Up in the sky, the crow is near indistinguishable from the night as it watches the attack below.

Séraphin is running on fumes.

The demon on the floor is writhing on its front. Its paper white face, marbled with black veins, is turned to the side, trying to catch sight of him. Its red eyes shine in the dark like taillights and the slit of its mouth splits wide in a snarl of crowded pointed teeth. Its too long arms are flailing in Séraphin’s hold and needle-sharp nails scrabble and tear at Séraphin’s skin. They leave long lines of torn flesh in their wake.

Séraphin sets his foot firmly on the middle of its back.

‘Human realm filth—’ it rasps, pain stunting its words.

He tightens his hold on its wrists, presses down with his foot and pulls.

The demon lets out a high-pitched scream. It buries the sound of its arms being ripped from their sockets. Séraphin lets go and its arms fall uselessly to its side, shoulders and legs wriggling on the floor as it wails.

He lifts his foot to kick it.

The crow’s call echoes down to him a second before a cold body slams into him. The demon locks itself around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides.

Another demon slams into his side and a hiss leaves him as he feels ragged teeth tear into the side of his throat.

Their nails are sharp. His are sharper. And his grip is stronger.

He feels parched. The bloodlust is narrowing his field of vision.

He grabs the wrists of the demon wrapped around him and ignores the mouth tearing at his neck, ignores the feel of what little warmth is left in his body leeches out, spilling to soak into his dirty banyan and mix with the black demon blood from earlier. He squeezes until he feels the bones in the thin wrists grind together. Until he feels them give and pulverise under his grip.

The demon, in its panic, attempts to bite the back of his neck through the fall of his hair and wraps its legs around Séraphin to keep him still.

He releases the demon’s wrists and twists. It sags onto Séraphin’s back but tightens its legs, refusing to budge.

The demon latched on to his neck bites deeper into his neck.

He grits his teeth and grabs onto that demon’s head, piercing through its skin and tissue, down to its skull with his nails, and rips the demon off him. Without letting go, he snaps its head from its neck.

The demon drops to the ground and falls still.

He staggers under the weight of the one still on his back. He can feel what little strength he has left seeping out of him, but he gathers himself.

Reaching back, he drags it by its head and hurls it off him.

He falls to his knees.

Merde.

The demon hits the ground head and neck first and rolls across the cracked ground until it fetches up against another body.

He’s left a new trail of demon bodies. Their unnaturally white bodies stand out in the darkness like cracked glow sticks.

Unlike the first group that had attacked him, he hasn’t managed to kill them all. It leaves him seething.

The one with the broken arms is still moving, head turning to try and see what’s happening around it.

But the dark is starting to recede. The sky has gotten lighter.

Séraphin feels his weakened body tightening in anticipation of the familiar excruciating pain that comes with sunrise. It consumes him even when he’s locked safely away from the light.

The pain is madness inducing, and it’s the price he pays for being the only vampire in existence with the ability to retain his consciousness in daylight.

Ironically, since being brought here, he’s had a break from it. But it’s heading his way now.

He glances in the direction of the valley’s narrowest point.

The demon attack has pushed him back, delayed his progress.

His sight blackens and he blinks once, twice, and his surroundings come back into focus.

Unsteady, he gets to his feet, nails scraping the dirt as he struggles to get upright again.

He feels a light weight settle on his shoulder again. The noise the crow makes is low, right next to his ear. Like a question.

Behind him, he hears grunts and snarls, the distinct sound of a body dragging itself along the ground.

He takes a step forward. Another. And another.

He’s not going to make it to the gate out into the Boundary.

He covers the gaping wound on the side of his neck with his hand, pressing as hard as he can to stem the flow of blood.

‘Je vais les massacrer,’ he mutters—one more step—'je vais les massacrer… je vais les massacrer…’

His legs give out as he passes a car. The crow, startled, beats its wings fast and sharp, slapping against the sensitive skin of his face. The car has half of its roof ripped off, its seats are torn, and the wheels are gone too. There are only pieces of jagged glass where a windshield and windows had been.

Catching himself with a hand on the door frame, he grabs hold tightly enough that the metal groans under his grip. He has just enough energy left to pull himself in, and onto the back seat.

It won’t be enough. The sun will flood in, unimpeded.

He laughs. This can’t be it. How pathetic.

He can’t even use this realm’s shadows. They’re useless to him.

Pressing his hand back to his wound, he lets his head loll back and doesn’t lift it even when the crow climbs back onto his lap and pecks at him.

At least the sun is close enough that it will slow down any other demons headed for him. He’s sure there will be more. Not that it will matter. There’ll be nothing for them to find if he stays here. And it doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.

He must have faded for a second because he has to force his eyes back open when he hears something. The sky hasn’t changed much so he must have only been out for fifteen or twenty minutes.

The crow is still pecking at him, a little more urgently now but doesn’t make any noise.

Painstakingly, he lifts his head upright and looks to the side.

A large white dog ambles past, nose to the floor. Its red eyes stand out in the shadows as much as the demons’ had, but its white fur is much prettier than the grotesqueness of the demons’ skin.

It’s a Hellhound.

Even in his state, Nulla can appreciate the creature’s beauty.

As he watches, the creature pads right over to the first demon body, snout delicately scenting it.

Then, behind it, so light that Séraphin almost misses it, are the sound of steps. He hears them just before a tall form enters his line of sight, following quickly in the Hellhound’s steps.

Séraphin’s sense of smell, usually so sharp, is saturated by the scent of his own blood and that of the demons’, but still, he inhales deeply, trying to identify the nature of the new arrival. There’s something he recognises but can’t pinpoint right away. His brain slower than usual. But whatever it is, triggers him and he flexes his fingers, nails puncturing into the upholstery of his seat.

The newcomer stops, straightening up at the same time as the Hellhound looks calmly in Séraphin’s direction, as if it’s been aware of his presence the entire time.

Séraphin can see a glimpse of white, blond hair escaping the hood over the person’s head, a long-sheathed sword hanging down their back, and their wide, brown hands. They’re tall. As tall as Séraphin. Maybe taller.

He narrows his eyes on them, willing his body to push past its limits one more time and take out this new threat.

The Hellhound plops its butt down and stays, eyes never moving from Séraphin.

Slowly, the newcomer turns to face Séraphin.

Eery blue eyes stare back at him, their glow bright enough that they throw the burn-like scars around them into stark relief.

Séraphin’s mouth curls into a sneer.

Celestial.

Author's Note:
1. Translation 1: shit
2. Translation 2: I'm going to slaughter them