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Um, this isn't actually a new story. Its just that I didn't like the origional name that I'd given my story so I'm gonna repost it on here. If any guild moderators are reading this, feel free to delete my other. It's no longer needed. Plus, I wanted to know how many people read it.

This story is PG-13 for violence, mild language, and mild drug reference (cigarettes, beer, etc.)

P.S: Sorry to steal your phrasing and formating on the poll, SarahArden sweatdrop It just works better than anything I could come up with

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Fantasy/Action/Horror

Status: Unfinished

Parts: 20

Feel free to leave comments. I love 'em!

NOTE: Obviously, the title isn't my own. It's just a working title. I'll think of a real one later or when I'm done.

UPDATE: I will only be posting the first 8 chapters of my story on here. If you would like to read more, please PM me to ask. Most likely, I will only continue to release it to my closest friends (and to those I don't know who actually like the story, I'm terribly sorry about that) I'm really sorry about it, but both my mom and my brother think it's a bad idea to post too much online so just anybody could steal snippets of it (even though I don't think it's good enough to be deemed 'in danger'...)

UPDATE TO MY UPDATE: Okay, screw that. This not posting thing is driving me nuts. I think I'll go up to 12 or something...

Chapter 1.2

Taking care not to come too close to the walls, the stranger walked down the hall with his weapon drawn. His boots got repeatedly stuck in the bubbling, tar-like pool that covered the ground, but he managed to keep moving. Kira and Jack still stood on the landing, watching apprehensively as he pressed deeper and deeper into the slough of confusion. He communicated with them via the cell phone pressed against his ear, using his free hand to keep it from falling into the seething flood below.

“This place reeks.” Jack muttered into the phone.

“First of all, you're not even IN here.” the stranger grumbled. “And second, it's burning sulfur and Hellflesh. Not exactly an air freshener.”

“Sorry.” Jack hurried to apologize.

“It's okay. It just gets a little frustrating reciting this crap a hundred times. We should really get some sort of pamphlet to hand out.”

Jack laughed tensely. “Might be an idea. Maybe 'Witch Hunting for Dummies'.”

“Yeah.” He had reached the end of the hall. Or at least as far as the Fury would let him go. Now he stood dead center in front of an opaque wall of shadow which barred the way to the rest of the rooms.

“Dead end.” he noted nonchalantly.

“Do you know how to get passed it or...”

The stranger gave a dry chuckle. “Fury's think they're the smartest things on the planet. In reality, a six-year old could out-think them.”

“Then how do you get passed it?”

“Like so.” With that, the stranger withdrew a lighter from his pocket and held it up in the air. He switched on the tiny light and immediately the barrier shifted clumsily , rising from the floor and descending in a sphere on the flame. He winced as the darkness came into contact with his skin, but he kept the light up high.

“What are you doing?” imposed Kira, having snatched the other phone from Jack's hand.

“These guys like heat,” he grumbled painfully, fighting the urge to cry out, “so I'll give 'em heat.” With the flick of his wrist, he tossed the lighter through an opening in a nearby wall that led into another room. It landed on the floor, now smoldering with violet smoke, and was immediately set upon by the orb.

“See? Piece of cake.”

“I thought you said the candle wouldn't have helped.” Jack asked with curiosity.

“I did.”

“But didn't you just-”

“There's a difference. Fury's will snuff out regular flames instantly. For some reason, they can't extinguish lighters. Now I'm no science teacher, and I don't know exactly how it works, but it does, so I'm not gonna argue.”

With the hallway now open, he set off down the expanse, towards what he knew was the source.

“What are you looking for?”

The stranger stopped at the door to room 218 and pressed the back of his hand against the wood. He withdrew sharply, cursing loudly into the phone.

“I just need a second, Harding. Pretty soon, you can see for yourself.”

“I don't care about seeing it. I just want it out of my inn!”

“Patience is a virtue.”

In succession, the stranger tested his hand against doors 219, 220, and 221. At each, his had was burned by the surface, sending incredible pain through his body.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kira screamed into the phone. “Are you some sort of masochist? You're going to kill yourself!”

“Lady, seriously.” The stranger was getting aggravated by their incessant interruptions. Most people were kind enough to leave him alone while he did his work.

Finally, he came up to the door of room 222. He sighed, then, begrudgingly, set his hand upon the wood. But this time, instead of sending a blistering wave of heat through his body, he felt as though he were submerged in arctic waters. The door to 222 radiated a thin, almost translucent fog that was like daggers on his exposed face. His breath started coming in short ragged gasps and, almost instantly, the phone fell from his hand.

“Hello? Hello?!?” Jack shouted into the phone. No answer came.

“We have to help him!” Kira exclaimed. She ran to the closet at the top of the stairs and brought out a metal-handled broom and tried to make a mad dash down the hall. Jack grabbed her before she could get passed the threshold and held her back.

“No! You don't even know what that thing is!”

“We have to help him! If he dies, it's our fault! We're the ones that called him!” She thrashed violently, trying to pry herself from Jack's hands.

“He said it's not dangerous! He can handle it!” He managed to wrench the broom away from Kira. She stopped fighting and slowly relaxed. She was breathing raggedly and he could tell she was on the verge of tears.

“Don't worry.” Jack tried to soothe her. “He said it was fine. He'll be okay.”

Unfortunately, Jack was wrong.

Chapter 2.1

Mikey Way awoke with a start, nearly falling off the bed and onto the floor below. His right arm shot out towards the nightstand to catch himself, instead knocking over the narrow-necked lamp that sat there and sending it plummeting to the ground. It landed with a sickening crack on the hard wood floor, breaking into a thousand pieces on impact. He cursed softly.

“What the hell, man.” a voice murmured sleepily from the other side of the motel room. “You trying to wake up all of Mexico?”

Mikey sat up straighter in bed. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep.” he retorted.

“Yeah, well, the owner's gonna be ticked if he finds out you broke the lamp.”

“Then let's not let him find out.” Mikey pushed some of his autumn brown hair out from in front of his face. “We can ditch this place before we get billed for it.”

“Wow, that sounds so incredibly honest.”

“It does, doesn't it?”

“I don't like things weighing on my conscious.”

“Neither do I, Ray, but as of now, we only have forty dollars left. Not like we can spare the money for repair fees.”

Ray sat up on the couch where he was resting, his tangled, curly hair bobbing up and down as he moved. His long legs stretched far out over the arm rest of the short sofa and into the air. He itched the base of his skull and yawned. “If so, we should probably get headed. The last thing we need is to have the Mexican government pissed at us, too.” He paused. “I'm still trying to figure out what went wrong in Cuba.”

“I don't think it was anything personal. They just hate Americans.”

“Ah.”

Mikey got out of bed cautiously, taking care not to set his bare feet down on the remnants of the lamp. He tugged down on the edge of his t-shirt that had ridden up on his abdomen as a result of his tossing and turning the night before. It was becoming routine. He hadn't slept well in weeks.

“Regular or decaf?” Ray asked. He was already standing by the small coffee machine in the corner of the room. There were several units of bottled water sitting on the counter next to him.

“Regular. I need the wakeup.”

“Coming right up.”

Making his way over to the bathroom, Mikey picked up a fresh set of clothes from the closet. He was running out of those, too.

The bathroom had the aura of one of those disgusting truck stop restrooms, where it looked as though it had never been cleaned in its lifetime. The seat of the toilet was cracked and chipped, and Mikey could swear he saw a leak in the side of the bowl. He did his best to avoid even coming near the shower, its glass turned murky brown by countless layers of dirt and grime. A series of web-like abrasions scarred the face of the wall-length mirror, and one side even looked as though it had suffered a bullet wound.

Just get dressed and get out, Mikey told himself for what had to have been the twentieth time that week. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the duffel bag he'd left lying on the scum-encrusted sink edge. I can't believe we're just letting it sit there. He moved over to the bag and unzipped the larger of the two side compartments. Reaching his hand inside, he moved his hand about until it came into contact with a smooth, metal surface. Hesitantly at first, he slid the body of the Colt .45 revolver from where it rested and into the dim, yellowed light.

If they catch us without passports and carrying firearms, who knows what'll happen to us. His thoughts immediately returned to that night nine days ago when he and Ray had barely made it passed Customs in Tijuana. An amateur security guard had discovered the case of ammunition they were carrying, resulting in pandemonium. The two managed to flee the scene and were now hiding safely in the confines of Mexico City.

Then he thought about the motel's manager. He probably heard something about us on the news, but I'm sure it's not that big of a story. Mikey set the gun back down on the porcelain counter top. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing out a series of knots that had formed overnight.

Taking only a minute to get dressed, Mikey then exited back into the relatively clean main room, where Ray was sitting cross-legged on the bed. His eyes were fixed on the small television screen, its grainy picture casting shadows over the darkened residence.

“Anything interesting?” Mikey asked sarcastically.”

“Unless you're trying to keep up with Mexican sports teams, I don't think so. I thought we got too much of this crap in Jersey, but it's even worse down here.”

The two were silent for a moment, just watching the images flick passed on the grayscale screen. Eventually, Mikey grew tired of standing and dropped down on the bed next to Ray. He stretched his legs out and propped his head up against his arms, trying his best to relax in the current environment.

Roughly a minute later, the sports segment of the news program ended and gave way to a Hispanic anchorwoman who looked as though she'd been chain-smoking for thirty years. She began speaking in rapid Spanish at an incredible pace that left Mikey wondering how anybody could keep up. There was a picture of a chicken in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, leaving him able to occasionally extract the word 'carne' from the nigh illiterate rant.

“You have no idea how happy I'm going to be when we get back to the U.S.” said Mikey.

“My guess: very.” Ray replied emotionlessly.

“It's just - I have no problem with Mexico. It's a great country; don't get me wrong. But... I've just been having these really bad feelings. I'm worried.”

“About what?”

“Gerard.” Mikey went silent for a moment. “I mean, you've heard about all those studies they've done, right? The connections between brothers thing?”

“Can't go on the Internet without seeing something about it.”

“Normally, I don't believe in that sixth sense crap, but this is different. I think he might be in trouble.”

“Dude, he's Gerard.” Ray turned to look at hi,. “He gets himself into these sort of situations all the time. He's a bad luck magnet.”

“Still...” Mikey sighed. “Just wish I could talk to him. Make sure he's okay.”

“He'll be fine. Just trust... me...” Ray's voice trailed off. Mikey, having been focusing on the cheap fresco painting hanging above the T.V., turned his attention to the man sitting next to him.

“What?”

“Damn it.” Ray muttered.

“What is it?” Mikey was about to ask again when he heard a familiar name echoed by the anchorwoman. His stomach nearly dropped.

“... La policía mexicana todavía buscan a Way y Toro, los cuales huyeron de los oficiales de la frontera de Tijuana el martes pasado.  Y eso después de que se supo de que traían docenas de armas ilegales al país...”

Two police sketches, almost perfect likenesses of Mikey and Ray, now filled the entire screen, with only the newscaster's voice in the the background to signify her presence.

“What's she saying?” Mikey demanded, his eyes blazing with horror.

“Shhh!” Ray hissed.

“...Las autoridades del condado los consideran peligrosísimos y se debe evitarlos a toda costa.  Si uno tiene cualquier información en cuanto al paradero tanto de Mikey Way como de Ray Toro, por favor de llamar a-”

Ray switched the power off and leaped of the mattress and onto the roughly cut floor. “We have to go. Now.”

“You think?” Mikey asked rhetorically. Bolting to the bathroom, he rushed to repack the duffel bag and sling it over his shoulder. He gathered up the clothes scattered across the linoleum floor and piled them together into the half-empty suitcase wedged beneath the bed, taking care not to leave anything necessary behind.

“You got the cash?” Ray called out from the other side of the room.

Mikey froze. “I thought you had it.”

Ray frantically patted the pocket on the left side of his pants, then the right. “Oh, your right. Never mind.”

They moved about the room as fast as they could, leaving behind anything that wouldn't be needed. “Remind me again,” Mikey began, “why we need to move so fast.”

“Didn't you see the T.V. at the checkout counter?”

“Um, yeah...”

“Our innkeeper has it tuned to the news 24/7. There's no way he didn't catch that.

Mikey swore aloud, part from anger and part from his foot coming into contact with one of the jagged shards of the lamp.

In a little less than five minutes, Mikey and Ray had packed completely and were making a dash for the door.

“Come on!” Ray grunted as he lifted a series of suitcases up of the ground. “If we hurry, we can make it to the car before the police get here.” Just as he reached for the doorknob, the resounding sound of sharp, rasping knocking erupted from the door.

“Policía!  Tenemos la autorización de revisar la casa.  Abra la puerta ya o entraremos a la fuerza.”

“Oh, come on!” Mikey groaned.

Ray's eyes darted around the room, then locked on the southeast wall. “The window!”

“We can't outrun them that way!”

“We can try!”

The two charged towards the window, leaving the other end of the room in their wake. Ray dropped his burdens and instead lifted a nearby chair and, with all the strength he could muster, swung it at the thin glass panel. It shattered like ice, raining a shower of crystalline dust down onto the floor.

“Move!” he cried.

Mikey stepped carefully yet swiftly over the jagged-edged barrier, his feet landing nimbly on the second floor walkway outside. Ray was not far behind, toting his portion of the bags with little effort. They sprinted down the balcony as fast as their legs could carry them, and when they reached the stairs, they flew down them two at a time, almost tripping and falling on the last couple.

“Where'd you park the car?” Mikey bellowed over the sound of police sirens that had appeared in the distance.

Ray stopped and looked around. Scanning the sparse rows of cars, he looked for the distinct paint job he would recognize. His eyes lit up.

“There!” He pointed frantically towards the hood of a red striped, custom designed hearse parked in the center of the lot. A small black flag mounted on the antennae fluttered in the breeze.

Mikey shook his head. “We seriously have got to get a less noticeable form of transportation.”

“Agreed,” Ray motioned for him to hurry, “but let's discuss that at another time.”

They ran across the asphalt, their path illuminated by the rising Mexican sun. When they reached the automobile, Ray unlocked the driver's side door and climbed in. Mikey waited impatiently on the other side of the car, tapping his foot nervously to the rhythm of the loudly screeching cars he knew were waiting for them on the other side of the motel. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the sound of his door unlock, allowing him to slide into his seat. They tossed their luggage into the backseat and as soon as that was done, Ray hit the gas and the hearse shot off like a bullet.

“Agh!” Mikey exclaimed as he was thrown back in his chair. “Couldn't you at least give me a little warning?”

“Sorry.” Ray rolled his eyes.

Mikey turned in his seat to look passed the bags and out the back window. They were speeding away from the motel and already he could see the flashing sirens in the distance. He stared at them for a few seconds, waiting to see if they moved.

“Anything?” Ray asked, trying to alleviate the tense silence.

“They're not moving.” A look of surprise dawned on Mikey's face. “I don't believe it. They didn't see us!”

“Let's not get cocky.” Ray cautioned. “We'll slow down a little once we're out of sight.” He went quiet. “I suppose... it's about time we get going home.”

Although Mikey tried to hide it, his face lit up. “We did accomplish what we came here to do.”

“Yeah, but this isn't exactly the kind of recognition I was hoping for.”

“At least we did the right thing.”

“I guess. Not too long 'til we'll be home.”

Mikey stared out the window at the highway rushing passed under their tires. A small smile creased his face. “No, not too long.”

Chapter 3.1

“Ugh,” Frank Iero groaned, “Why do they have to reek like that?” He was poking the carcass of a fallen lycan with his foot, its massive, eight hundred pound body barely twitching under the minimal force exerted by his short-statured form.

Standing ten feet away, Bob Bryar was busy cleaning up the spot where the enormous beast had lost the contents of its stomach only seconds before it had collapsed with exhaustion. “I don't know. Maybe if you stopped shooting them in the gut, they wouldn't puke as much.”

“That's the only weak spot. There's no other way to bring them down.”

“What about the heart?”

“How am I supposed to hit the freaking heart?” Frank demanded.

“You aim and fire.”

“Haha.” He grimaced. “If it's so easy, why don't you do it?"

“Because I'm not the one complaining about the stench.”

Frank cursed, realizing he'd once again backed himself into a proverbial corner. Instead of trying to argue it further, he reached down into the pocket of his jeans and took out the cell phone that had been wedged inside the tight-fitting denim. He clicked through a series of menus until he found what he was searching for under the contacts list, then simply dialed the number with the touch of a button.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. A look of concern crossed Frank's face, though it was almost hidden by the thin strands of black-dyed hair plastered over his right eye. Four times now. Five.

Not a moment before Frank raised his finger to hang up, the sixth ring ended in mid-chime.

“Hello?” said the man on the other end of the line.

“Ray?”

“Mikey.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don't bother. So, what's up?”

“Just calling to see how things were going down on your end.”

Mikey hesitated for a moment. “Um, depends what portion of the trip you're referring to.”

“The chupacabra.”

“Oh, that went fine. A few scratches here and there; nothing fatal.”

“That's always good to hear.” Frank tried to stall, knowing by Mikey's tone of voice that the story was going to take a turn for the worse. “No civilian casualties?”

“No, just goats. A lot of goats.”

“I see.”

Both were silent for a minute, waiting for the other to say something. Finally, Frank spoke.

“You... have a problem, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

Letting out a short, exasperated sigh, Frank moved to sit down on the ground, knowing he probably wouldn't want to be standing when the news came. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Um, exactly?”

“Or as close as you can get to exact.”

“See, that in itself is the problem.”

“Geez. Alright, where are you and what did you guys do this time?”

“Look, it wasn't our fault.”

“Like hell. Just answer the questions.”

“Well, as of right now, we're parked in a ditch just west of Matamoros.”

“Matamoros? Isn't that on the gulf coast?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Wait, wait, wait... you guys said you only had to go down from Tijuana to Durango. I'd love to hear how you guys got to the gulf, which happens to be five hundred miles off the charted course.”

“Long story.” Mikey replied simply.

“Are you going to tell me or just let me guess?”

“I have a feeling it wouldn't be too hard.”

“You know what, let's just forget it. You two are safe, right?”

“Uninjured, yes. Safe, we'll see.”

“You do realize that no one is going to drag themselves down there just to pull you guys out 'cause you got in a little trouble with the Mexican government, right?”

“Well, it's not really little...”

“Nevertheless, Bob and I are being worked to the bone on this werewolf case and we haven't been able to reach Gerard for three days. Sorry, but you two are on your own.”

“Wait.” Mikey's voice sounded anxious. “What did you say about Gerard?”

“We've tried calling him a couple times in the last few days, but his phone's still off. Lazy bum probably just forgot to turn it on.”

“Yeah...” Mikey stopped. “Listen, if you hear from him, call and let us know.”

“Sure thing.” Frank tried to smile, making an attempt to brighten the situation. “And by the way; if you guys get the Chemobile smashed up, it's coming out of your pocket.”

“Got it.” Mikey answered.

“Say hi to Ray for me.”

“He's only sitting a foot away; I think he can hear.”

“Well, then. Guess we'll see you two back in Jersey.”

“Can't wait.”

“Over and out.”

“Later.”

The call ended and Frank slid the phone back into his pocket. Bob, now sitting in the back of the dark painted van parked near the sight of the kill, looked up hopefully.

“Good news?”

“I wish.”

“What the- man, why does that not surprise me?”

Frank shook his head. “This month hasn't exactly been our luckiest. First the F.B.I. bust and now this crap. Someone's got it in for us.”

Little did Frank know how true that was.

Chapter 3.3

Nearly an hour had passed since the van had descended into the city and the streets were still as deserted as they had been before. Frank was in the driver's seat once more, one hand on the wheel and the other held cautiously on the shotgun lying in the seat next to him. Bob was in back with the girl, keeping an eye on her vital signs using the emergency medical kit they were fortunate enough to keep on board.

“We should call somebody.” Frank spoke up, his voice heavy with stress.

“Maybe we can reach Ray and Mikey.” volunteered Bob.

“Worth a shot.” Frank took his hand off the gun and retrieved the phone from his pocket. He hit redial and waited patiently as the ringing commenced. This time it only took four tries before a voice answered on the other end.

“Frank?” It was Ray this time.

“Yeah.”

“Why do you keep calling? I already told you, this isn't exactly an opportune time-”

“I know,” Frank interrupted, “but this is important.”

“So is making it back to the country in one piece.”

“Obviously, but – wait a minute. Are you still in that ditch?”

There was a pause. “Um, you could say that.”

“Damn it, Ray. It's been over four hours and you still haven't moved?”

“Dude, do you know how heavily the U.S. are guarding their boarders now? A jackrabbit couldn't slip by without them noticing.”

“Then just walk up there; if you can get passed the Mexican guards, maybe the guys from our side will let you through.”

“See, that 'maybe' right there didn't sound very inviting.”

“You have your passports, don't you?”

“Um...”

“Alright, Ray, listen; you and Mikey are getting out of that country ASAP. I don't care if you have to dig a freaking tunnel to get through, 'cause if you're not back in Newark by Sunday, I'm killing you myself. Comprende?”

“Geez, somebody's grumpy.”

“Well, we're not having a great day, either.”

“Werewolves are pushovers. The U.S. government on the other hand...”

“I'm not talking about the werewolves. We're having some bigger problems.”

“Police?”

“I wish.”

“Then what?”

“We're... not sure.”

“Cryptic. Any clues?”

“Do you know of any elementals in or around the Philadelphia area?”

“Philly? Not that I'm aware of. Most of them seem to hang around the west coast. But there are always a few unregistered ones hanging around? Why? Did you catch one?”

“We have all known threat level 5's identified, right?”

“Yeah, but... there's only, like, eight of them. On the planet.”

“May need to make that nine.”

“Are you serious? You found a level 5 just walking around Philadelphia?”

“It's - Ray, there's nobody here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we're in the heart of a city with over one and a half million residents. We just passed over the Delaware and there is not a soul to be seen. The trees look like they grew out of some goth kid's sketch book and the only person we've managed to find is dying right now in the back of our van. And she may not even be human.”

“The good news just keeps on coming.” Ray muttered.

“We're going to try and take her to Trenton.”

“Do you think it was affected?”

“I don't-” Frank's voice broke off in mid-sentence. He eased his foot down on the break and brought the car to a stop.

“What's going on?”

“I – I saw something.”

“Was it moving?”

“Yeah. Fast. It looked like a car.”

“I thought you said nobody's -”

“I did, but... I swear I just saw something.”

“Maybe you should check it out.”

“Right.”

With that, Frank hung up and set the phone down in the adjacent seat.

“Are you getting out?” Bob asked from behind.

“Just gonna take a quick look around. See what's up and get back on the road. You coming?”

Bob looked down at the girl. Her face was less contorted than it had been before and it now looked as though she was doing reasonably well. “Why not?” He stepped towards the back doors and pushed them open. “She'll be alright on her own for a little while.”

Frank emerged from the van into the warm dusk, taking a deep breath as if expecting something to steal the air away any second. As he exited the vehicle, he stretched his legs casually, both of which had become incredibly tense in the last hour. On the other side of the vehicle, Bob jumped down onto the asphalt from the back bumper. He itched absent-mindedly at the long blonde stubble on his chin.

“So... what are we looking for?”

“Something that shouldn't be here.” Frank's head pivoted left and right as he scanned the dark and vacant city.

“It could have just been a shadow.”

“No. It wasn't. Trust me.” Taking a few steps away from the van, Frank sniffed the air. Understanding dawned in his mind and he quickly picked up his pace, moving towards the lower windows of a nearby skyscraper. “Do you smell that?”

Bob's nose wrinkled and he nodded. “I do, but is it what I think it is?”

“It's... coffee.”

“Then who the hell's making it?”

Frank's eye caught on one window in particular and his brow furrowed. He walked up to it and set his hand on the glass. Peeling one finger off of the smooth surface, he lifted up a thin layer of what looked like translucent ash.

“What are you doing?”

“The glass, it's covered in something. I think -” A sudden flash of color went by behind the spot where the ash was missing, moving so fast Frank almost didn't catch it. No, not behind, he thought. It's a reflection.

“I-I know what's going on.” Frank stuttered. “We have to get back to the van.”

“Why?”

“We can't let her wake up.”

“Do you have any idea how much you're confusing me?”

“Damn it, we have to get back to the van!” Frank bounded passed Bob, who followed quickly in suit.

“What's going on?” Bob shouted over the pounding of shoes on pavement.

“We're trapped in a netherworld! She must have opened a portal when we came down the ramp!”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don't know! But she's the only other person here and that must mean -” Frank was cut off by an eruption of blue flame that spewed from the windows of the van, lashing out and striking the ground ahead of him. He stopped dead in his tracks, his feet grinding on the dirt and pebbles below. The roof of the vehicle was splitting open like a shell as tendrils of smoke pried it open from the inside, tearing the metal as easily as if it were a tissue. Rising like a wraith from the smoldering wreckage, the girl was like an apparition, her body radiating a demonic energy unlike any Frank had ever seen. Orchid fog spilled out of her mouth and eyes, pouring down her flesh in rivers.

“You!” the girl bellowed in a hideous voice that sounded like her vocal chords were ripping themselves apart. She pointed an accusing finger at Frank and screamed, “Prepare to face a traitor's death!”

Chapter 4.2

Gerard attempted to reach up and pry her from his neck, but Michelle tightened her grip, forcing him to lower his arms. The bite of the knife in his flesh was certainly unnerving, but he fought to keep his cool.

“And what am I exactly?” Gerard choked, trying hard to stop the blade from cutting into him.

“I saw the mark on your back, Gerard. Don't play stupid.” She pulled the dagger back further, dragging him deeper into the alley. “Although, I must say, you fit the part rather well.”

“Do we really need to be adding insult to injury?”

“You would know a lot about that, wouldn't you?”

“I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I'm giving you three seconds to let me go before I tear your eyes out of their sockets.”

“I'm terrified.”

“One...”

“I can't wait to see this.”

“Two...”

“Let me save you the trouble.”

“Three.”

Michelle released him and shoved him forward, swinging the blade out and around in a wide arc and bringing it down over the flesh of his lower back. A shower of crimson sprayed from the freshly cut elliptical wound that stretched from his neck to his hip, splattering over the walls of the alley and onto Michelle's hands. Gerard staggered backwards, hands feeling around the shallow cut at his neck. Blood was already soaking into the shirt and weighing him down, and now the loss of fluids was draining him of energy.

“I overestimated you.” Michelle glowered at Gerard through the dark curls of hair hanging over half of her face.

“You don't even know me.” he growled, spitting blood.

“I might not know you, but I know how to kill you.”

She lunged toward him and Gerard spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the murderous tip of the knife. It struck the brick harmlessly, reverberating in Michelle's hand and distracting her. Taking advantage of the situation, he backed away, feeling around in the deep pockets of his jeans.

“Lose something?” Michelle asked tauntingly, raising the edge of her jacket and revealing the handle of Gerard's gun. “You shouldn't keep these kinds of things lying around.”

Gerard tried to respond, but he was feeling more exhausted by the second. He could only back away further into the dark junction, trying to keep distance between Michelle and himself.

“Well, well.” Michelle was advancing more quickly than Gerard could retreat. As she approached, a look of pure loathing crossed her face. “Not so tough without our weapons, are we?”

“You're mental,” Gerard wheezed.

“Yeah, whatever. At least I'm not the one who backed myself into a wall.”

An immobile surface seemed to materialize out of the darkness behind Gerard, cutting off his retreat. The end of the alley.

“Rule number one of combat. Be aware.”

Struggling for breath, Gerard inched along the wall towards the nearest corner.

“I want you to understand something, Gerard; I'm not a bad person,” She stopped momentarily, lowering her knife. For a second, it seemed as though she wasn't going to attack. Instead, she slid the dagger back into its sheath and, with a dramatic spin of her wrist, drew out a wickedly sharp, slender-edged katana from underneath her jacket, “ but I draw the line of mercy somewhere between the living and the dead.”

“What?”

Michelle stepped closer, now only a few feet from where Gerard was huddled. “It's back to hell for you, demon. Give my regards to Lucifer.”

Raising her arm to strike, Michelle's eyelids flew open. The weapon fell slowly from her unclenching fingers as every muscle in her body contracted.

“Rule number one of combat, Michelle.” he grunted through red-stained teeth, his good hand struggling to keep the needle of the previously hidden syringe in her skin. The contents emptied, he threw it aside and watched as she dropped slowly to the ground.

“I'm sorry.” Gerard whispered as the edges of his eyes began to cloud over. And with little fight, he collapsed next to her, succumbing for the second time that day to the embrace of darkness.

eek eek

I heart , I heart it very much.

wink

MICHELLE IS SO KICKASS!!! She's gonna love you forever--not that she didn't already.
Freakish good story, I'm addicted...@_@