Anderson woke up to birdsong and the whine of flies. He opened his eyes and let them refocus and his memories fall back into place. He was blinking up into bright sunlight filtering through holes in the ceiling. He remembered that there had been running in the woods and something lost. He wasn't even sure what had happened. There was a terrible, metallic taste in his mouth and whatever he was laying on was digging into his back. His skin felt stiff. When he raised his head to look around, he saw his hands and found them caked with dried blood. He was covered in it. He had also attracted a small swarm of flies. It couldn't be all mine, he told himself. I heal too quickly to bleed this much.
He sat up carefully and felt something shift underneath him. He rolled carefully to the side and found himself on top of a pile of bodies. They had once been Iscariot agents. They had been torn wide open and some of them were missing large pieces. Anderson sat and looked at them a moment. He must've known it already, he decided, because he felt no shock at all. There was only the anger that whatever had killed them had dragged him on top of their bodies while he was regenerating. It was an outrage to him that he had been that close and hadn't been able to kill their killer.
There was so much dried blood in his nose that he couldn't smell the pile, which was just as well. A few of the shafts of sunlight made it through the rubble and brush overhead to spotlight little scenes in the carnage. A butterfly was sitting on the almost-open lips of the body directly under Anderson. The black and blue wings fanned the dead face gently. In another beam, a wrist that was only attached to the arm by a few shreds of flesh was still clutching a gun. In another, a cross lay in a puddle of blood with another butterfly on it. It almost looked staged.
First things first, he told himself, taking a deep breath and coughing on a clump of something in his throat. There was a blood trail nearly five feet wide, leading out of the little room, up some stairs that he was beginning to remember. He looked himself over. His shirt and coat collar were soaked with blood. The spray looked like it was going outwards, so that much could've been his. The only way he would've bled like that is if his whole head was taken off, he thought. That would also explain why he couldn't remember it very well.
There was a particularly nasty tear in the left shoulder of his coat. He worked a finger into the hole, only to hiss in pain when it touched the wound. Whatever had happened still hurt. How long had it been since that had happened? Moving more gingerly than he would've liked anyone to see, he peeled the fabric back and found a bite mark. It was healing, but so slowly that it was still sore. How was that possible? He gave one one of the punctures another poke and then he remembered teeth. Teeth and claws. Not a vampire, something else. He had fought it. It had been a her. A female thing, small, but quick. It hadn't told him its name, but it had had pale, reflective eyes. Like a blind cavefish. Like moons that blinked.
There was something else about the moon that stirred his memory. It hadn't been a vampire, but a werewolf. Or at least a creature that called itself a werewolf. It hadn't shapeshifted and had seemed charmed to be called a 'beastie'. The blades hadn't stopped it. He arched to look over his shoulder and there were matching slashes through his coat over his back. He found a memory of that one, twin stabs into his back, a hot gush into his lungs, followed by a cold splash of night air as they were ripped open. He remembered having her in his grasp and feeling her bones breaking.
How had she managed to take his head off with her teeth and claws held elsewhere? That made him remember the teeth and he looked over at his shoulder again. He had been bitten. Bitten. By a werewolf. She had said something about the next full moon... Had she meant? No. That was impossible. He couldn't be altered that way. His metabolism would tear through werewolf taint like any other poison. He had been poisoned plenty of times. The worst had only burned for a little while. Like that bullet. Why had that bullet hurt so much? It was just silver. It had burned the werewolf, but not him.
Of course not me! he thought angrily. Not even blessed silver hurts me and why would it? That was before she bit me anyway. But it made him wonder what had been so different about that bullet. Then it occurred to him. It had come through the werewolf's body. Her blood had burned and the wound had burned. He couldn't feel it anymore, which was some comfort.
He looked around again to get his bearings. There was the buzz of more flies. It was no worse than a hundred other vampires dens he had barged into, so he ran a sticky hand through his matted hair and got to his feet. A limb rolled underfoot and he staggered, but managed to get clear of the mess. He made sure he was steady and stepped away. He forcibly kept from rubbing at the bite. He turned back to the pile.
All around, insects flew. The flies and other bugs were enjoying themselves over the mess as well. The combined sound of their wings rose and fell as they moved from one damp spot to another. Anderson sucked in a deep breath and released it in a sigh. There was nothing else to be done but to pray for their souls and have their bodies shipped home for a decent burial. He was drawing another breath to start the prayer when he was suddenly hit by something with enough force to bounce his large frame off the floor
"I am the last of the faithful," someone said. Whoever it was seized his skull and held it to the ground. "The one most loyal." A weight that felt like a mountain landed squarely on his back. "The one most strong. Why does a holyman trespass here?" Anderson managed a furious sound before he heard a loud and obvious sniff.
"She must like you," rumbled the strange voice. The tone was caressing enough to lull, but there was malice in it too, like a curved claw retracted into the velvet of a lynx's paw. "Her scent's all over you."
Anderson struggled and found to his shock that he couldn't move. He squirmed his head to look back over his shoulder and saw a new pair of glowing eyes. Where the female's had been silver, these were golden-yellow, like polished amber held to flame. They had the weird, double lens that he remembered from the female's eyes, but the face was too backlit for him to see. When the speaker smiled, a sliver of white fangs appeared in the shadowed face.
"I thought you were dead," it went on. "And that she would come back for you. But you seem healthy enough. I haven't seen a self-healer since... oh, it's been a long time."
The idle, conversational tone was exactly like the other one's had been. This had to be another werewolf then. Silver had hurt that one, but the only silver he had at the moment was his cross, which was pinned underneath him. It was digging rather painfully into his sternum.
"Unclean beast," Anderson said. His voice sounded raspy. "I won't leave enough of you for the crows to find!"
"Oh hush," the creature said. It dragged the tip of a sharp, brown fingernail over the bite and the twinge of pain was fainter this time. "You couldn't kill her, and you haven't a prayer against me. But I'll tell you a secret." It leaned so close Anderson could feel its breath fill his ear and trickle down his neck. He shuddered in spite of himself. There was a tangible unwholesomeness to the creature.
"A werewolf's bite isn't like a vampire's," it whispered. "It takes more than one to finish the job. You've only just begun."
Anderson growled and threw an elbow backwards with all his strength. He felt it connect with a ribcage that didn't break and the weight on his back was forced back enough for him to turn. The air was suddenly rustling with pages. They flew everywhere, pinning themselves to the crumbling walls and circling Anderson like a small tornado. He was back on his feet in another heartbeat and the creature had backed off a step. It was between the paladin and the door and in the weak light, its shadow was huge and shaggy. Anderson let the rage pour through him and become a savage, righteous glee. Two blades slid from his sleeves into his hands as if summoned by the emotion.
"You killed those under my protection." he told the creature. It was studying the paper wards with a new degree of caution, but the words brought its gleaming eyes back to Anderson.
"You," it said as it began to fade out of sight. "Should've protected them better." Anderson choked on that for only as long as it took to fling the bayonets into the disappearing werewolf. One sank into the creature, but the other passed completely through its fast-fading body and then the werewolf was gone. It took the one blade with it, and left the other embedded in the far wall. It wasn't invisible. It was simply gone.
Somewhere in the pile, in a pocket on one of the mauled bodies, a cell phone began to ring.