Bane

November 18, 1993

He stared at the door and calculated the all the possible solutions for breaking it down. He could blast it, breaking the hinges from splintering wood and then push the door in without effort. He could slam his body into the heavy wood, each impact sending reverberations of fear into the Coven on the other side.

He could hear them now through the door, the faint whispering and arguing, and her voice, the last in the line of Blackwood ordering her circle to hold fast.

Bane stepped back and away from the door. There was only one way he would do this.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Somewhere from inside his chest he felt a low growl forming, a rumbling guttural sound that crawled up his throat and out his mouth mask. He opened his eyes chambered his knee up and thrust a hard forward kick. The door did not creak, it did not groan, or bend.

It shattered inward toward the attic, heavy iron hinges swinging in empty space torn from the oaken door. He watched as Andrea Blackwood's circle broke formation, as they moved in slow motion through the dust motes, their dancing shadows cast in the flickering candlelight. He watched as the first to break the circle rushed at him, a ceremonial dagger in hand.

Bane considered a moment whether or not he would allow the Male-witch to stab him, to make it a point to the rest that he could not be stopped - that they would all die here today. Even as the thought coursed through his mind, he was shouldering his shotgun, raising it to the level of the man's chest and squeezed the trigger. The attic space filled with the thunderous sound of the shotgun, and the man was dead before he hit the floor.

Panic commenced in the remaining circle. They were screaming, but all Bane could hear was a high pitched whine. If that was all he could hear, it was all they could hear. He was sure of it.

It did not matter. Nothing mattered more than -

Bane felt the staff crash across his mask, saw the wood splinters showering away from him, and the woman holding the remains of the thick wooden staff in her hands, he face awash in disbelief.

Clearly an introduction was in order.

He shook his head, sharp fragments of wood falling from his dreadlocked hair. He tilted his head, staring at a woman with short red hair, his eyes locked on hers.

He watched realization forming on her pale face, her mouth moving with words he could see, but not hear.

That's impossible.

Bane brushed the remaining pieces of staff away from his duster with his shotgun, his finger straight on the reciever.

While panic ensued with the scattering circle, Andrea Blackwood's Coven running for cover, seeking any place to hide that was far from him as possible, the woman with short red hair stood her ground. She was not panicking. Afraid, yes, but here was a woman who knew danger.

As sound slowly crept back into hearing, he found himself at the receiving end of her pistol. She drew it fast, and her hands were steady.

"Driftwood PD! Drop your weapon! I will not tell you again!"

Bane dropped his shotgun.

"Naomi, no!" Andrea's voice carried from her seated place feom where her circle scattered.

Bane knew how this would go - had been in this position before - understood what was coming next. He raised his clenched hands, fists bound in thick ragged leather gloves, and opened them once they were up above his head.

"Naomi, no!"

Naomi ignored her. No cuffs, no restraints, no means of subduing the madman. She pulled the hammer back on her .38 pistol. "Andrea. You and the others. Run."