Rune was fifteen when his sister died. Well, died wasn’t the right word. If he had to choose a word, he’d say murdered. Murdered by a warlock. Rune had been there. He could have saved her. He thought about that whenever he killed a rogue warlock. He was in a constant search for the criminal. He wanted the killer to recognize him before he took his last breath. So Rune hunted. Three times he’s talked his higher-ups out of taking him off warlock duty. They believed it was too personal for Rune to handle efficiently. They were probably right. But that’s not what Rune was concerned with.
These warlocks were dangerous. Deadly. They would stop at nothing to survive. But that’s all life is, right? Survival of the fittest?
The clench of his jaw hurt, but only distantly. It was the furthest thing from survival of the fittest. If that were the case, Rune would be dead and Alexis would still be alive.
The world had a cruel sense of humour.
Rune looked over his new assignment. One of the higher ranked warlocks was throwing a grand ball. He had to “chaperone” the party, just keep an eye on everything.
Rune sighed, muttering, “Well, won’t this just be exciting.”
He had no idea how inaccurate his sarcastic remark actually was.
It was no party. When they said “ball,” they really meant it.
The large building had high ceilings, with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. A large chandelier lit the room and sparkled from its own light. Candelabras on the wall cast a gentle glow on the outskirts of the dance floor. One wall had a long food table, filled with small delights from all over the world… except France, Rune noticed. The other wall housed the DJ’s table, records spread out across the surface. The ballroom was packed, nearly a hundred people had attended.
The hunter felt under-dressed in his black jeans and red v-neck. But that was only because the people around him were clad in victorian-era suits and gowns. Huge rocks balanced on women’s delicate fingers, their faces and hair done up. Their eyes followed Rune as he picked his way around their protruding skirts. Some appeared curious or taken-aback, while others seemed almost hungry.
Some of the men shared the same look as they sized up the nineteen year old, starting with his Converse sneakers, up his legs and torso, lingering on his green eyes, then finally taking in the mussed white hair with a slight raise of eyebrows. They didn’t even bat an eyelash at the great white wings protruding from his back.
Rune didn’t mind the attention, actually he enjoyed it. What he did mind was the God-awful music playing. Full of violins, not the cool kind, cellos, and flutes. Talk about a snooze fest.
So naturally Rune had to do something about it.
He went up to the DJ table, handing him a napkin he had scribbled songs onto on his way over. “Play these. Before I fall asleep and have to report that I was endangered.”
The DJ blinked at him, eyes glowing an unnatural yellow color. He glanced over the boy before wisely deciding to listen. He glanced over the song list, seeming to perk up at the selection. He stopped the current classical piece, replacing it with another song.
Rune grinned widely, pleased, as In My Head started to play throughout the room.
Guests looked around, confusions plainly written across their features. Some smiled, recognizing the song, and pulled their partners out to dance. Few other guests actually scowled, searching frantically for their host.
He was so focused on the song and peoples’ reactions to it, Rune didn’t notice the approaching figure until it landed directly in front of him.
Landed. With thin, leathery bat wings flared wide and menacing. Rune actually took a step back.
“What do you think you are doing?” The words came out a hiss, wings twitching in annoyed rage with each syllable.
Rune looked up at the man, raising an eyebrow. This must be his host. Every warlock had a special… trait. Some had scales, others had pointed ears or snake fangs. This one had bat wings… and feet.
“How rude to change my music. You’ve ruined my ball,” Mr. Bat Feet continued, eyes alight. He had on a crisp white button-up shirt, a black vest over it. His black dress pants did nothing to hide his feet. His blond hair was slicked back, though a few strands had fallen into his face upon his landing. His cheekbones were sharp, definitely capable of slicing Rune’s head off, and his jawline was strong. His wings sprouted from his shoulder blades, with a span of about 15 feet. The claws on the very tips were even sharper than his cheekbones, if even possible.
Rune raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t ruin it. I made it better. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you? Why would I do such a thing? My ball was going just fine until you decided to turn it into a teenager’s wild house party!” Mr. Bat Feet’s voice was deep. Very proper. English.
That explains the lack of French food. Rune thought boredly. He watched the warlock host with a slight wariness, ready for a fight. “You sound like the old man who lives across the street. You know, the one every neighborhood has that yells at kids to get off his lawn?”
The warlock’s lips pressed together into a thin white line, hands shaking, “Get out.”
“No can do. I’m the chaperone. I have all the paperwork that allows me to be here.”
Before Rune could process what was happening, the warlock took him by the arm, barked at the DJ to change the music, and had dragged Rune outside.
The hunter scrambled to get his blade, cursing and twisting.
“What are you here for?”
Rune glared, wishing he could bore a hole into this guy’s head, “I told you. I’m chaperoning. I’m just doing my job.”
“And your job requires you to destroy my ball?”
“When the music sucks, yes.”
Mr. Bat Feet pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths. “Don’t touch my music. Or do anything else to change my ball. And I will not contact your supervisors.”
He looked up at the soft snort.
“You can’t tell me what to do or how to do my job.”
The warlock looked about ready to tear Rune’s head from his shoulders. He did a very good job at resisting the undoubtedly strong urge.
“Please don’t ruin my ball.”
Rune gave him a once-over, considering. “Fine.”
Mr. Bat Feet visibly relaxed, “Thank you… Oh, where are my manners… My name is Marcel.”
“Rune.”
This gave Marcel pause, as it did most people. He finally seemed to really look at Rune, take in his clothes, his eyes, his hair. Marcel blinked at the color but didn’t comment. “Pleasant to meet you.”
Rune grunted softly, ninety-nine percent sure Marcel was definitely not happy to meet him.
“Shall we go inside? Before we both get a chill?” A chill. Is this guy even real? Is Rune being punked?
Either way, Rune follows the warlock back inside. The music had been changed back to the screech of violins and moan of cellos. Ugh.
“Marccccell. What a wonderful party. The momentary music change, however, was a bit… tastelesssss.” This new voice was more of a hiss, like a train slowing to a stop.
Rune frowned. His music was not tasteless. Who did this guy think he was? With a gentle spin on his heel, Rune fixed the newcomer with a glare… then froze.
The man appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s, with shiny black hair hanging around his face. Smooth green scales freckled his skin, creating an eerie effect in the candlelight. Yellow eyes with black slits for pupils glowed in the low light of the ballroom. When this man looked at Rune, he had a hungry gaze, but not the same hungry as the other women and men at Marcel’s party.  This was greedy, hateful, a hard gaze that easily identified Rune, even after four years.
Rune hissed, immediately taking his dagger from his belt. “You.”
When the man spoke, Rune saw the needle-like canines hiding behind his lips, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Bullshit. You know who I am. You knew my sister, too.”
“Ah. The little Nephilim girl. It rings a bell. You were the one who cowered behind the flames.”
Rune tried not to flinch at the comment, clenching his jaw in anger. “I’ll kill you for what you did.”
“I’d like to see you try, halfling.”
Rune’s eyes narrowed as he pulled his silver blade from his sheath.
“Ah ah ah…” Marcel stepped between them, showing more bravery than Rune had ever experienced. This was practically a death wish on Marcel’s part, breaking between a furious Nephilim and a murderous warlock.
“That’s enough. Both of you.” The bat-winged Brit gave them both a stern look.