A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 17: The Trap

Michael reached out, his hand hovering over the silver dagger resting on its ornate pedestal. The blade was beautiful in a brutal way, its surface gleaming with etched runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight. He could feel the power radiating from it—a cold, deadly aura that sent a chill down his spine.

"This is it," Michael whispered, glancing at Larry.

The undead detective nodded, his glowing eyes fixed on the weapon. "Grab it, but be quick. This place gives me the creeps."

Michael hesitated for only a moment before wrapping his fingers around the hilt. The dagger was lighter than he'd expected, but the moment he lifted it from the pedestal, the room changed.

An ear-splitting alarm blared, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a banshee's scream. The runes on the walls flared to life, glowing an ominous red, and the massive vault door slammed shut behind them with a deafening clang.

"Oh, come on," Larry groaned, spinning to face the sealed door. "Of course it's a trap."

The air around them grew colder, and a pale mist began to seep from the walls. At first, it was almost unnoticeable, but as it thickened, Michael felt the burn—a searing, acidic pain that gnawed at his skin wherever the mist touched.

"What the hell is this?" Michael shouted, backing toward the pedestal.

Larry growled, his skeletal face twisting in frustration. "Mist of Dissolution. Eats through anything that isn't undead or enchanted. Not a fun way to go."

"Great," Michael snapped, wincing as the mist began to crawl up his arms. "How do we stop it?"

"We don't," Larry said grimly, pulling Queen Mab's wand from his coat. "We get the hell out of here."

The mist was rising quickly now, swirling around their legs and creeping higher with every passing second. Michael's swarm buzzed frantically in his coat, their unease echoing his own. He tried summoning a fire spell, hoping to burn away the mist, but the flames fizzled out as soon as they touched it.

"Not going to work, kid," Larry said, stepping toward the vault door. He inspected the glowing runes etched into the metal, muttering under his breath. "This door's sealed tight. Strong magic, probably tied to Marcellus himself."

"Can you break it?" Michael asked, his voice tight with panic.

Larry smirked faintly. "I can break anything if I hit it hard enough."

Michael grimaced as the mist climbed higher, the acidic burn making it harder to focus. "Any time now, Larry!"

"Calm down," Larry said, raising the wand. "This isn't my first deathtrap."

The wand crackled with energy, silver lightning arcing along its length. Larry muttered an incantation, his voice low and guttural, and the wand's tip flared brightly. He pointed it at the vault door, and with a sharp motion, unleashed a blast of raw power.

The bolt of energy struck the door with a deafening crack, sending a shockwave rippling through the chamber. The runes on the door flared brightly, resisting the attack, but Larry didn't relent. He fired again, the second blast more focused, and the metal began to warp under the pressure.

"Hurry!" Michael shouted, coughing as the mist reached his chest. His coat offered some protection, but he could feel the burn seeping through.

Larry gritted his teeth, channeling another burst of energy into the door. "Shut up and let me work!"

The wand flared one final time, and with an explosive boom, the vault door shattered outward, pieces of metal flying into the corridor beyond. The runes fizzled out, leaving a faint, acrid smell in the air.

"Move!" Larry barked, grabbing Michael by the arm and pulling him through the opening.

They stumbled into the corridor, the mist spilling out behind them like a living thing. Michael gasped for air, clutching the dagger tightly as he tried to steady himself. His arms and hands were red and raw where the mist had touched him, but the pain was bearable—barely.

Larry, by contrast, looked unbothered, though his tattered coat was smoking slightly. "You alright, kid?" he asked, glancing at Michael.

"Not even close," Michael muttered, wincing as he flexed his fingers. "What the hell was that?"

"Marcellus's insurance policy," Larry replied, smirking faintly. "He knows the dagger's his Achilles' heel. You didn't think he'd leave it lying around without a few surprises, did you?"

Michael glared at him. "A warning would've been nice."

Larry chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"

They could hear movement now—shouts and footsteps echoing through the mansion as Marcellus's kiss responded to the alarms. Larry's grin faded, and he gestured for Michael to follow.

"We've got the dagger," Larry said, his tone serious. "Now we need to get out of here before they swarm us."

Michael nodded, his grip tightening on the weapon. "Lead the way."

As they sprinted through the corridors, the sound of pursuit growing closer, Michael couldn't help but wonder if this plan had been as foolproof as he'd thought. But as long as they had the dagger, they still had a chance—and in the Nightside, a chance was all they could hope for.

The corridors of Marcellus DeLucia's mansion were a blur as Michael and Larry raced toward the exit. The alarms continued to blare, and the echo of heavy footsteps closing in made Michael's heart pound. The silver dagger was a cold weight in his hand, its runes glowing faintly with power. Just a few more turns, and they'd be free.

Or so they thought.

As they rounded the final corner, the air grew colder, and a figure stepped into their path. Marcellus DeLucia himself stood there, his presence radiating an aura of dominance that froze Michael in his tracks. He was tall and imposing, dressed in a tailored black suit that was immaculate despite the chaos around him. His pale skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light, and his glowing red eyes fixed on them with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Well, well," Marcellus said, his voice smooth and dripping with contempt. "I was wondering what all the commotion was about. Imagine my surprise when I realized it was Larry Oblivion and... some scrappy little thief."

Michael clenched his jaw, raising the dagger slightly, but Larry stepped forward, his expression cool as ever.

"Marcellus," Larry said, his tone casual. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon. Thought you'd be mingling with the elites at your fancy party."

Marcellus chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Oh, I attended—briefly. But I had a feeling something might be amiss at home. And what do I find? You two crawling through my halls like rats."

"Nice place you've got," Larry said, smirking. "Shame about the security."

Marcellus's eyes narrowed. "You're bold, Oblivion, I'll give you that. But you're also a fool. Do you really think you can steal from me and walk away unscathed?"

Michael tightened his grip on the dagger, his eyes flicking to Larry. "We've got what we came for. Let's finish this."

Marcellus laughed, the sound echoing through the corridor. "Oh, you mean that?" he said, gesturing to the dagger in Michael's hand. "The fake? The decoy I leave in my vault for fools like you to find?"

Michael froze, doubt creeping into his mind. "You're lying."

Marcellus's smile widened. "Am I? Do you really think I'd keep something as important as the real dagger where just anyone could take it? No, boy. That trinket you're holding is worthless. And now, you've sealed your fate."

Larry rolled his glowing eyes. "You've got a great monologue, Marcellus, but we both know you're full of it. That dagger's real, and you're scared."

"Scared?" Marcellus hissed, his voice turning icy. "Of you? Of this?" He gestured to the dagger dismissively. "You're nothing. Do you even know who you're dealing with? I have survived for centuries, built empires, destroyed kingdoms. You're just gnats buzzing in the shadow of a god."

"God?" Larry shot back, his grin sharp. "Last I checked, gods don't hide behind vault doors and send their minions to do their dirty work."

Marcellus's expression darkened, his fangs glinting as he stepped closer. "Careful, Oblivion. My patience only stretches so far."

Larry's smirk didn't waver. "While we're on the subject of dirty work, how about Manfred? What'd he do to earn a death sentence from you?"

Marcellus paused, his eyes flicking between them. "Manfred," he said slowly, his tone laced with mockery. "Ah, yes. The persistent little investigator. Poking his nose where it didn't belong. Asking too many questions."

"About what?" Michael demanded, his voice firm despite the fear creeping in.

Marcellus tilted his head, his grin returning. "About Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke. Friends of mine. Well, their parents were friends of mine—a business relationship, you might say. But Manfred... he got too curious. He started connecting dots that should've been left alone. So, I dealt with him."

Michael's chest tightened as he remembered the two men he had killed. "Bennett and Pembroke. They were after me."

"Of course they were," Marcellus said, his tone almost amused. "You killed them, didn't you? And their families weren't exactly pleased. Friends of mine, remember? I owed them a favor."

"So you sent hitmen after me," Michael growled.

Marcellus's smile widened. "I sent them to get answers. Unfortunately, you were... uncooperative."

Michael's grip on the dagger tightened, the runes glowing brighter. "And now you're here to finish the job?"

Marcellus chuckled, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "Oh, no. I'm here to watch you suffer. You've made a mess of things, boy, and now it's time to clean up."

Larry stepped between Michael and Marcellus, his skeletal features hardening. "You talk a lot, Marcellus, but here's the thing—you've got a real problem standing right in front of you. You can gloat all you want, but that dagger? It's going to end you."

Marcellus hissed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "We'll see about that."

The tension in the air was suffocating, the corridor heavy with the promise of violence. Michael could feel the swarm inside his coat stirring, ready to strike. Larry, as calm as ever, raised Queen Mab's wand slightly, its tip glowing faintly.

"Let's dance," Larry said, his grin turning feral.

The fight erupted in a blur of motion. Marcellus moved with inhuman speed, closing the distance between them before Michael could react. Larry raised Queen Mab's wand, firing a bolt of silver lightning that illuminated the corridor in a dazzling flash. Marcellus dodged effortlessly, his movements almost graceful as he lunged toward them.

Michael swung the silver dagger in a wide arc, forcing Marcellus to pull back. The vampire snarled, his red eyes blazing with fury. "You'll regret coming here!" he hissed, his voice echoing off the walls.

Larry stepped in, slamming his skeletal fist into Marcellus's chest with a sickening crunch. The vampire staggered but recovered quickly, grabbing Larry and throwing him into a nearby wall with bone-rattling force. Larry grunted, the impact cracking the stone behind him, but he was already back on his feet, wand raised.

"Michael, move!" Larry shouted, firing another burst of lightning.

Michael darted to the side as the bolt struck Marcellus, sending him skidding across the floor. The vampire hissed, his suit now scorched, but he barely seemed phased. He turned his glowing eyes toward Michael, his lips curling into a predatory grin.

"You've got spirit, boy," Marcellus said, his tone mocking. "But you're out of your depth."

Before Michael could react, Marcellus was on him, his hand closing around Michael's throat like a vice. Michael struggled, the dagger falling from his grip as the vampire lifted him off the ground.

"You're nothing," Marcellus growled, his fangs bared. "Do you really think you can challenge me? I've crushed men far greater than you."

Michael clawed at Marcellus's hand, gasping for air. His vision blurred, his body weakening. Then, with terrifying ease, Marcellus leaned in and sank his fangs into Michael's neck.

The pain was excruciating—white-hot and blinding. Michael's world spun as he felt the life draining from him, his blood pouring into the vampire's mouth. Marcellus tore his throat out with a savage motion, the agony overwhelming as Michael was tossed aside like a broken toy.

Larry shouted something, but Michael couldn't hear it over the roaring in his ears. He hit the floor hard, his vision fading as blood pooled beneath him. For a moment, everything went dark.

Michael hit the ground hard, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his throat. He could feel the life draining from him, the world spinning into darkness. His swarm buzzed faintly, their collective panic echoing in his mind before fading to a dull hum. Marcellus tossed him aside with a sneer, turning his attention back to Larry as if Michael had never mattered at all.

Larry, standing a few feet away with Queen Mab's wand raised, didn't flinch. His glowing eyes narrowed as Marcellus took a deliberate step toward him.

"You've really done it now, Oblivion," Marcellus said, his tone cold and mocking. "Breaking into my home, stealing from my vault, and bringing that pathetic child with you. Did you really think this would end well?"

Larry smirked, his skeletal features somehow managing to look smug. "I've seen worse odds. And you've got to admit, we made it pretty far for 'pathetic.'"

Marcellus chuckled, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "Far enough to amuse me, but not far enough to survive. That boy—" he gestured toward Michael's crumpled form, blood pooling beneath him "—he was barely worth the effort. And you? You're a relic, Oblivion. A ghost clinging to relevance in a world that's moved on."

Larry tilted his head, his grin widening. "Funny. You talk a lot for someone who's clearly scared."

Marcellus's red eyes flared with anger. "Scared? Of you? I am Marcellus DeLucia, a master of my kind. You're nothing but a rotting husk playing at heroics."

Larry shrugged, his tone casual. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. But if you're so confident, why all the theatrics? Locking us in, filling the room with magic mist, ripping out the kid's throat... Seems like a lot of effort for two nobodies."

Marcellus's sneer twisted into something darker. "You don't understand, do you? You're not nobodies. You're pests. Annoying little gnats buzzing around things you can't begin to comprehend."

"Enlighten me," Larry said, gesturing with the wand. "I've got time."

Marcellus laughed, a low, cruel sound. "You're so eager to die, I might as well indulge you. Your little friend—the one bleeding out on my floor—he had the misfortune of killing two men connected to me. Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke. Their fathers were dear friends, partners in business. When they came to me for justice, I gave it to them."

"By sending your lapdogs after the kid," Larry said, his voice sharp.

Marcellus's grin widened. "And by ensuring that anyone who thought to challenge me understood the cost. That's what I do, Oblivion. I don't just win—I make examples."

Larry raised an eyebrow. "And Manfred? What was he, another example?"

Marcellus's expression darkened, his tone turning cold. "Manfred was a mistake. A foolish man digging too deeply into matters that didn't concern him. He started asking questions about my connections, about Bennett and Pembroke, and about my dealings in Dead Town. He had to be silenced."

"So you sold him to that patchwork freak in Dead Town," Larry said, his glowing eyes narrowing. "You really are a piece of work, Marcellus."

Marcellus waved a hand dismissively. "Manfred was insignificant. The doctor served his purpose, and Manfred became a cautionary tale. As for you—" he stepped closer, his red eyes blazing "—you're about to become one, too."

Larry raised the wand, his grin gone. "You've got a hell of an ego, Marcellus. Let's see how it holds up against this."

Before Larry could fire, Marcellus was on him, moving with blinding speed. He grabbed Larry by the wrist, twisting the wand aside as he slammed him into the wall. The impact cracked the stone, but Larry didn't cry out. Instead, he brought his knee up into Marcellus's stomach, forcing the vampire to stagger back.

"You've still got some fight in you," Marcellus growled, his voice a low hiss. "Good. I prefer it when my prey struggles."

Larry smirked, raising the wand again. "Keep talking, fang-face. I'm just getting started."

As the two clashed, Michael stirred. The pain was unbearable, his body screaming in protest as he forced himself to move. The werewolf blood in his veins surged, knitting the torn flesh of his throat together with agonizing slowness. He gasped for air, his vision swimming as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

Through the haze, he saw Larry and Marcellus locked in combat, the vampire's strength clashing with the detective's relentless determination. And there, lying on the floor just a few feet away, was the silver dagger.

Michael reached for it, his fingers closing around the hilt. The runes flared to life, their cold light cutting through the darkness. He staggered to his feet, his grip tightening as he focused on Marcellus.

Marcellus had pinned Larry against the wall, his fangs bared. "You should've stayed in your grave, Oblivion. It would've been kinder."

"Yeah," Larry grunted, his voice strained. "But then I wouldn't get to see this."

Marcellus froze, his eyes narrowing. "See what?"

"Me," Michael said, his voice hoarse but steady. The vampire turned just in time to see Michael lunge, the silver dagger flashing in the dim light.

The blade sank into Marcellus's back, piercing through his suit and into flesh. The runes erupted with light, the magic searing into the vampire's body. Marcellus screamed, the sound a mix of rage and agony, as smoke rose from the wound.

"You—!" Marcellus hissed, his voice ragged. He twisted, trying to reach the dagger, but Michael held firm, driving it deeper.

"Not so invincible now, are you?" Michael spat, his grip unwavering.

Marcellus staggered, his strength failing as the dagger did its work. His glowing eyes dimmed, his movements growing sluggish. Larry stepped forward, raising the wand.

"Nice work, kid," Larry said, his grin returning. "Now let's finish this."

The atmosphere in Strangefellows was as tense as a coiled spring when Walker entered. The bar's patrons, a mix of the living, undead, and things that defied categorization, turned their attention toward him with a mixture of respect and wariness. His presence was magnetic, but not in a way that invited warmth—it was the kind of magnetism that came with authority, the weight of someone who could end lives with a word.

Michael tensed as Walker strode toward their booth, his polished shoes clicking softly against the worn floorboards. The man looked completely at ease, his perfectly tailored suit unwrinkled despite the grimy surroundings. His sharp eyes scanned the room before settling on Michael and Larry.

"Well, this is a sight," Walker said, his voice smooth and even, carrying over the low murmur of the bar. "The conquerors return, bloodied but victorious."

Michael stared at him, his exhaustion morphing into unease. "What do you want, Walker?"

Walker chuckled softly, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from them. He leaned back, folding his hands neatly on the table. "What I always want, Michael. The status quo maintained. But tonight, I came to congratulate you."

"Congratulate me?" Michael asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. "For what? Almost getting killed?"

Walker's faint smile didn't waver. "For taking down Marcellus DeLucia. A master vampire doesn't fall every day, and when one does, it tends to send ripples through the Nightside. You've managed quite the feat."

Larry raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. "Cut the crap, Walker. We both know you're not here just to pat the kid on the back. What's your angle?"

Walker glanced at Larry, his expression calm. "Ah, Larry. Ever the skeptic. But you're right, of course. There's more to this than mere congratulations."

Michael crossed his arms, his exhaustion giving way to frustration. "Then spit it out. What's your game?"

Walker shifted his gaze to Michael, his tone measured and precise. "No game, Michael. Simply an explanation. You've earned that much, I suppose."

Walker's eyes narrowed slightly as he continued. "Marcellus was... problematic. A master vampire with ambitions beyond his station. He wasn't content to merely rule his kiss or play his part in the ecosystem of the Nightside. No, Marcellus wanted more. Power. Influence. Control. And he was willing to disrupt the delicate balance I work so hard to maintain."

"Balance?" Michael scoffed. "You call this place balanced?"

Walker's faint smile returned. "The Nightside is chaos, yes. But even chaos has its rules, its boundaries. Marcellus was pushing against those boundaries in ways that would've had... unpleasant consequences. His actions threatened to destabilize alliances, provoke conflicts. If left unchecked, he could have triggered a war."

"And that's where I come in?" Michael asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You decided I was the perfect pawn to deal with him?"

Walker tilted his head slightly, as if considering the word. "Pawn is a bit reductive, but yes, you were... useful. You were already entangled with his associates—Bennett and Pembroke—and their vendetta against you. It was a natural progression."

"So you fed me just enough to keep me going," Michael said, his voice rising. "Just enough to put me on a collision course with Marcellus."

Walker's expression didn't change. "You were already heading toward that collision. I merely ensured you had the tools to survive it."

Larry snorted, his skeletal grin sharp. "Classic Walker. Always nudging people toward the messes you don't want to dirty your hands with."

Walker turned his gaze to Larry, his tone cool. "And you, Larry, were more than happy to play along. Don't pretend you weren't itching for the chance to take down a master vampire."

Larry shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "I like taking out bad guys. Sue me. Doesn't mean I trust you."

Walker smiled faintly. "I wouldn't expect you to."

Michael leaned forward, his voice hard. "Why Marcellus? What was he doing that was so dangerous?"

Walker's tone grew colder, more measured. "Marcellus was consolidating power. Building alliances with entities that had no place in the Nightside. Old things. Forgotten things. If he had succeeded, the fallout would have been catastrophic."

"Old things?" Michael repeated. "Like what?"

Walker's lips twitched, but he didn't elaborate. "The kind you're better off not knowing about."

Michael's frustration boiled over. "So you threw me into the deep end with no warning, no backup, just to keep your precious balance intact?"

Walker's gaze sharpened. "You're alive, aren't you? And more than that, you've proven yourself. You've gained allies, resources, and experience. You're stronger now than you were before. That's not nothing, Michael."

Larry tapped ash from his cigarette, his tone dry. "He's got a point, kid. As much as I hate to admit it, Walker's little scheme probably saved your life in the long run."

Michael glared at both of them, his hands tightening into fists. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

Walker stood, adjusting his tie. "You don't have to like it. You just have to understand it. In the Nightside, survival often hinges on being useful. And you, Michael, have proven yourself very useful indeed."

He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Enjoy the moment, gentlemen. But don't get too comfortable. The Nightside is always watching."

As Walker strode out of the bar, the oppressive tension he carried with him seemed to lift. Michael let out a long breath, slumping back in his seat.

"I hate him," he muttered.

Larry chuckled, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Get in line, kid. Everyone hates Walker."

Michael stared at the dagger still sitting on the table, its runes dimming as the adrenaline finally left his system. "So what now?"

Larry smirked, leaning back. "Now? We drink. And then we figure out what the hell comes next."

Michael picked up his glass, shaking his head. "To surviving Walker's plans."

Larry raised his cigarette. "To whatever mess he throws us into next."

And for the first time that night, Michael let himself laugh, bloody but alive in the heart of the Nightside.