Azrael walked through the shattered wooden doors into the dark recesses of the former place of worship. Past the broken pews and a handful of corpses, a group of six Scions holding saw-toothed cutlasses gathered around the nave with five prisoners strung up by ropes against the wall at the back of the church.
Jonah bowed, pausing in the aisle, and Azrael continued to the nave. Spent brass bullet casings littered the floor, some lying in puddles of blood. He stepped around the toppled altar to get closer to the prisoners.
A pane of moonlight bled in through the broken stained-glass windows above the humans hanging from the beams across the ceiling.
The golden eyes of Scions followed Azrael as he studied the prisoners. He could smell their festering wounds and their fear.
The first was a man in a military uniform, stubble lining his scarred face. Next to him was a woman, also in a combat uniform. A long gash leaked blood across her cheek. She moaned, her head rolling on her shoulders, barely on the edge of consciousness.
At the end of the line was a second man in a combat uniform. The insignia on his shoulder signified he was a colonel. His head was shaved clean, and from where he was strung up, he alone looked at Azrael in defiance. Tears in his jacket showed where a Variant had clawed at his chest.
This is the outpost commander, Azrael thought.
“The fuck you looking at?” the man grumbled.
One of the Scions moved toward the colonel with his blade. “You insolent heretic.”
Azrael held up a hand, and the Scion let out a growl. But the faithful servant lowered his weapon and retreated.
“You were in charge of this outpost,” Azrael said.
The commander’s eyes narrowed. “I still am.”
Azrael shook his head. “A good leader knows when to admit defeat.”
“We will win. Maybe not today, but we will destroy you and your disgusting mutants.”
With a snort, Azrael took a deep breath, smelling the pheromones leaching off the weak man. He had seen humans act courageous like this before, even in the face of certain death. It was admirable, but ultimately foolish.
“You have already lost,” Azrael said.
“Fuck… you…” said the woman with the gash on her face. “You are—”
Before she could finish, Azrael spun away from the commander and slashed her neck, claws tracing her flesh. Blood gurgled out of the wound, and her head fell to the side.
Azrael turned back to the commander and licked the blood off his claws.
The old military man’s eyes glistened from the pain of seeing her killed. His bottom lip trembled, even though he tried to clench his jaw.
Azrael wiped his claws clean across the commander’s coat, spreading the soldier’s blood. “Tell me where President Jan Ringgold is.”
“I have no idea.”
Azrael wrapped a clawed hand around the commander’s neck. “I think you do.”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I want to end this war. I want President Ringgold’s surrender. And if she does the right thing, I will allow everyone who is willing to join the army of the New Gods. You too can become a Scion.”
“We would rather die than become freaks.”
“Freaks?” Azrael tightened his grasp around the commander’s neck. To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch. “This is what your military set out to create when they first made VX-99. I perfected it. My people implemented it. We’re stronger than you. Smarter. Better in every way. This is evolution.”
“You’re a science experiment gone wrong. Nothing more.”
A red-hot heat washed through Azrael. He wanted to tear into the commander, stab his claws right into his meaty gut. He sensed his Scions watching, waiting to see how he would react to the insult.
Azrael exhaled, letting the anger go. His ego was not important. He had to control himself if he wanted to know where the new Central Command was located.
“Tell me where Ringgold is and I will spare you all,” Azrael hissed.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Azrael stared at the commander. He noticed the small pulsing red vessels in the man’s sclera and the way the pitiful human’s nostrils flared slightly, twitching with each labored breath.
This man was terrified.
Judging by the way his pupils dilated and how he bit back his tongue, he was lying, too. Azrael could sense it just as easy as a wolf detected frightened prey.
But there was another thing he knew. Something he did not need his senses to tell him. This commander would endure untold amounts of physical pain and still he would not give up the president.
Azrael grinned, lips snarling back to reveal his fangs.
He took his claws from the commander’s neck. The commander was so insolent he even sighed in relief.
His mistake.
Azrael swiftly slashed at the commander’s stomach, tearing open four gashes. Blood drooled from the wounds. The man let out a long groan, sweat rolling down his pallid face.
“I… won’t… tell… you,” he said.
“I know,” Azrael said. “That was for my own satisfaction, but I’m afraid it wasn’t satisfying enough.”
He heard the snarls of the six Scions waiting around the human prisoners.
“Feed, but leave the commander for me,” Azrael said.
Jaws snapping, the Scions lunged forward and tore into the other human prisoners as the commander watched. The sounds of ripping tendons and snapping bones echoed through the church. Organs slurped and smacked against the stone floor, the sounds masked by agonized screams.
The commander’s lips quivered. He no longer forced a veneer of courage. A dark stain spread down his pants as he pissed himself.
“You can stop this,” Azrael leaned in close, whispering into his ear. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to hear.”
“I… I… I…”
“Talk.”
More tearing flesh. Blood spilled on the floor, and the stench of voided bowels filled the air.
“I…” the commander’s face was still pale, shock hijacking his brain. “Puerto Rico… I think… they’re setting up another…” Then his
