Fury Calls. Caridad Pineiro

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      His knees weakened at the sight, but Blake forced himself upright. “You can’t scare me, ol’ man,” he said, grabbing the man’s wrist and trying to break the nearly intractable grip Winchcombe had on his shoulder. He noticed then how thin the other man’s wrist was. How cold and dry the skin felt beneath his fingers.

      Winchcombe laughed, and an odd growl tinged his mirth.

      “I like spirit in a man, Blake. So much so that I think I’ll keep you around for a while.”

      Before Blake could protest, Winchcombe had him in a powerful embrace, but Blake rocked from side to side, trying to free himself. As he glanced up at the demon the old man had become, he said, “You’ll never get my spirit, ol’ man.”

      Winchcombe roared with laughter and then bit down on Blake’s neck even as he continued his defiant struggles.

      Pain erupted through Blake’s skull, followed by need so great that he soon found himself clutching the old man close, welcoming his virulent embrace. The pain slowly fled, but the desire remained, only it wasn’t human desire.

      This need was bathed in violence, filled with a fury unlike any he had ever experienced in his life. It called to him for fulfillment. It called to him for vengeance. The need that grew was so strong that Blake soon found himself able to deflect whatever power the old man had on him.

      Yanking Winchcombe away from his neck, he held the old man at arm’s length, emboldened by whatever was growing within him, taking hold of him body and soul. Strong and uncontrollable, it demanded satisfaction.

      Winchcombe hung from his grasp, an astonished look on his face as blood dripped from his fangs.

       His blood.

      At the sight heat coalesced in Blake’s center and suddenly erupted throughout his body, staggering him with its force. He battled back the sensation, but it struck him again until the heat fully enveloped him and everything around him grew brighter and more vibrant.

      Beneath his fingers was the papery feel of Winchcombe’s cold skin and the fragility of his throat as he held him and raised him high above the floor. He reveled in the sight of the old man dangling weakly from his hand and Dillon backing away from them, as if sensing that control had turned. Fear filled the big man’s face as he beheld what was happening before his eyes.