The wolf wanted blood. Eugene could feel it tearing through him like an engine with no brakes, demanding he rip that vampire apart piece by piece.
The damn thing wasn't even slowing down despite the gashes he'd carved across its chest. Maybe it was healing too, or maybe it just didn't care. Either way, Eugene had a problem: his own regeneration was draining him dry. Every torn muscle and broken bone he fixed came at a price, and that price was energy he didn't have to spare.
They kept trading blows with each hit rattling what little structure was left in the lab. The place was already trashed—pods smashed open, bodies spilling out, sparks crackling from exposed wiring—but now Eugene saw it for what it really was: an opportunity.
If he couldn't kill this thing outright—and it sure as hell looked like he couldn't—then he'd bury it instead. The lab was fucked six ways to Sunday anyway. Why not put the wreckage to good use?