I stepped out of my black Nissan 350Z, adjusting the cheap FBI badge clipped to my belt. Bruce Banner—yeah, real subtle. If the Hulk ever found out I was borrowing his name for a fake ID, he'd probably smash me into next Tuesday.
The Rusty Nail bar looked like every other backwater dive in Missouri—peeling paint, flickering neon, and the faint smell of regret wafting from the doorway. Perfect place for a vampire nest to set up shop.
I pushed through the door, the hinges groaning like a tortured spirit. The inside was dim, lit by a few yellowed bulbs and the glow of a jukebox playing some sad country song. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, not even glancing up. Friendly.
The bartender stood behind the counter—tall, dark-haired, wearing a weird-ass necklace that looked like it was made of bone. My fingers twitched toward the silver knife tucked in my boot.
Play it cool, Marcus.
I slid onto a stool and flashed my best just-a-fed-doing-his-job smile. "Evening. Whiskey, neat."
The bartender eyed me, then the badge. "FBI in a place like this? Must be a slow week."
"Paperwork never sleeps," I said, shrugging. "But hey, maybe you can help me out. I'm looking into some disappearances—locals turning up drained of blood. You hear anything about that?"
His fingers stilled on the glass. Just for a second. Then he poured my drink. "People vanish all the time. Drifters, junkies. Nobody cares."
I took a slow sip, watching him. "This one had a name. Lena. Her friend Rachel said she was meeting someone before she disappeared. You know anything about that?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Not fear—recognition.
Gotcha.
He wiped the counter with a rag. "Can't help you, Agent."
I leaned in, lowering my voice. "See, that's funny. Because I think you can."
His grip tightened on the rag. For a second, I thought he might lunge. Then he forced a smile. "You're barking up the wrong tree."
I held up my hands. "Hey, no accusations here. Just doing my job."
I sipped my drink, pretending to let it go. But my mind was racing.
Lena was here. She met someone. And now she's dead.
The bartender had answers. But if I pushed too hard, he'd bolt—or worse, call in his fanged buddies.
So I played the long game.
I nursed my whiskey, making small talk with a few drunks, laughing at bad jokes, acting like just another fed wasting time. All the while, I kept an eye on Bone Necklace over there.
Hours passed. The bar emptied.
Finally, the bartender called last round. I tossed cash on the counter and stumbled out like I was just another government drone drowning in bourbon.
Then I doubled back.
---
Tailing him was easy. Wendigo speed meant I could move like a shadow, silent and unseen.
His house was a rundown shack on the edge of town. No lights. No cars. Perfect place for a blood cult.
I crept to a window, peering through a crack in the curtains.
I crouched low in the shadows outside the shack, the night air thick with the coppery scent of blood and the faint, electric buzz of supernatural energy. My heart beat steady—too steady. That part of me, the one that remembered pain and loss from another life, whispered caution (backflip death:)).
But the other part? The part that had killed a Wendigo with his bare hands.
That part grinned.
Eight vamps. One ritual. And me, the wildcard.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out a vial of dead man's blood. Stolen from Bobby's stash back in Sioux Falls. The stuff smelled like roadkill marinated in sewage, but it was pure gold against bloodsuckers.
I slid a silver dagger from my boot and coated the blade with the viscous fluid, then tucked it back. Time for a little party-crashing.
The back door groaned like a dying man as I slipped inside. The stench hit me first—copper and rot, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. Vampire nests always smelled like a butcher shop left in the sun, but this? This was something worse.
The chanting vibrated through my ribs.
"Mighty Blood God, accept our offering. Let our veins become thy rivers, our flesh thy vessel."
I crouched behind a moldy couch, taking stock. Eight vamps. Eight basins of blood. And Mr. Bone Necklace in the center, arms raised like some bargain-bin messiah. Candles flickered, their light dancing across walls stained black with old blood.
I'd seen this before—not in person, but in Bobby's books. The really old ones, the ones he kept locked up. Blood magic. The kind that didn't just call monsters, but changed them.
My fingers twitched toward the silver knife in my boot.
Okay, new plan.
I stood up.
"Hey, fellas. Hate to interrupt your... whatever this is, but last call was twenty minutes ago."
Every head snapped toward me. The bartender's eyes burned with something that wasn't just vampire black.
Oh, that's new.
"You," he hissed.
"Me," I agreed, flipping the knife in my hand. "Agent Banner. We met earlier. You charged me twelve bucks for well whiskey."
He moved faster than any vamp I'd ever seen—one second standing, the next right in my face, claws out. I barely dodged, feeling the wind of his swipe ruffle my hair.
Shit.
I kicked a basin over, sending blood splashing across the floor. Two vamps slipped, crashing into each other. One lunged—I sidestepped, driving the blade through his ribs. He screamed, dead man's blood working fast.
The room erupted.
Fangs flashed. Claws tore at my jacket. I ducked under a swing, feeling Wendigo strength surge as I uppercut a vamp hard enough to send him through the drywall.
Crack.
Telekinesis flared—I flung another into the ceiling. He hit the ground with a wet thud.
Four down.
The bartender roared, and the remaining vamps changed. Their skin split, bones cracking as they grew—taller, thicker, muscles twisting under bleeding skin.
Oh, come on.
One backhanded me across the room. I hit the wall hard enough to see stars, tasting blood.
Okay. No more playing.
I rolled as a clawed foot stomped where my head had been, coming up with my gun. Three silver rounds center mass. The vamp staggered, but didn't drop.
Right. Evolved.
I switched tactics—dodged a swipe, grabbed a candle, and jammed it into a vamp's eye. He howled, flames licking at his face as I kicked him into two others.
The bartender was last.
"You don't understand what you're doing," he snarled, circling me. "This is bigger than—"
"Yeah, yeah, 'bigger than me,' blah blah." I wiped blood from my lip. "You guys really need new material."
He moved.
I barely reacted in time—his claws grazed my ribs, shredding fabric and skin. I hissed, driving my knife into his gut and twisting. He screamed, but grabbed my wrist, squeezing until bones creaked.
Snap.
Pain flared white-hot. I headbutted him, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch, and kneed him in the groin. Vamp or not, that still hurts.
He doubled over. I grabbed his hair, yanked his head up, and stabbed him through the eye.
Silence.
I stood there, breathing hard, my left wrist hanging useless. Blood dripped from a dozen cuts. The room reeked of death and burning flesh.
Then I heard it.
Not a sound. A presence.
Pressure built in my skull, like something pressing against the inside of my forehead. My vision swam—
—darkness—
—a throne of bones—
—a voice like grinding stones—
"You spill my children's blood... yet you do not kneel."
I gasped, stumbling back. The vision cleared, but the pressure remained.
The bartender's corpse twitched. His remaining eye—still intact—rolled toward me.
I stood, unsteady. Whatever that thing was—Blood God, old one, angry cosmic juicebox—I didn't kill it.
But it saw me.
Not ideal.
Nope.
I grabbed gasoline from my pack, doused the room, and lit a match.
The flames roared to life as I bolted outside.
I took one last look at the ruined shack before setting it on fire. Salt, gasoline, a flick of a match. Hunter's funeral for monsters and their would-be deities.
I was halfway back to my car when my phone buzzed.
Bobby.
"Tell me you didn't torch something," he said without preamble.
"What if I said I was just cold and needed a campfire?"
"Marcus," he growled.
"Relax. Vampire nest, eight strong. Ritual summoning some ancient blood deity. Situation handled."
A pause. "Handled how?"
"Let's just say Nebraska down one cult. But Bobby…" I hesitated, glancing back at the rising smoke. "Something... touched me. It's not like the other powers I've absorbed. It felt... aware."
"Son of a bitch," Bobby muttered. "Get back here. We need to do some research. And bring pie. You owe me."
I hung up and slid into my car.
The leather seat felt cold. Too cold.
I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes looked the same. My face hadn't changed.
But something had shifted.
And I didn't like it.
---
Later, at Bobby's place…
"You're an idiot."
I winced as Bobby reset my wrist. "Ow. Love you too, Dad."
He scowled, wrapping the splint tight enough to hurt. "Eight vamps? A blood ritual? And you just walked in?"
"I had a plan."
"Your 'plan' got you marked by an ancient deity!" He threw a book at me. It hit my chest with a thud. "Kharon. Pre-Biblical. Older than the Soul Eaters. And now he's noticed you."
I flipped through the pages. Faded illustrations showed robed figures kneeling before a shadowy giant, their throats slit, blood flowing upward like reverse rain.
"Okay, but what does 'noticed' mean, exactly?"
Bobby poured two fingers of whiskey—the good stuff—and downed it. "Means he can track you. Speak to you. Maybe worse."
I thought about the throne of bones. The voice.
Great.
My phone buzzed. Dean.
"Heard you pissed off a god. Congrats. We're two hours out. Bring beer."
I sighed. "Winchesters are coming."
Bobby poured another drink. "Then we're really screwed."
"And now it knows your name."
******
The night air was cold. I sipped my beer, staring at the stars.
Kharon was out there. Watching.
But so was I.
I flexed my injured hand. The pain was fading—faster than it should have.
Weird.
A whisper brushed my ear, so quiet I almost missed it:
"Mine."
I smiled.
Game on.
******
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