Lucretia smirked at her sister, who even now was feeding, the slurping and sucking was such sweet music to her ears. Two thin trails of blood ran from her mouth, spots patterning her blouse where they had fallen.
It had been an unexpectedly profitable day; their flight from the last town had been precipitous to say the least. Locals could be so pedantic in their beliefs, imagine, they had thought that she would wait for their justice.
She laughed wryly, and shouldered her sister aside, who snarled at her, but gave way. Whoever these new humans were, they tasted good, not like the insipid villagers from their last stop. Her mentor had told her that this world held a bounty of delicacies to tickle the palate and she had been surprisingly pleased to find out that he had been right. His recent arrival had interrupted their excesses, and his chastisement had been less than welcome.
He looked good. His recent sojourn on the flagship seemed to signal a kind of rebirth and Lucretia had been tempted to keep him, if only for a moment. Mammon was such a dear, and so easy to take advantage of. He actually believed her excuses and tried to talk to the villagers for her. Idiot.
Such a shame that he had been caught, helping their escape. Of course, the fact that she had shot him the back, physically rather than metaphorically, as he faced their pursuers had of course little to do with it. The quarrelled bolt had actually punched through his hand, pinning him to a tree and he roared his anger and desperation to the skies in such a delightful way. That too had been entertaining though.
She decided to have a little nap and lay down next to the rapidly cooling body of Sargeant Harms. There was so much to look forward to, a bounteous feast would be held once the sun fell and then there were other pleasures to be had with her minions.
Mammon was angry; in a towering rage, not only because of Lucretia’s betrayal, but also because he had needed to kill a useful food source. She would pay, of that he was sure, he thought, feeling the bulk of the transmitter in his pocket. Only he knew how the portals could be opened; a thing he had done regularly on his previous visit here. That a beautiful girl and her sister should have captivated him so, after all of these centuries, was laughable. That was, if he could only admit it, a pattern of his, which all of his brethren took advantage of.
It was on a previous jaunt to the planet that he had found this place, and he constantly came back, replenishing himself. After his close call with Alana, he made straight for the comforting arms of his girls. Time seemed to have brought out their true characters. Demons were just so fickle.
That was of course the reason he told himself, but deep down, the savage beast within him wanted to rend and tear, so repaying the disloyalty and removing the evidence of his mistake. He shook his head, driving the reverie away and stopped, breathing in deeply, tasting the night air.
Silently, he advanced; he was close now, the smell of freshly spilt blood, mixed with something fouler drew him on. Vengeance was a dish best served cold, but he had always thought it tasted better hot and steaming. Blood was blood, after all.
*Renard never heard a thing, death came upon him unexpectedly, yet he did not miss experiencing it. A pair of strong hands closed about his neck, lifting him easily off the floor. He managed a choked gasp, as he was swung around, his foot lashing out reflexively. It felt as though he had slammed his boot into a solid post, and he silently screamed. His training kicked in and he drew his combat knife, his vision even now blurring as his oxygen-starved brain began shutting down. With an ultimate expenditure of energy, he stabbed into the body before him, wondering why there was no sound.
With a crack, Mammon snapped Renard’s neck and tossed his limp body to the floor. He glanced disdainfully at the knife, sliding it free from his chest and stood for a moment listening carefully. All was well, he thought, as he wiped the blade on Renard’s tunic. Then knife in hand, he stalked his next prey, the rush of anticipation filling him.
*Lucretia woke, her hunger fierce and called out for her minions. Her only reply was silence, so she tried again. Cursing them and spitting forth a venous tirade of what pain she would inflict on them for their lethargy of reply, she pulled by the rear covering. A fist exploded into her face, the strength of the blow throwing half way across the wagon bed.
“Mammon!” she cried in fear.
“Yes, my love,” he replied, climbing slowly inside, “we have some unfinished business I believe?”
He pulled the flap closed behind him, as he climbed into the wagon, and shortly afterwards the screaming began.
*Llorente was the only one of his companions left alive, for some reason the ravening beast, the abomination who had attacked the camp had spared him. A face from hell itself had stared icily into his eyes, fangs glistening with recently spilt blood and then had moved away.
There could only be one fate left for him, and so he began to pray. He called to the Prelate, to the Taurans’ Demons, to anyone who would listen. Nothing.
The animalistic cries from the wagon, the heaving of its sides, all had ceased. He saw something appear from behind the rear wheels and he began to plead, in a childish and plaintively whimpering voice. Still on it came, teeth bared, eyes bloodshot, and it was smiling.