A Test of Love

The alley reeked of stale beer and desperation, a fitting stage for the chaos that was about to unfold. Moonlight, fractured by the grimy fire escape above, painted streaks across the slick cobblestones where we’d cornered them. Three of them, hulking brutes with eyes that held the same predatory gleam as the alley cats that slunk in the shadows. But tonight, we weren't the cats. Tonight, we were the wolves.

Marcine moved with a liquid grace that always stole my breath, even now, a year into this wild, impossible life. Her crimson eyes, usually pools of ancient allure, were narrowed with fierce concentration as she danced between their clumsy swings. My own fangs, still a thrilling novelty, felt sharp and ready against my lips. The first one lunged, a meaty fist aimed at my jaw. I ducked, the wind of his passage a whisper against my ear, and brought my knee up hard into his gut. He grunted, doubling over, and that was all the invitation Marcine needed.

She was a blur of motion, a crimson streak against the monochrome brick. A swift, brutal efficiency that still made my stomach clench, even as I understood its necessity. The second man was too slow, his surprise a fleeting mask before her fangs, now impossibly long and sharp, found their mark. A choked gasp, a sickening thud, and he was down.