In Articulo Mortis
Part 2: Snowman
They had returned to the House of Pain to begin their hunt proper. The wretched place still reeked of reaper and the terror and chaos the night before. As they entered, Chupa averted his eyes from the spot where he had been forced to shoot his best friend. Snowman sympathized; Priest's death had been a big blow to all of them but to Chupa especially. After all, they had been best friends for the past two years.
Priest had been a good brother-in-arms, Snowman mused as Reinhardt came down the ladder. Chupa was rightfully angry and the rest of the Bloodpack, rightfully shaken. None of them had expected one of their own to go down so soon into their mission.
He was doing what Reinhardt had jokingly referred to as pre-battle meditation. It was a habit born from centuries of fighting with his family's forces. His legs were spread as far as his shoulders and the edge of his sword rested on the ground as he said a quick prayer to the gods, asking for courage and victory in the fight ahead. Never verbally, of course; he was mute, one of the few purebloods born with such conditions. It was a curse of his family; their genome produced mute, blind or deaf children every few generations.
The rest of the Bloodpack, Blade and Whistler gathered in the tunnel junction, each of them primed and ready to kick some reaper ass, if only to avenge their friend. Snowman finished his little ritual and waited, watching Blade. The daywalker squatted down to survey the tunnels that branched off from the junction. He stood up and wordlessly directed them to each tunnel. The lovers were with him, but he had no objections to that.
They moved down the length of the tunnel, Snowman in the lead. Every single sense he possessed was extra-sensitive and, not for the first time, he thanked the blood gods that he had been born a vampire. It was a wonder how the humans got about their daily lives without enhanced senses. How could they truly appreciate the world around them?
A screeching came from behind the corner. The Asian vampire cast a quick glance in that direction, knowing it was probably only some metal grating shifting, but wanting to make sure that that was all it was.
A scent — yes, reapers. They had been through this section of the sprawling underground network. He had his sword lifted, ready to come down in a vicious slicing motion at the slightest notice. They moved carefully along the tunnel and he became vaguely aware that Verlaine had lingered behind. It was of little consequence as long as she didn't wander too far away. Lighthammer was behind him, his mighty war hammer at the ready.
Something...something was wrong. An instinct told him that something was dreadfully wrong, even though everything seemed alright. Long ago Snowman had learnt to trust his instincts, but there were no reapers in sight. It was smelly, of course — this was a sewage tunnel — and decidedly quiet, but nothing was obviously wrong. Nothing moved besides them and some rats which scuttled away at their approach.
What was it? His instincts had never failed him in all of his three hundred odd years. Snowman tried to figure it out as he descended some steps. He frowned and then stopped.
Lighthammer.
No. It couldn't be. He had only received backinjuries and Nyssa, Nyssa had said that the reaper-strain spread through the saliva of a carrier. Verlaine hadn't seen the reaper open up and infect him and he had shown no symptoms or evidence of being bitten, not like Priest, who had started his transformation almost immediately.
But the smell...the smell was unmistakable. A cross between reaper and pureblood vampire, but steadily growing stronger as fully reaper.
It's him! His mind screamed at him. Lighthammer has been infected!
He was not one to be frightened, but for the first time in many, many years, Snowman jumped at the sound of Lighthammer's war hammer's spike being released.
He made to turn, to slice the head off his friend — Verlaine, I am truly sorry I must do this — but he was too fast. The spike embedded itself in him and Snowman couldn't cry out in pain. He twisted, trying to get it out of him — Lighthammer was a reaper now, there could be no mercy — and then reaper-Lighthammer was in his face, the seam in his jaw opening up and Snowman, if he had been able to speak, would have yelled in some sort of surprise —
No, he struggled to say, mouthing the words. Lighthammer! Come to your senses! Fight it! You're a pureblood, a proud noble pureblood, not one of them!
But it was no use. He could not speak, nor was it likely reaper-Lighthammer could understand him.
He dropped his sword as the flower-tongue of a reaper sank into his neck, straight into his jugular. Snowman fought to get out of the iron grip that held him.
"Lighthammer?" Verlaine asked uncertainly. Her voice was far-off, she was still where they had left her — run! Get away! — and then footsteps, coming closer. Dark spots clouded his vision. The reaper, no longer his friend, was having a feast. He couldn't fight it anymore, he had no energy. It was no use fighting back...
He fell to the ground, as the reaper sucked all his life out of him, replacing it instead with the mutated strain of vampirism, the same condition that had given him his very abilities.
Footsteps. Verlaine had arrived to witness the horror. As Snowman's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, he urged her in his mind, albeit weakly, to have the strength and mercy to kill Lighthammer before it was too late. Or, at least, the strength to run as fast as she could.