Finding Blood (City Underdark #1)

The Stalker

He barely took a moment to think things through before he fleed. The stalker and its many, many clawers were probably already hot on his trail, even if he had no way of knowing how close. He knew he would find out eventually.

For some reason, his shitty luck decided to show up right after he started to run. He took a turn at the last moment and suddenly recognized a tannery and its horrible, lingering smell. He knew where he was. From there onwards, it was one single, worried rush to the Garganda the witch's door. He could smell her, she was home and making something again.

He tried the handle then slammed his fist on the door when he found it locked.

"Open up," he said.

No answer. Barmond looked over his shoulder. The street was full of darkness, but that darkness didn't move on its own quite yet. He shook the handle, in vain.

"Please. I'll give my fang to you, I promise," he said. And he believed it. He'd give them both and feed out of a bowl for the next few months if he had to. "Just let me in. Please."

"Oh? Now you change your tune, I see." She was right behind the door, or at least it seemed so from the sound of her voice. "Too bad that your opponents are so close behind you."

"You want more? I can give you more."

She laughed. It was a cruel sound.

"It's a very tempting offer. Alas, I'll choose peace with Ranphoros over whatever you can give, little leech. It's too bad that it was never much."

"I could be your servant. Please."

But she didn't reply. And the door remained shut.

"Old crone!" cried Barmond.

He could have called her many things, worse things, but he was too hungry to waste any energy on it. He was also tired, tired of being scared for his life, and now he had just lost the last chance he had sacrificed so much for. There was no more blood in his body. Already was the edges of his vision darkening. He was going to fall in torpor very soon and he knew it.

He tore himself away from the door and ran in some direction, any direction. He wasn't giving up until he was cut to pieces and burned. They would have to pry his existence out of his already cold, dead hands.

He had no plan until he heard the heart of the beggar, and then suddenly he realized that he could still get blood. Even in the darkest reaches of Gardel, where housing was cheap and dodgy jobs plenty, there were still the ones that couldn't fend for themselves. If he had not been so hungry, he would have paused before going to feed on the bottom feeder - if he did that, what would that make him?

But he didn't think. If he was lower than the ground, so be it. He was dead anyway.

He rushed towards the sound of dwindling life without fear and tore through the meagre assemblage that served as the other's home. An old man. He cried, or rather croaked in surprise, his rusty weak voice unable to muster the strength of an alarm. Barmond gripped his rags and ripped through them. It was so close that he threw his last strength at it. He stabbed the beggar with his fangs... someplace on his shoulder? Barmond didn't even care. In the dark, the human was more like a pile of rotting cloth and bones than a shape.

He knew that he wouldn't stop until he had killed that man.

He didn't even taste the blood. All he felt was a wave of warmth that hit him like a punch to the face while his senses came back into focus. His instincts kicked in even harder than before and he tightened his grip on his miserable prey before he went for a second sip.