine, Crane decided, was one of more repugnant sights in North America. The entire town was timeworn, but not in the classical sense that his manor was. The buildings were decaying, most—if not all—were in despairing need for repair. The deserted roads were poorly constructed with street lights that seldom worked. Not that they needed it, anyway. A couple hundred—one-thousand at best—people lived here. Most of which were lesser entities like sirens and selkies since the town was surrounded by water.
The sky was somber and leaden with portents for a heavy shower. The air was arctic, the streets were slick with frost—without doubt the environmental phenomena of a powerful hex from an adept warlock. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, salty scent in the air. Fish and seaweed were the most dominant odors, but after another whiff, he could detect the dank rot of witches and succubus. Purgatory was near.
The Methuselah was strapped against his back, each burdened step he took made the weapon rattle. He didn't want to bring his sword along, but Crane knew Abraham better than anyone else. If he expected to come before his old friend again, it was best to be prepared for the fight he feared would happen.
Another howling gust tousled his hair, whistling through the empty buildings and streets. He could hear the slow, sultry music from the brothel a block away. He clenched his jaw, driving himself to calm down.
When he finally pushed the dense doors open, heat enveloped him like a thick, sweltering blanket of fire. He almost laughed at the familiarity of it all. Seemingly nothing about the hellish pit has changed since the last time he unwilling stepped inside. Down to the objectionable décor and scantily dressed women; it was as if the entire brothel—hell, town—was trapped in a time paradox.
Crane, however, did spot one difference. It came in the form of several people staring at him as if he'd risen right through the crust of Hell before them. To say they were unpleasantly surprised was too far of an understatement. He didn't have to be empathic to know everyone there was brimming with well-placed odium. Their slit, sable eyes, tightened fists and jittery movements were telltale.
Instinctively, he pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around himself, eyes downcast to avoid confrontation.
Pay them no mind, he told himself. More accurately, his inner wolf. The fiend was roaring inside of him, adding fuel to a fire that scorched his throat and chest. Crane could feel every single pair of eyes on him, turning heads as he ambled to the shrouded booth Abraham dubbed his years afore.
Even with the music drowning every other recognizable sound, he could acutely hear them. The blood coursing through their veins. The mutters. The lies.
It didn't take more than ten minutes to find his destination. But as long as he spent staring at the soiled, red veil from afar, it could've been another thirty years.
It's now or never.
He threw back the curtain. Crane's breath hitched.
Through the nearly impenetrable gloom shrouding every inch of the brothel, he could see the woebegone, chaotic state Abraham was in. Sickly alabaster skin, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, lackluster ash-blond hair tucked into a half-assed ponytail—he looked ghoulish. His back was hunched over the side of the settee, his prized overcoat in a crumpled heap next to his foot. Abraham pinched his nose, letting out a brusque huff.
"Anabelle, I told you to leave me—"
His head snapped in Crane's direction. For the first time in three decades, their eyes locked.
Abraham blinked—once, twice—his body stiff. His index finger twitched, his Adam's apple bobbed. Those were the only signs given that he registered Crane's presence.
It was mere seconds later did Crane regret coming to the bordello that lived up to its name. This—like many of the choices he's made—was a mistake. The pressing crisis of the lycans apparently was just scratching the surface of the havoc he left behind.
Abraham continued to stare, eyes guarded and face set with unreadable emotion. His jaw was tight and the betraying vein at his neck bulged. He was a ticking time bomb.
Ichabod was the first to speak.
"Abraham—"
"What the hell do you want?" he cut in, gathering his coat and shrugging it on. Crane ran his hands through fallow locks, scrambling for effective words. But what could be said?
"I need your help." He began slowly, as if testing out foreign syllables on his tongue.
There was a beat of silence.
Abraham let out an obnoxious bark. So loud that the room reverberated with his deep, mirthless laughter. So loud he was sure people stopped their profane rutting to pay attention.
"You need my help?" he snarled, wiping an unshed tear from unsympathetic eyes. "The same way we all needed your help after Parliament fell?" he pulled up his silver-lined collar around his neck. Dread and regret pooled in Crane's stomach until he felt nauseous.
"Nothing I can say now or ever will make up for what I did, but I need your help. I need to fix this disorder that I caused, and I cannot do it alone."
"It's far too late for an apology, Ichabod!" his faux level-headedness was gone. He stepped into his alpha's space, chest heaving with anger. "You destroyed us! You left us all to die while you ran away with you your tail-tucked between your legs!" Abraham stepped back, gripping his platinum strands between his fingers. He rubbed his hands over his bruised lids.
This was a hollow shell of the man Crane used to know.
"While we spent countless nights trying to stop the anarchy and bloodshed, you ran to a bloody fucking witch doctor and put yourself into a slumber! I went out every day for months—months, Ichabod!—hoping that the rumors were lies!" he swung back around, pointing his unsheathed claw at Crane. His eyes were slanted in malice, venom on his tongue.
"How much did it cost you, Crane?" his voice took over an icy chill. "How much did you give the witch doctor so that she could put you to sleep for thirty years?" when the alpha didn't respond, he slammed his fist into the wall. The entire building trembled. "How much?!"
"Everything!" Crane finally roared, his emotions unstable. He never felt so vulnerable—exposed and raw and open—as he did now. He wore his sins on his sleeve and Abraham was condemning him to damnation. "I gave her everything! I gave up, Abraham—there was nothing to left to save! They killed my father and left whatever bits they could salvage at our door. Lycanthrope empires came tumbling down one after the other. What was I to do?!"
"Fight, goddamn it!"
The music had since stopped playing. The people were long ago silenced by the influence the emitting off of both of them.
Metal sliding off of each other became the only sound.
The Methuselah clashed against the Axe of Enoch, both weapons burning with divine influence. They struggled for the stronger hold before coming again and again in the symphony of battle. Both were matched—they knew each other far too well in combat for either to make it out winning or alive.
Like how Crane knew Abraham became a brute when he was livid, that all his attacks were wild and predictably unpredictable. He'd swing his axe to and fro, seeking fatality with each thrust. Crane knew where to block each time he advanced. Same as Abraham knew his alpha hesitated whenever he used the Methuselah against kin, giving him that precious moment right before impact to knock his sword back with vehemence.
Crane ducked, narrowly missing the blazing poleax that flew above his head. He hissed, the hot pain singing his scalp. He leapt across the bar, popping his shoulder back in place while he was granted the time. He pressed his back against the rack as the axe came crashing down onto counter, splitting it in half.
Crane swore, meeting blades with Abraham again. Abraham was always more robust than he, and his unpractice was proving to be his downfall. He skittered to the side, wiping the blood pouring over his eye with the back of his hand. He moved to strike again, but Abraham was swift and charged like lightning.
He knocked the Methuselah out of Crane's grasp; he could only watch helplessly as it clattered to floor. Using the split second before his alpha regained his senses, he enclosed his hands around Crane's neck and slammed him onto the remaining surface of the bar.
Air rushed out of Crane's lungs, his vision burning white for a twinkling. Abraham held the Axe of Enoch so close to his neck he could sense his skin sizzling from the sheer proximity. He hissed, digging his claws into Abraham's skin, but the man was unyielding.
"I waited thirty years for you to come back, and now all I want is for you to be gone!" He appeared as disconsolate and cross as Crane was the day he came to in the woods. Crane took in a strangled, shuddering breath, adeptly blocking out the roots from onlookers who chanted for his demise.
"Lycans," he wheezed. His random response threw Abraham off, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
"What?"
"The lycans, Abraham!" Abraham's grip slackened a fraction. Crane gathered all of the strength he could muster, seizing the axe's hilt and kicking Abraham into the shelves. The wood let out a low whine before giving out under pressure. Bottles of fine wine and liquor came crashing down, glass and liquor spraying everywhere.
Without the power of its master, the poleax's red, pulsating fire dimmed into nothingness. Abraham glowered, soaked and struggling to get up. He held the slippery wall for support, but that showed futile.
"I did not come here to fight you!" he roared, blue eyes wide and glittering with frustration. He hurled the poleax into the furthest wall, the blade burying itself into the plaster. His arm convulsed in pain, but he ignored it. "I did not come here seek solace for my actions, nor to beg for your forgiveness!"
Abraham's fingers were curled into fists, his canines fully erect, but he didn't move.
"I'm here because lycans have been running rampant, rebuilding their military with human children!" He searched his old friend's face for something—anything—other than the shock that made his body rigid. Wrath welled up in Crane's chest, his skin prickling with heat that rivaled Axe of Enoch. "Nearly four-hundred people have vanished, three shredded bodies have been found. Hell, they apparently left two of them at the goddamn manor with their filth all over for everyone to see. They've declared war on us, Abraham, and they're using humans as fodder!"
When Abraham didn't show a flicker of recognition, Crane collectively lost his shit.
"You didn't know this?!" he grabbed Abraham by the coat and threw him up against the wall. His body ached and opposed, but the beast inside of him was eating it up. Savoring the burn like whiskey. "How could you not know this?! The news is everywhere!" He punctuated his fury by throwing him over the smoldered counter and into the crowd of entities. The demons and succubus seized him before he could hit the floor. "It's in the newspaper, the media—spreading like wildfire all over the nation! The American government has gotten involved; it's only a matter of time before they figure us out unless something is done!"
And then it all made sense. Everything pieced together like a puzzle. The archaic place he resided in, the time-stand-still, the lack of easy-access information that should've long ago rang warning bells all over this town.
Abraham ran away too.
Crane swallowed thickly, snatching his sword from the floor. He cast one last glance at Abraham and left.