My Little Ventrue Pt. 04 Ch. 10

The rats came to him, and swarmed ahead of him, each only a tiny body, but together they flooded down the hall as a battalion. Perhaps it was his blood, how it still dripped from him, how he'd left a trail of it behind him as he walked that had summoned so many rats? Viktor had done similar to summon his army, and perhaps Jack had accidentally done the same. No, that wasn't how disciplines worked, you didn't accidentally do them. And yet, the rats came to him, rushed past him, and flooded him, just like that night Viktor had summoned thousands of them.

"Hunters, guard me. Rats, ahead."

The rats didn't hesitate. The unending swarm flooded ahead, and as they poured through the bars guarding the ending of the hall, the screams began. Then, the gunshots.

"Get off me, get off me!" Angela's voice. No girly screams though, just pure rage, frustration, and more shotgun shells met with the squeaky deaths of his army.

His two hunters each took a side at the end of the hall, backs to the wall, each guarding the other's six as they both peeked into the hallway that they were trying to reach. The hallway gate was closed, but not locked. They probably couldn't find the key to lock it, thank god; he couldn't mind control a metal door to open. He groaned as he stuck his stump through the bars, and forced the gate to slide over.

He looked down the hall, both sides, and frowned. The hunters were retreating down one of the halls, shooting at the rats, or tearing them off of their legs. One of the hunters had fallen, and was roaring agony as he ripped the biting, clawing little balls of fur off his body. He was close, close enough for Jack to see his eyes.

"You. Get over here. Now."

"Fuck you! Fuck... you..."

Like crushing grapes. He could feel it, feel their mind even from such a distance, even through this chaos, even with only glancing eye contact.

"Come. Here."

"Don't listen to him Johnny, don't—" Another shotgun blast into the unending flow of rats. The swarm was unending, and the hunters knew if they didn't keep it at bay, it would overrun them. To be devoured alive by rats, even he did not wish that fate on these hunters. But if given the opportunity, he'd take it.

Johnny came closer, and closer, until he stood only inches from Jack. Eyes, empty. Arms limp at his sides, gun loose in his hand.

"Lower, so I may drink."

The mindless man leaned down, and Jack did not hesitate to crane his neck to meet him. He sank his fangs into his neck, and began to kill the man.

"Johnny no!"

The drama of it all. It was sickening. In another circumstance, he might have laughed at how bad of a ridiculous action movie this whole situation reeked of, hunters on the retreat from a swarm of mind-controlled rats, and screaming out for their doomed comrade. Being in the situation destroyed any humor for it. This was horrible, and every passing moment he felt more horrible. But he needed blood, and Johnny was going to give it to him.

He spared no mercy with the Kiss. Done hard, done fast, done rough, there was no pleasure to be given to the prey here, only a nigh paralyzing exhaustion. For the Kindred performing the act, it was exhilarating. It was a rarity for Jack to ever feed like this, brutally, but each time it was a mark on his memory, each time it left its imprint in him, how satisfying it was to give into the beast's desire to satisfy its hunger. Blood, sweet, delicious, thick blood coating his tongue, his mouth, his throat, filling him with life itself.

He growled. The beast growled. The man fell to his knees, exhausted to the point he couldn't stand anymore, but still Jack didn't let go, bite secure on the hunter's muscle. More, and more. He drank it all, drank it until it stopped coming out easily, drank it until it stopped coming out on its own at all, drank until he had to suck on the puncture wounds to pull out the last of the blood. Only then did he release his bite, and let the man, the corpse fall.

He stared at the empty eyes of Johnny. God he wished Angela hadn't said his name. Like Mrs. Pavala, more names he'd never forget, and that was not a good thing. It would eat at him when this was over, claw at his conscience, gnaw at his heart until he was a mess. A weak, crying mess.

But it wouldn't do that now, he wouldn't let it. For now, he growled a vampire's growl, and let the flood of energy fill him. He wouldn't be regrowing his hands yet, but the stumps healed over now that he had fresh blood within, and the pain greatly subsided.

As sickening as it was to be killing, murdering, a small part of him was enjoying how good he was as it, too good for a vampire his age.

He looked down at the rats that still surrounded him. "Destroy the evidence, destroy the body."

Loyal to the core, the rats pounced upon the corpse of the hunter. They bit through the clothes, swarmed over his flesh, and began to devour him. No time to lick the fresh bite wounds closed, and the body had to be removed regardless. A bloodless corpse would attract attention, especially considering all the other traces of paranormal violence that were being left around.

Jack felt alive again, as much as a vampire could be. The blood pulsed through him, and he growled louder as he felt the sated beast purr its satisfaction, inside his guts. Satisfied, but also, empowered. He could keep going, he could go on. He could break these hunters, and get out of here, back to Antoinette, back into her arms, even if he had to walk over the corpses of a hundred hunters. Even if he had to make a bridge of corpses to cross.

"You," he said to a group of the rats behind him. "Spread out, find more, bring more of your kind here. Bring all that you can find to me."

He stepped out into the next hall, and continued his march. His two guards dashed in after him and darted ahead, each taking up positions along the long hallway. Nothing to duck behind this time though. There were other cells, but they were isolation cells, closed. Behind him was a dead end, and ahead of him was Angela and more of her crew. How many hunters did she have?

He marched forward, rats pouring in from more cracks, more and more, until they poured over each other to try and fit along the hallway floor. The hunters at the end of the hall, poking their head around the corner and looking through the bars, gasped.

"Get out of my way and you get to live."

"Fuck you! What the fuck is this? You're just a fucking kid, a fucking fledgling vamp, you don't get to do this!"

She wasn't doing a very good job with the morale. The hunters looked panicked, eyes wide. And why wouldn't they be? He was coming for them, bloody stumps for arms, shirtless, and with an army of rats at his beck and call. He only now realized that blood was on his lips, his chin, and some had run down his neck and onto his bare chest. The blood of their friend, their comrade Johnny.

He must have looked like a god damn monster.

He snarled as he marched forward. A glance left and right showed more beady eyes, more rats poking their noses out of their hiding holes. Instead of running from the madness, the echoes of his command drew them.

"You. Are mine. Defend me with your lives."

The new rats nodded, and jumped into the fray, chittering, scurrying, and they joined the flood of brown fur. Many stayed close to him, flowing around his steps, avoiding getting crushed by his shoes, and yet pouring over them at the same time. They joined the teeming masses of his army, and poured out into the hallway, like ocean waves.

Is this what it felt like for Viktor? Did the elder find it so strangely easy to break the minds of others, to grab their conscious thoughts and crush them until they were mindless, obedient puppets? Did he find it so easy to summon animals to his side, to defend him and be his scouts, be his army of teeth and claws? Did it feel so empowering, so amazing for him too?

Jack walked forward, and the rats flowed around him, an aura of squeaking death. Another flash-bang was tossed into the hallway, and again the rats swarmed it, far more of them this time, a couple hundred pilling into a riling mass of little bodies. Many died to the resulting explosion, but the sound, the flash of the device was suppressed to nothing more than a quiet plop, and Jack continued on without stopping. If the enemy had been smart, they'd have tossed a grenade or molotov, and accepted the loss of their friends Henry and Stacey. Probably still hoping they could save them. Their hopes would be their undoing.

He felt good. He felt great, pain and death and the taste of blood mixing into a crescendo of euphoric violence, silencing his grief over the murders he'd committed. He felt Viktor's bloodline coursing through his veins. He felt like crushing more of these idiot hunters beneath him. How dare they underestimate him because he was young, the youngest in Dolareido. How dare they try and bully him, torture him, break him. How dare they injure him. How dare these lowly bloodbags try and manipulate him.

He could hear shouting from beyond the hall of metal and concrete, the loading of weapons, the hollers of commands being given. 'Spread out'. 'Get behind these tables'. 'If we have to kill Stace and Henry then do it'. They'd learn, they'd all learn.

At first, he was only going to kill if necessary. But now the sweet blood was on his tongue, and he couldn't help but lick his fangs as he continued into the awaiting maw of his enemies.

If there was one way he was going to die, it wasn't here, to this, to them. He was going to kill every last one of them.