Beast’s bane

[Marcus' POV]

The tavern was dimly lit, the glow of a few flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the scarred wooden tables.

It smelled of spilled ale and old smoke, the kind of scent that had seeped into the walls over the years, impossible to scrub out.

This place had been ours for as long as I could remember—a haven, a stronghold. But tonight, it felt like a cage.

I sat in the farthest corner, away from the few lingering patrons, rolling up my sleeve to stare at the ink on my forearm.

The skull, stark against my skin, had never felt heavier. It wasn't just a mark—it was a weight, a reminder of who I was, of the life I had built.

A life that, if this damn note was true, was about to come crashing down.

The paper sat between my fingers, edges slightly crumpled from how many times I had unfolded and refolded it.

I had found it only minutes after the Vipers left, slipped into my pocket so effortlessly that I hadn't even noticed. No doubt the work of that red-haired girl—the awakened one. Clever. Too clever.

I exhaled through my nose, my grip tightening as I read the words again. For the twentieth time. Maybe more.

We got your son. Still alive. Come around the new bakery on the east side in two nights—at least if you want to strike a deal. Come alone. If not, your son is dead, and you'll follow him too.

Each word was a slow knife twisting in my gut.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my expression into something unreadable, even though no one was watching me.

This was their plan, then? A simple note, a threat scrawled in ink, and they thought they had me by the throat?

Damn them.

Damn them all.

I folded the paper once more, slipping it into my coat pocket like it was nothing, like it wasn't the thing holding my world by a thread. My fingers curled into a fist against the table.

Two nights.

Two nights to decide whether I walked into the trap or let my son die.

But could he even be alive after all this time? The question had gnawed at me for weeks, hollowing me out.

Every raid, every bloody skirmish against the Hounds had been a desperate attempt to find him—an act of defiance against the slow, creeping dread that told me I never would. And yet, nothing. No trace, no whisper, no body.

But now, this note.

If they had him, what did that mean? Had they been working with the Hounds all along, sharing information, toying with me like some cruel game?

Or had they stolen him from them, plucking him from one hell only to dangle him over another? That would explain why we never found a single damn clue.

The thought made my blood run hot.

And at the center of it all, Victor. His face, that insufferable smirk, carved itself into my mind. A man who thought himself untouchable, who looked down at me like I was nothing, like my suffering was just another part of his empire.

This was never my fight. I never asked for it. I had nothing to do with the woman who started this war, but that didn't matter now, did it?

Victor had decided my place for me, and now my son was a casualty in a battle I never even wanted to fight.

My fingers curled into a fist on the table, the wood groaning beneath the pressure.

Then, a weight settled on my shoulder—a hand, firm and familiar.

I turned and met the familiar gaze of Vincent, his dark eyes steady, unreadable, but carrying the weight of too many years in this life. A fellow double-wing, a brother in arms, though the years had been kinder to him than they had to me.

"What're you doing, brooding in the corner like some lovesick poet?" he asked, his grin easy, effortless. "Come on, let's drink."

That was Vincent—always the same, always carrying that damn grin no matter how much blood had been spilled, no matter how many lives had been taken.

Unchanging. Untouched. But I wasn't blind. I knew that underneath it, there was something else. A quiet understanding. Maybe even pity.

Once, I had pitied him. When his son was killed in a job gone bad, I had watched him drown in his grief, waiting for the day he'd claw his way back out. And he had. Somehow.

He had found a way to live again. Maybe that was why he looked at me the way he did now—because our places had swapped.

I let out a slow breath and pushed myself up from the chair. "Yeah," I said, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Let's get something strong today."

The words came out steady, but they felt like a lie. I wasn't steady. I was unraveling, coming apart at the seams, and this whole thing with the Vipers… it wasn't helping.

And yet, I followed him anyway, because what else was there to do?

When we reached the bar, my eyes drifted toward the young barmaid—Amanda, was it? I drank here damn near every day and still couldn't remember for sure. She had one of those faces, warm and familiar, but my mind never seemed to hold onto the details. Maybe that said more about me than it did about her.

She approached with an easy smile, wiping her hands on the rag slung over her shoulder. Before I could open my mouth, Vincent leaned in, voice carrying over the hum of conversation around us.

"Hey, pretty! How about you get these old uncles something strong?" He flashed her a grin, the kind that might've worked if it had been twenty years ago.

Amanda didn't miss a beat. "Sure! Beast Bane sound good?"

Vincent paused for a second, as if the name had pulled him back through time. Then, with a nod, his face lit up with something close to nostalgia.

"Beast Bane?" he echoed, his voice rich with amusement. "Oh, that shit takes me back. Huh, Marcus?"

He nudged an elbow into my ribs, grinning like we were kids again, like the years hadn't stacked up the way they had.

I just nodded, my expression unreadable. The memories were there, buried under layers of dust and regret.

Beast Bane. The drink of bastards too young to know fear and too stupid to know their limits. The taste of old victories and forgotten losses.

Amanda turned away to grab the bottles, and Vincent was still chuckling to himself.

I let my gaze wander, my thoughts slipping into the past, where the laughter had been louder, the nights longer, and the weight on my shoulders a little less crushing.

We settled into our seats, the heavy wooden chairs groaning beneath us. The tavern buzzed with quiet conversations, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from a group too deep in their cups to care about the tension in the air.

Vincent leaned back, exhaling slowly before turning to me with that ever-curious gleam in his eyes.

"So?" he said, swirling his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim candlelight.

"What do you make of the Vipers? Word is, the kid's out for blood 'cause the boss and a few others did something to his mom, what, a decade ago? Crazy shit, man."

I let his words sit for a moment, my fingers tightening around the rim of my glass. Right. Victor had started all this.

That arrogant bastard. His reckless appetites, his thoughtless cruelty—because he wanted to screw some woman, my son was gone.

Just another casualty in a war I never signed up for. And the worst part? I doubted I'd ever get him back. Even if he was still breathing, he was as good as lost.

"Yeah, man. Crazy stuff," I said, my voice flat. Then, after a beat, I added, "Which ones did it? I mean, I'd expect that kind of filth from the bottom feeders, but not from us. Not from the boss."

The words tasted bitter. These were the bastards who had lit the first match, who had dragged us all into this pointless war, left thirty of our own rotting in the streets.

Vincent exhaled sharply, shaking his head before rattling off the names like a death toll.

"From what I heard—don't quote me on this—it was Henry, Joey, Ramirez, and Nero. Maybe more. Maybe less. But those four? They were definitely in on it."

Their names sat between us like a blade. He let the weight of them settle before he continued, his voice dropping just enough to make sure only I could hear.

"As for why they did it…" Vincent trailed off, running a hand through his hair, then scoffed.

"I don't know, man. Supposedly, Viper's mom looked like a goddess. Maybe they just couldn't help themselves. Or maybe it was a message—something meant to put the Spiders in their place."

He shook his head. "Not sure how, but that's what they say."

I leaned back, my drink untouched, my mind anywhere but here. A message? To the Spiders? That made no damn sense.

Vincent knocked back another gulp of Beast Bane, exhaling sharply as the liquor burned its way down. "You gonna drink that or just stare at it?" he muttered, nudging my glass with the back of his knuckles.

I let out a breath, then finally took a sip, the familiar fire scorching my throat before settling into my gut like a slow-burning coal. One drink turned into two. Two into four.

Before long, the night blurred into a haze of warm bodies and rough laughter, of chairs scraping against the wooden floors, of the sharp scent of whiskey and the distant hum of a tavern song.

For a few hours, we let the liquor do its work. We let it smooth out the edges, dull the ache, make us forget—if only for tonight.