Michael

prolongue

Demon eyes stared sightlessly up at him as Michael Thane lowered the body to a sitting position, jammed between a cushioned bench and the mirrored wall. The couple occupying the bench hadn't noticed anything amiss, too engrossed with groping each other to pay attention to anything else. The table in front of them was littered with empty beer bottles. He snagged one and tucked it into the corpse's hands, then straightened up and walked away.

The nightclub was heaving and overheated bodies were crushed together in a smoky haze. Michael manoeuvred his way through the throng to the exit and stepped outside. He caught the eye of the doorman who'd tipped him off, and gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement. The street had no sidewalks and was noisy with revellers and people queuing for entrance into the club. The outskirts of Uruk always drew a crowd at night; the sector had a deservedly bad reputation, but the border was less dangerous and some people needed an adrenaline boost to jack-up their enjoyment. The nightclub behind him was ideally situated to take advantage of just such stupidity.

He inhaled deeply, taking in smoke-free air for the first time in hours, and considered his evening. He'd just completed a complicated contract with minimum fuss, and the target had been so far gone it was more of a mercy killing. What passed for 'peace' in the old quarter was saved for another day. He should be feeling at least some mild satisfaction; instead, he was bored out of his skull.

Reaching nine-hundred years old had consequences. Boredom was a frequent, often debilitating, even deadly malaise, and it got worse as the years piled up. This particular bout of ennui had been coming on for a while; he could feel it crowding the edges of his mind a little more each day. Experience proved he couldn't stave it off for long, but for now he still cared enough to fight it, and there were things he could do.

He hadn't been eating properly, and it was making his mood worse, a dangerous circumstance for someone like him. He needed to go home, eat a lot and sleep, and with the job done there was no reason to remain in Uruk. Only a fool would stay longer than strictly necessary in this sector.

Michael didn't move, standing in the middle of the street with his head tipped back and eyes closed. He was still in the exact same spot moments later when he heard them, and then smelled them. He opened his eyes and saw shadows slinking around the edges of the few functional streetlights. Ferals. Tension crawled up his spine. It was a sizeable pack, all skirting the slightest vestige of light and clinging to the darkness. They were heading for the alley running down the side of the club.

Michael watched them, remaining utterly motionless, preferring not to draw their attention. They were rabid, mindless and easily spooked into attacking. He hated the sight of them, mostly because they were his future. Just like the guy in the club, one day he'd be one of them too, when he finally became more demon than man-if he didn't shoot his brains out first.

The last of the pack disappeared out of sight. Michael took in another deep breath, and this time caught the scent that must have lured the ferals here. The reek of human bone and tissue reforming inside a sac of primordial soup was unmistakeable.

Some poor sap was regenerating in the worst place possible-a dark cesspit of an alley in the one quadrant of the city that no missionary unit would be dumb enough to enter. Whoever it was, they were as good as dead. The ferals would rip into them the moment they were clear of the cocoon. On the plus side, it would mean a brief experience of hell, and likely a quick death given the number of ferals all wanting a piece of him, or her.

It happened-a lot. And, it was none of his business.

On the point of walking away, he noticed it. The street had gone silent. Michael looked back over his shoulder, uneasy now. The doorman was gone and so was the queue. The doors appeared locked and he couldn't hear a damn thing from inside, no music or talking-nothing. All he could hear was the click of claws on stone accompanied by a heavy, dragging sound. Another feral came into view; this one was missing a leg, and was dragging its lower body along the ground. It saw Michael and snarled, displaying dirty, stained fangs. It didn't look that old and probably hadn't completed the change all that long ago. The head was bald and the body skeletal, but the skin was still slightly pink. Given its injuries, it wouldn't live much longer. Michael was surprised the others hadn't already finished it off.