The Hammer of War, Chapter 37

The question hung in the air like smoke.

“Do you think that thing will come for us, Sebastian?”

The voice belonged to one of the younger ones, a thin-boned vampire whose name Sebastian hadn’t bothered to remember. He had pale hair and nervous eyes, the kind that twitched at shadows and didn’t stay fixed on anything too long. He leaned against the window with the blinds half-drawn, peering out into the stillness of Portland’s night like he expected judgment to come crawling down the street any second.

Sebastian LaCroix, once the Night Prince of Maine, now little more than an exile, chuckled softly. He cradled a glass in one gloved hand, fingers long and clean, nails polished like lacquered shell. The drink inside shimmered faintly in the light—red and thick and rich with warmth. The kind of blood hospitals didn’t sell to just anyone. It came from a particular reserve, one that was kept aside for donors whose diets were clean, whose lifestyles were healthy, whose genetics suggested nothing but strong bone, high red cell counts, and a resistance to common afflictions.

Contrary to mortal myth, virgins tasted no different. A hundred years of feeding had taught him that. Blood from the abstinent was not more potent, not more pure. That was poetry. Fantasy. The reality was far simpler and far more clinical. Malnourished blood was thin. Weak. It rolled down the throat like cold broth or tea left too long in the pot. And then there were diseases—bloodborne plagues like HIV or Hepatitis. A vampire’s body could burn through them, yes. But the taste lingered. Corruption had a flavor. It stayed in the back of the throat like smoke and bile and couldn’t be coughed out no matter how many times you swallowed.

But this blood—this was from a donor no older than twenty-two, a track runner from Boston with a clean medical history and no addictions. Sebastian had his file memorized. He swirled the glass once, slow and deliberate, and took another sip.

The younger vampire turned to look at him. “Sebastian?”

Sebastian smiled. His canines caught the light.

“Oh,” he said. “I think he most certainly will.”

The other man shifted, uncomfortable.

Sebastian stood. His shoes clicked softly on the marble tile. The lounge they sat in had once been part of a grand hotel, long before the city turned its back on old money and chased newer dreams. The chandeliers still hung overhead, though half the bulbs were dead and a film of dust lined every mirrored panel. Heavy curtains covered the tall windows. The fireplace hadn’t been used in decades, but the hearth was clean and free of ash. The silence was heavy.

“He’s not like the others,” Sebastian continued. He didn’t bother to look at the younger man as he spoke. “Not some sorcerer dabbling in arcane rituals or spells. Not a hunter with a blessed blade. Not a servant of the church or a pawn of devils. I’ve seen men like those before. They come with ritual. With teams. With contingency plans. They’re never alone, and they’re always afraid.”

He took another sip, savoring it.

“But this one,” he said. “He came into our den alone. He walked past the blood wards. He faced Helena and left nothing but ruin in his wake. Tell me—do you know what it takes to kill a devil of her rank?”

The man by the window didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew. Helena was a high-class devil. Very powerful. Sure, nowhere near the top of the echelon of supernatural entities

Sebastian set the glass down on a lacquered table. The blood inside had begun to cool.

“He didn’t just kill her,” he said. “He broke her. Reduced her to a level that a particularly strong crackhead human could’ve killed her. No weapon. No sacred rite. Just his fists. The final blow fractured the flooring.”

Silence again. Outside, the wind stirred the branches of a dying oak.

Sebastian stepped to the window, brushing the curtain aside. The street below was empty. Just rows of tired brick and concrete, lit by flickering lamps that buzzed like flies. Portland at night had never been a warm city, not even in the golden age of neon and jazz. Now it was just cold. Quiet. Watchful.

“He’ll have no interest in a parley,” Sebastian said. “Not that I’d even consider that against him, of course.”

He let the curtain fall. Turned back to the room.

The other vampire had taken the armchair nearest the wall. It creaked beneath him like old bones settling into earth. He sat with his knees together, back stiff, hands folded in his lap like some chastised pupil in the cathedral school of another age. His eyes didn’t meet Sebastian’s. They stayed low, as if reading something written across the floorboards.

“What do we do?” he asked.

The words fell flat between them. No echo. Just the hush of a dying room and the buzz of a light too tired to hum properly.

Sebastian smiled again. But it was a thin expression, drawn tight across his face like a mask not meant to fit. His gaze was distant. Not unfocused, but trained inward, looking at something behind the walls of his skull.

“I’m not the Night Prince anymore,” he said. “My name doesn’t command what it used to. My orders mean about as much as dust in the wind. A century ago, men bowed when I entered the room. Now I need to buy my blood like everyone else.”

He lifted the glass again, tilted it toward the light. The dark red shimmered along the rim. Still warm. Still alive in its own strange way. He took a sip and let it sit on his tongue before swallowing.

“But,” he said, “if I were you, I’d move south. Warmer weather. Fewer shadows. Find a nice little apartment in Louisiana and stay there. Portland’s a neutral zone, but that boy is about to start a fucking shitshow with that abominable power of his and even I don’t wanna be here when shit hits the fan.”

“Anti-magic,” the younger vampire muttered. The words sounded like a curse. “He’s a walking impossibility. No living creature should be able to house that much rejection of the arcane. It ought to tear him apart from the inside. Shred his soul into ribbons. And yet he moves. And yet he breathes.”

Sebastian didn’t disagree. He set the glass down and folded his hands behind his back, spine straight as a ruler. He turned to the window again. The city outside remained as still as ever. A streetlamp flickered. A man on a bicycle passed through the glow and vanished down the slope.

“No child of night can stand against that,” the younger one said.

Sebastian nodded once.

“You’re right,” he said. “And it’s not just us. Anything born of the magical weave and depend on it to live, like the Fae, will break in his presence. The aura clings to him. A cloak of silence. A gravity well that draws in every spell and charm and curse and grinds them into dust.”

He raised a hand and held it palm up.

“The only reason we do anything—walk, speak, hunger—is because of the magic that animates our bodies. The blood alone wouldn’t be enough. It’s the thread of necromancy woven through us. The tether. The whisper in the marrow that says: Move. Think. Feed. Without that, we’re just meat again. Rotting, stinking meat.”

“So, what can we do against something like that?” 

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed to slits, then slackened. He shrugged once, slow and deliberate. 

“It depends,” he said, voice low. “Depends on the nature and the limit of his anti-magic. If it is, in truth, an infinite void, a bottomless pit into which all power vanishes forever, then I can name only a few things in all the wide world that could hope to destroy him. And none of them would waste their breath on the likes of us. And one of those would be Sirzechs Lucifer.”

“But,” Sebastian said, leaning forward, the fire catching in the black of his eyes, “if there is a limit–even the smallest crack–then perhaps it can be broken. If his power has a threshold, a dam that can only hold so much before it shatters, then drowning him in enough magic might be enough to tear it down. Overwhelm it. Burn it out.”

He smiled, thin and sharp, the kind of smile that showed no teeth and promised no comfort. “But that’s just a theory. A game of dice with your own soul as the wager. And frankly, I’m not eager to throw.”

The other vampire stirred, a small movement, a shifting of weight as if readying to stand but thinking better of it. He cleared his throat. “You think magic is the answer?”

Sebastian’s smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. “I think a gun might be.”

A beat of silence. The other vampire blinked at him, incredulous. “A gun? You’re serious?”

Sebastian leaned back, stretching out one long leg before the fire, his hands steepled together. “Deadly serious. Anti-magic strips him bare. No wards. No spells stitched into his flesh. No shields you can’t see. He walks naked into a world that can tear flesh with lead and fire. And yet, no creature born of the night would stoop so low. No sorcerer, monster, fae, devil or angel would even think to use a thing as base as a gun.” 

He chuckled, a dry rasp in his throat. “That pride among supernaturals might be the only thing keeping him alive.”

He glanced toward the window. The world outside was a smear of rain and dark, the streetlamps nothing more than dim blisters against the night.

“I didn’t see him wearing armor,” Sebastian said, almost idly. “Did you?”

“No,” the other vampire admitted, voice soft.

Sebastian nodded. “Then a bullet would find him easy enough.”

The other vampire looked down, his hands knotting tighter in his lap, the realization settling heavy into his shoulders.

“You’re worried over nothing,” Sebastian said after a moment, his tone as casual as a man commenting on the weather. “I doubt he’s hunting every one of us. He has a purpose. A grudge–specifically against me. Leave before he makes a reason to remember you.”

He stood, the chair groaning beneath him, and crossed to the window. He pressed a palm to the cool glass. His reflection stared back at him: a pale thing with tired eyes and a mouth that had long forgotten how to mean its smiles. Maybe, just maybe, sending him to sabotage that warehouse might’ve been a mistake.

“Leave,” Sebastian said again, quieter now. “And don’t look back.”

“What about you?” the other vampire said. “You’re not what you used to be. He’s coming for you. What are you gonna do?”

The words cut deep, but they were true. No sense pretending otherwise. He had spent what he had in New York, burned through it like dry wood in a summer fire. That boy, Vali Lucifer, had taken more than a victory. He had taken Sebastian’s strength, piece by piece, blow by blow. The final duel left him broken in ways no wound could heal. In the days that followed, the jackals had come. They had taken his princedom, his lands in Maine, and left him little more than a relic gathering dust in the corners of the night.

Still. He was not empty-handed. Not yet.

Sebastian sat back in the worn chair, the firelight carving deep lines into his face. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, a soft, steady beat.

“I’ll prepare,” he said.

The other vampire watched him, silent.

“I didn’t live this long by being stupid,” Sebastian continued. “I know my place. I know when to bend the knee and when to draw blood. I’ve got favors. Old debts. Names that still mean something.” 

He leaned forward, voice dropping. “And I’m not weak.”

The door creaked open. Both men turned to look.

A young vampire stepped through, leather jacket creaking with the movement, scuffed boots leaving a trail of dirty water across the wooden floor. His hair was matted by the rain, and he smelled of cold iron and street smoke.

“Boss,” the young man said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Got a Devil wants to see you. Says it’s important.”

Sebastian raised a brow. Devils were a rarity in Portland. Helena Stolas was an outlier and where did that get her? “Who?”

The kid shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting toward the fire, then back. “She says her name’s Serafall Leviathan. Wants to talk about Helena Stolas.”

One of the Four Great Satans. Here? Why? What-

The fire cracked in the hearth. Sebastian’s smile grew slow and sharp.

“Interesting,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

He stood. His shadow stretched long across the floor, reaching the boy’s feet.

“Tell her I’ll meet her,” Sebastian said. “Soon as I can.”

The young vampire nodded and backed out of the room. The door swung closed behind him with a low, final thud.