#king slayers

She wasn’t from around these parts. Her brothers and sisters had told tall tales about the infamous event the Sabbat held each year, captivated her with descriptions of their festivities—maybe rumors—rumors were common among her kind.

“Bullshit,” she had said, waving her hand dismissively, drunk on warm blood sloshing around in a squashed plastic cup. A dash of it spilled to the ground, watering the cracked soil and scarring it red. 

“You don’t believe us? Then see it for yourself,” they had chanted, eyes gleaming, sharpened teeth luminescent under the glow of the moonlit sky.

The compulsion in her ached, clawing through her ribcage, shredding it apart. Streams of ribbons scarlet on her bare hands. And she knew that she would tear out her undead eyes just for a glimpse into such revelry.

“I will,” she gritted out, tossing the empty cup into the dirt, another blemish upon the landscape they called theirs, at least for the night.

All Hallows Eve descended upon the city in all its wicked glory, reeking of cheap liquor on tacky costumes, and barbed wire in candy. Gael drove into the heart of it, finding a place where the misfits and wannabes hung out in droves. A perfect hunting ground for those who dared call themselves vampires.

In there, whispers upon whispers circulated among friends of friends of acquaintances of strangers, and she heard it all. She could be charming if she wanted to, especially when she wasn’t shivering like an addict looking for their next fix.

“It’s an exclusive party,” one of the group told her snottily. “They asked specifically for five of us.”

Us. Gael didn’t belong—not yet.

That was okay. She revealed her first card, just like the way her lips pulled taut against the flesh of her gums to reveal her teeth. For a split second, her pupils flashed diabolically.

“But I am part of your five,” she grinned.

They stammered, hemmed and hawed, unable to shy away from her gaze. It didn’t take long for them to oust the weakest of the group, offering Gael their spot instead. As they set off, there were cackles and chatter about being honored at a Blood Feast.

Poor new age witches, they never stood a chance. So naive, so easy to manipulate, she thought. And what of her now? She would let them be blood bags for some ostentatious display of power.

A silent witness.

“Mistress Lydia’s guests?” the bouncer at the door asked.

Gael’s heart pounded in her chest. Oh, how she had forgotten what it felt like to be alive! Even through mimicry—what she would continue to rely on for the rest of the evening.

“Here, put this on.”

She was handed a poppy flower to pin on her jacket. Touché. The flower of spilled blood and sacrifice. How blatant could the Sabbat be?

As she was ushered in, she took in the marvelous sights of wild excess and debauchery. The costumes, each more extravagant than the other. She would soon don her own, but for now, she played the role of a moronic tourist, piggybacking off someone else’s invitation.

Her keen eyes darted around, surveying the venue. The passageways and exits were triple checked. So were the doors leading to the pantries and cellars.

The bathrooms. Check.

Behind the bars. Check.

Backstage. Check. 

The gears began to turn in Gael’s head as she ticked each area of interest off like an item on her inventory list. Years of being a runner and drug mule for a particularly notorious coterie in the Northwest had left its mark and taken its toll. But maybe we’ll get to that later—or not.

As usual, she slipped away into the crowd, losing the flower as she blended in like a chameleon, shifting skins—smoothly, expertly, shedding her self in the layers, to appear as one nondescript form to another. She had to be careful to avoid any misstep. One wrong move, and she was done for. Although she had a thousand masks to wear, there were a thousand pairs of eyes, always watching, from the shadows, from the blind corners of her vision.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as a byproduct of the way in which she conducted her affairs—meticulous and calculating. Falling into pace, fear and trepidation gave way to thrill and excitement. She swore she could see the searing white adrenaline course through her veins, turning them milky and sticky. And her Beast was pleased.

Across the night, she was a human guest, a ghoul server, a band’s roadie all-in-one. She flitted between guises like switching dance partners—never bored, nor boring. Picking up on secret codes and gestures, weaving in and out of head counts, sometimes one more, sometimes one less, like that creepypasta she had read on 4chan… Anansi’s Goatman?

Doppelgänger, shapeshifter, but she was pretty damn sure that they were Ravnos—like her. 

Just before suspicion arose, she would change out again. Luck was on her side, for the time being. 

She watched wide-eyed as the grandiose performance of a sacrificial rite played out on stage, interspersed with images of Gehenna. The first of the mortals were slaughtered unknowingly among the sheep.

Power. Was this what Cainites felt at the height of their bloodlust?

Gael felt it too, similarly but different. She’d done it. None of her brothers and sisters saw, but she’d done it, and that was enough. 

Here she was, standing in a tank circled by sharks, unnoticed. Just another one of the many. Faceless, nameless, a nobody.

To be faceless was to retake power from having an identity—something to label, to judge, to align you with a sect or cause, under a banner. And for what?

To be unshackled of the ego—that was true power. 

She’d made it this far, but the hardest part yet was getting out. As far as she observed, the doors had been sealed shut long ago. Everything would be accounted for, dealt with, and cleaned up.

What would they do if they found her? Would they destroy her on the spot, or convert her to their church? Had they lulled her into a false sense of security, waiting for the right moment to strike?

Regardless, she would always remain fiercely independent, even in her final—