The Renfield Syndrome

She whipped around and widened her stance.

 

The hands at my shoulders wound down, until her nails sank into the giving softness of my legs. Her razor-sharp claws slid easily past the thin camouflage and into the warm, pliable flesh beneath. I released her neck and bit my lip, tasting the metallic bitterness of her blood. Her talons went through my muscles and plunged into bone. I went slack, distracted by the torturous stabbing sensation. I started slipping from her back, and she chose to do something I never would have imagined, something I never saw coming.

 

She body slammed me.

 

The moment I made contact with the ground, I couldn’t breathe.

 

Pain—pure, raw and intense—speared through my body.

 

I let go of Jackson, terrified of the black spots that speckled my vision.

 

If I lost consciousness, it would all be over.

 

A clawed hand appeared—hazy but there—and I felt long fingers twine in my hair. A sharp tug ripped several strands from my scalp. I tried to alleviate the pressure, going onto my knees. I struggled to breathe, balancing my weight on the floor with shaking hands, and cursed the amulet that had somehow burned through my turtleneck and now brushed against my skin.

 

The loud crack of another gunshot buzzed in my ears and was immediately followed by another. Jackson shuddered before releasing the fistful of hair she’d chosen to clench. A horrific growl came from her as she forgot about me and rose. Her nostrils flared, she whipped around and barreled across the room toward Joshua.

 

Marianne’s horrified scream brought me to my feet, even though the room was spinning. I blinked and shook my head, trying to see clearly, attempting to regain the equilibrium necessary to stand upright. Jackson was a blur across the short distance, as was the body of the child trapped beneath her. From what I could see, he was squirming on top of the demolished coffee table, his small legs kicking out. I could hear him gurgling, as if he was choking on blood.

 

“Help him,” Marianne begged, rushing to me, and reached for my arm.

 

The ground shifted when her hand touched my shoulder, and an odd and profound trembling overtook my body. The aches and pains in my back and legs vanished, muscles and limbs suddenly strong despite my prior fatigue. The room came into focus, allowing me to see everything clearly, even those things in my peripheral vision. My spine went straight as I stood upright and lifted my head, nourished and guided by the unexpected surge of power.

 

Jackson’s free arm came back, rounding into a fist, and I didn’t hesitate.

 

In four steps, I stood directly behind the enraged werewolf and her prey.

 

I snagged the bitch by the wrist and brought it back, applying just the right amount of pressure. The bone broke easily, a portion of it tearing through the skin. Pink, ivory and vivid red created a macabre anatomical art display. I didn’t know where my newfound inhuman strength came from, and I didn’t really care. When I saw the blood pooling from Joshua’s mouth, I wanted to see the hairy werehound suffer.

 

Jackson removed the hand from around Joshua’s throat and dropped him. He went limp, brown eyes sliding closed as he hit the table. As she turned to face me, I wasn’t afraid. The amulet against my skin throbbed and pulsed, very much alive and aware. A strange beat and chorus sang in my ears, telling me I could kill this bitch if I wanted to. Each pulse suffused my muscles, eyes and limbs with an unexplained, yet undeniable, energy.

 

“What are you?” she questioned, staggering up on unsteady legs. Both of her eyes were in bloody tatters. Portions of flesh and egg-white tissue drifted to her cheekbones. I was certain she couldn’t see.

 

“A person you never should have fucked with.” I smiled as I said it, bleeding and hurt but in much better shape than the creature in front of me. “Bang, bang, fuck,” I whispered, “you’re as good as dead.”

 

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