Chapter 40: The Sacrifice - The Night Market

While this was happening, the Sins, confused by the chaos, turned toward the sound of gunfire. Bullets began peppering its hide, forcing it back with each shot. It hunched over itself, its vast arms shielding its head.

The rebar jutted from its torso at a crooked angle, vibrating faintly with each laboured movement. Whatever passed for blood seeped from the wound in thick, smoking globules that patterned everything beneath. The creature tried to draw itself up to its full height, but faltered. One knee struck the ground, summoning a crack from the weight. It turned then, setting on Horus with a feral, enraged stare. Maybe the vampire within knew where this was going. Maybe he was oblivious of whatever force compelled his actions. Gold flared in the creature’s eyes, brighter for the pain, and with a guttural roar, it came for Horus, as fast and terrible as it possibly could.

Horus bent and took hold of a chunk of slab, checking its weight in his hand.

Stone sprayed with the force of every heavy gallop as the Sins launched ahead. It sprang high, raising its colossal arms above its head and brought them down, sending a shockwave travelling around the arena, firing cracks through the large, reinforced windows, splintering the view of the city around them. Ceiling tiles fell. A rigging of lights let go of its moorings and tumbled down the seating.

Horus had slipped out of the way, kept his footing from the boom and whipped the debris forward like a missile. It slammed into the Sins’ temple, snapping its head sideways with a crack that echoed across the arena. The creature reeled, one arm flailing as it fought to stay upright. It roared and swung blindly in wide, furious arcs. Horus stepped between the motions instead of away from them. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, he drove his boot hard against the exposed length of rebar.

The impact sent a violent shudder through the monster’s entire frame, and staggered back, claws scraping furrows into the stone as its legs threatened to buckle. Whatever passed for blood spilled faster now.

It lashed out again, slower this time, clearly fighting against the creeping failure in its limbs. Horus answered with another kick, precise, brutal, driving the metal deeper, twisting it where it lodged. Then another. And another. Each strike stole something from the creature – first speed, then strength – until its movements became a series of hopelessly delayed reactions rather than intent.

The Sins fought against dropping to the ground with a desperate snarl. Its golden eyes locked onto Horus, the ever-present rage behind was dimmed now, and resistance all but gone. Finally, fatally, it sank to its knees, losing both the battle with itself and its opponent.

The beast hissed to Horus, who made his way forward, spying the rebar, slick with . . . whatever it was. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. It was swaying like a tired animal.

When close enough, it had taken one final, drunken swing, but it was so limp that it was far from a threat. Horus easily slipped aside, took hold of the metal, drove it once again into the creature and pressed and pressed until it gave and slid deep.

Only the groups of huddled, terrified spectators, Horus’s people and the littered corpses, witnessed its desperate howl. It thrashed this way and that, smoke billowing from its form before the Sins toppled over, clawing at the ground to pull itself away, until, finally, the efforts stopped.

Horus spat out something from his mouth, somewhat hollowed by his achievement.

He’d expected this moment to carry a certain gravity, the weight of finality. A pivotal chapter in the saga of his life, something meaningful to shape whatever came next. But the feeling never arrived.

All he saw was a tired, broken monstrosity that no longer belonged in this world, and that was that. No fanfare. No grand crescendo.

Just . . . done.

Horus checked the blood on his face as he travelled the arena. Watched the last remnants of the Enforcers battle his loyal crew up in the seating. Stood before Dominic Ode and crouched – with effort – to examine the frozen shock on his face. He lifted the head with a fistful of hair, bent down and began to audaciously feed on the vampire Lord. He tossed the lifeless head back and exhaled in delight.

From the centre of the chaos, Horus stood tall. Around him, the floor was split and broken. Above, the balconies were emptied – panicked civilians spilling away like water through cracks, and Enforcers struggling to restore order, guns still raised, nerves raw. But the message had landed. It had torn through the Cavendish Family, and the Families as a whole, louder than any speech, heavier than any negotiation.

With slow, deliberate steps, he turned from the destruction. His lieutenants – street vamps and rogues drawn from shunned corners of the city – gathered at his signal, taking to the stairwell to make their leave. No explanations were given. They obeyed.

He did not need to gloat. The silence said it all. This wasn’t a conquest won with theatrics – it was a surgical strike of philosophy. A statement inscribed in blood for all of vampire-kind to read.

They didn’t need to kneel to anyone.