Chapter 13 - Soiree Incident PT. 4

Fabian and Jermaine moved alongside Noah, forming a steadfast line as they faced the valet.

The Valet's eyes sparkled with mischief, words dripping with mockery as he taunted Malachi, Deon, and Miguel, each taunt like a dagger intended to unsettle their resolve.

The slit on the valet's neck healed rapidly, steam rising and curling into the air as the flesh knitted back together.

"I guess I'm talking too much.

"That's just me—once I start, I never stop," he laughed, his casual tone contrasting with the chaos. Suddenly, he punched Malachi in the jaw and rammed his shoulder into Miguel, knocking him hard against the wall.

Deon moved like a lightning bolt, his speed a blur as he drove a knee into the valet, sending him crashing through a wall with a thundering impact. The wall crumbled, dust and debris exploding outward with the force of the collision. "You guys good?" Deon asked, glancing at Malachi and Miguel.

Malachi wiped his nose, while Miguel managed a thumbs up amidst the chaos. Deon peered through the gaping hole that led into the theater room. ""Crap, he's gone," Deon said, surprise evident in his voice.

"What?" Miguel asked, moving closer to see for himself. "Oh damn," he said, turning back to Deon, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Hold on, I'll see if I can detect him," Malachi said, closing his eyes to focus. Searching was like trying to find a single whisper in a storm; he struggled to separate the chaotic energies around him.

He felt the familiar Spiritual pulses of Deon, Miguel, Fabian, and Jermaine, their auras flickering like beacons. But there was no trace of the valet, as if he had vanished entirely.

Malachi's thoughts were cut short by sudden movement. The valet emerged from the dissipating smoke, moving with a predatory speed.

The scene was chaotic, debris scattered around as if a storm had blown through. Before Malachi could react, the valet targeted Noah with a swift kick that sent him sprawling, the impact a jarring sound.

Jermaine's eyes were wide with shock, barely processing the danger before a powerful strike to his chest knocked him backward, struggling for breath.

Desperation driving him, Fabian unleashed a focused beam from his fingertips, but the valet slipped past the attack with agile precision. Fabian hit the ground hard, the dull thud echoing as cracks spread through the floor, his injuries leaving him gasping.

The valet looked up as the trio turned toward him. "Crap," Miguel muttered. Deon summoned a dazzling staff, hurling it at the valet. It skimmed the valet's cheek, leaving a vivid line of blood.

The valet wiped the blood with a smirk. "Almost had me, Deon," he quipped, unfazed by the close call.

The valet cracked his neck, taunting, "Now, which one of you wants to die first?" Dark claws extended from his wrists with an eerie fluidity. Deon took a knife fighting stance, casting a quick look at Malachi and Miguel. "Follow my lead," he instructed, his voice tense but steady.

Suddenly, Deon became a blur of silver, his speed creating a sonic boom that reverberated around the room, stirring a fierce wind that forced the twins to shield their faces.

He slashed at the valet, only for him to dissolve into nothingness, like a shadow melting into the dim light.

Miguel spun, realization dawning too late. "Oh damn!" he shouted as another valet appeared, delivering a swift kick to his stomach that sent him sliding backward on his rear.

Malachi reacted swiftly, his hand catching a wrist aimed at his face. He met the valet's eyes, which flickered with momentary surprise, as he uttered, "Ah, shit," caught off guard by Malachi's quick defense.

Malachi heard a growl and turned to see Jermaine rising, his eyes glowing with an intense purple fire.

"Where's that valet?" Jermaine demanded, his voice crackling with fury. "I'm going to kill that hombre."The valet's face twisted in shock, his bravado faltering for the first time.

Through the hole in the wall of the theater room, the valet's voice echoed with a taunting tone, "Hombre, I'm right here. I ain't hiding." His hands rested on the chairs of both rows, a smug confidence in his stance.

Deon responded with a curt, "Alright, don't move." With a resonant thud, he jammed his staff into the ground, drawing a sharp glance from Malachi, whose eyes were filled with understanding and intent.

In the blink of an eye, Deon flashed behind the valet, seizing his hands with a swift, practiced motion. The valet's bravado shattered as he flicked his head in confusion. "What the—ahh!" he cried out in pain, surprise mingling with a grimace as Deon's grip tightened."Do your thing, bro," he urged Jermaine.

With a feral intensity, Jermaine began to slash at the valet's body, each swipe of his claws tearing flesh with visceral precision.

The valet's cries were muffled by the rhythmic swish of claws meeting flesh, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood and the sight of dark gore splattering across the floor in a gruesome dance.

The valet's head, a grotesque parody of a human skull, bounced once, twice, along the aisle of the theater, eventually rolling to a stop beneath one of the rows of seats.

Jermaine stared, his eyes wide, his breath catching in his throat.

The detached gaze in his eyes was replaced by a dawning horror, the weight of his action settling upon him like a physical burden.

His face paled, the color draining from his lips as the reality of what he'd done crashed over him.

"Woah!" Deon exclaimed, his head bobbing rhythmically, a strange mix of awe and morbid fascination in his voice.

"That's how it's done!" His words hung in the air, jarringly out of sync with the grim scene.

Malachi watched, his mouth agape. The sheer stupidity of the situation washed over him.

These guys… *these guys* were unbelievably reckless. He thought, *Seriously? Just… like that?*

The headless corpse, its momentum abruptly halted, stopped mid-fall. Deon stood staring at it, dumbfounded, his mind struggling to process the surreal sight before him.

A gruesome fountain of black, sulfur-smelling blood erupted from the severed neck, painting a macabre picture on the floor.

Then, as if by some perverse magic, the severed head was drawn back towards the body, the blood magically clotting and sealing the wound.

The flesh knitted itself back together, the head snapping back into place with a sickening *pop*. The eyes of the reanimated valet snapped open, focusing on Jermaine with pure, unadulterated malice.

Jermaine recoiled, his eyes bulging in disbelief. He stammered, unable to form coherent words.

The valet spun to face Deon just as a massive shadowy fist erupted through the rows of chairs, splintering wood and fabric alike. Malachi saw the threat unfolding and shouted, "No!" as he charged forward.

The valet, with a fluid motion, swung his arm, hurling a shadowy rod that pierced through the air and pinned Jermaine against the wall, high above the hole from which they had entered.

Malachi skidded to a halt, momentarily frozen by the sight of blood trailing from Jermaine.

Alarmed, he glanced upward, just as a sphere of darkness hurtled toward him with unrelenting force. The orb struck his abdomen with a searing burn, sending him skidding backward across the polished floor. He tumbled between Noah and Fabian—Noah lay face down, unconscious and bleeding, while Fabian was sprawled on his back, the ground beneath him cracked from impact, his body marked by cuts and bruises.

The valet loomed over Malachi, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe," he laughed, his voice dripping with malice. He pointed directly at Malachi.

"You," he declared with a sadistic glee, "I'm taking your soul first."Then, the sharp crack of a bullet sliced through the air, the valet's lower jaw shattering with visceral impact.

Bone splintered and teeth flew, the force of the shot snapping his head back violently.

Stunned, his body staggered, muscles reacting instinctively to the shock, struggling to remain upright.

Malachi, turned his head sharply at the sound.

Despite his pain, his eyes widened at the sight before him. The valet, once so menacing, now reeled under the bullet's brutal force.

As the valet faltered, Malachi's gaze flicked to the source of the shot, searching for an ally amid this chaos.

Malachi observed the new arrivals with unease. Dressed in green tactical gear and cloaks, their masked faces hidden beneath hoods, they moved with silent precision.

One of them lowered a smoking pistol, its barrel still warm from its recent shot.

At the forefront of this band stood an older man whose bearing was both commanding and composed.

A neatly trimmed grey beard added a dignified touch, while his eyes—one a striking blue, the other a rich brown—conveyed both wisdom and intensity.

His attire was a striking contrast to the menacing array around him.

Clad in a sophisticated teal suit, it spoke of elegance, yet strapped to his leg was a carbon steel sword, its presence a stark reminder of readiness for conflict.

When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that was impossible to ignore:

"Wolves, protect our people." It was more than a command; it was a rallying cry, a call to arms for the pack to shield their own against the encroaching chaos.

To be continued...