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They say to invoke the wrath of an elder vampire is to call upon death himself and to draw his scythe across your throat.
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“I did it. Owen and I.” Pyro’s words ring out, echoing through the valley beneath the castle bridge. Oakhurst is quiet for once, as if Gaia herself is mourning the death of her child. Owen offers little more than a shrug in confirmation.
“He was a liability, and he needed to be dealt with.” Pyro’s tone is lofty, swollen with false righteousness.
“Wow. Not what I expected,” Cleo almost chuckles, folding her arms and leaning on the bridge wall.
“How could you!” Shelby erupts, having been too swamped in grief to react any sooner. She throws a swing at Pyro’s face, and he twists, clutching his nose. “Avid did nothing to you! Both of you, you’re evil!” She sobs.
Between Shelby and Cleo, Scott stands tall. His eyes are set on Pyro, though he is distant, and his hands ball into fists. Claws bite at his skin, but he takes no notice.
Owen stiffens, noting Scott’s uncharacteristic silence.
“You killed him?” He rasps, his voice cutting through the clamour of Shelby’s battery. She turns to face him.
“Owen struck him down, and I drove in the stake.”
Scott scoffs, “Owen. Of all people, I would’ve expected you to understand.”
“Understand what?” Owen’s voice is sharp as ever, “Avid was a weak link, and we can’t afford to hold on to him for sentimentality’s sake. I’m sorry I spoiled your fun, if that’s what you want to hear.”
“Is that how you felt when they threw your mayor on the pyre? Did they spoil your fun, Owen?”
Owen’s eyes fly open, and he stumbles back. Surely not. Surely Scott could never have loved Avid as Owen had loved Louis. Though the look in his eyes - the raw grief and anger - struck too close to Owen’s heart, for he knew all too well the feeling.
“No…”
“Yes,” Scott bites back. “And you, Pyro. I didn’t think you had it in you. It’s a shame, really.”
“A… shame?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Suddenly, Pyro feels the water flooding his lungs again as his vision fades in the periphery. He is back to being nothing more than Scott’s obedient fledgling: fear-stricken and eager to please. “I’m- I’m sorry, Sire. I didn’t know!”
The moon hangs high above them as night creeps across the sky, staining it red. The birds have ceased to sing, and the herds of animals have fallen silent. Far beneath them, the river’s flow is too distant to be heard. The silence is deafening, and the air is thick. Pyro feels the whole world pressing in on him.
Scott’s eyes are deep crimson, and his pupils are slitted like a wild cat’s.
“Sire, please-” He is cut off as Scott lands a blow to his cheek with quick claws. Pyro hits the ground, and the others take a step back.
Then, Owen recalls something Louis once said to him in their brief moments together after his turning.
Louis’ voice is clear in his mind. “To invoke the wrath of an elder vampire is to call upon death himself.” His mouth is suddenly dry, and his palms clammy. He feels his breath growing faster.
Scott towers over Pyro, who is sprawled on the ground, clutching his face and begging for forgiveness. Owen knows it is no use. They have sentenced themselves to their own demise.
Great, black wings stretch out behind Scott, rising to his sides. Shelby and Cleo retreat further down the bridge, towards the castle. Owen keeps to the wall, watching as Scott steps up to Pyro.
Scott had never shown his wings to any of them. Now, they appeared to be a grim manifestation of his grief, much like Owen’s had been that fateful day two hundred years ago.
Pyro climbs to his feet, stumbling backwards, down the bridge, and towards the forest.
In a burst of self-preservation, he takes off, running as fast as he can towards the town with his heart racing like a spooked hare.
Scott follows, moving unnaturally fast and keeping to the shaded treeline.
Pyro runs for his life, fuelled by pure primal fear beyond anything he has felt before. He feels the water seeping into his lungs with each heartbeat. And, in the moment before his foot hits the ground, suspended in perpetual retreat, he knows that it is no use. He knows that his time has come.
Pyro knows that, as he races through the forest, he cannot outrun his fate.
He knows that this night, with its bloodstained sky and uncanny silence, will be his last. And that he will die, once more, at the hands of his beloved Sire.
For Pyro had known Death that night by the lake and had shaken his hand. He had evaded him once before, and now began to accept that he could elude him no longer, for he is on borrowed time. And knows that it is over.
Despite this knowledge, Pyro cannot bring himself to stop, only slow his pace, and, as he reaches the gates of Oakhurst, he falls to his knees.
The townsfolk had been gathered around a communal firepit and had been shocked at Jack’s abrupt and hardly quiet arrival.
Scott was nowhere to be seen.
The doctor is the first at the gate, kneeling with an outstretched hand, and inspecting the deep wound on the vampire’s cheek.
“Please, I’m sorry. Forgive me,” Pyro croaks, longing for something never afforded to him in life or in death. All he had ever wanted was forgiveness and acceptance — It seemed a pitiful desire in the light of the crimson moon.
He cried for it like a feral animal now, claws wrapped around Legundo’s forearm: A final wish as the end draws near.
Legundo grips his shoulder and ushers him inside the walls. But, as Ren swings the gate closed behind them, Scott curls his claws around the wood, holding it open.
He seems composed, if slightly concerned, and has hidden his wings once more.
“What do you want, yer viscous beast?” Ren moves to block Scott’s way into town.
“Pyro. He’s my fledgling after all, family if you will, and it pains me to see him in such a state. So-”
“What do you really want, Scott?” Legundo can feel Pyro trembling beside him: he wouldn’t fall for Scott’s snake-tongue again.
“Forgive me…” Pyro trails off.
Before anyone knew what had happened, Scott was inside with his hand around Jack’s throat, lifting him off the ground.
Pyro claws for breath, a habit after years of life, and freezes.
The stake had pierced his coat, Scott’s coat, and had delivered him to Death once more, as intended. For Jack Von Pyroscythe had known Death longer than most, and was welcomed into his domain to be charged as the monster he was: naturally.