Blood seeped from the open wound in Mikhail’s right arm. He’d bound it with cloth torn from his robe, but it had soaked through hours ago and was leaving a steady trail behind him. He gave as good as he got, he told himself, and considering that there were three of them against his one, he knew he had done well. But he was dying. His only chance was to get back to his territory, where he could activate his portents. Where he could summon something as horrible as he had been, to finish the job. He was concerned for his pride, but not as much as for his life; he knew that if he lost, the ‘something as horrible as he’ would make sure his afterlife involved a lot of things that wanted his soul, and wouldn’t mind dividing it up between them.

Mikhail stumbled through a hedge outside the city limits. He was close, so close that he had to tell himself not to give up; that this was the exact time when most made the mistake of letting down their guard too soon. Of course, in doing so, he was distracted. He slowed down and let his adversaries get a whiff of him. Within seconds they’d closed the distance and stopped his escape. He might have savoured the irony of it all if he wasn’t already delirious from the loss of blood.

There were two of them, both wearing ripped, stained cloaks designed to hold scrolls, charms and potions, most of which had been used to cause the damage Mikhail now suffered. There had been three, and Mikhail had expected to be rid of them all, but they must have healed themselves after he left. At this point, his only hope was to strike up a conversation, and Mikhail hated making conversation with people he didn’t know well.

“I don’t suppose… either of you has a light? Perhaps a cigarette to go with it?” 

Addiction was a good way to establish common ground, normally. The one on the left smiled. The bags under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion, but he wasn’t too far gone to be amused by the whole thing. The one on the right was more frustrated than anything. 

Mikhail guessed he was the leader, the one who had planned their little endeavor and was oh-so-upset when it didn’t work out. And of course, he would have to be the one with the smoking habit. He lit up some brand with cloves and took three long drags, making it  clear that Mikhail was to be denied his fix.

“You know why you shouldn’t smoke these?”

“I dunno… less for you, maybe?”

“They put holes in your throat, you rancid sack!” The dark mage then put the cigarette out on Mikhail’s neck, and they were both surprised that he still had the strength to scream. The one on the left quickly wrapped his hand around Mikhail’s mouth, stifling it. 

“You got spark, sack, I’ll grant you that. You took out one o’ my trinity, an’ cost the two of us quite the bit o’ torment. That was five months of planning you just put to waste, you know that? We won’t be able to try again for another seventeen years, thanks t’you. I figure, it’s fair of us to take that seventeen years out of you. Get some rope; I want to be back at the house in an hour.” 

The leader-type stood up, casting a shadow on the pair. His partner shifted, hoping he could get at the rope in his cloak before Mikhail made to struggle. A chill blew in from behind the leader, and something froze Mikhail and his captor into place.

 “Tie the sack up, Sal, we’re exposed here!” Neither Mikhail nor Sal moved, though Sal gave his partner a concerned look. The leader moved in to abuse Sal, but as his shadow fell over him, he could hear his body being crushed. When Sal died, his neck didn’t snap. It was nothing clean like that, but a slow, wet crunching. It was enough to drown out the noise Mikhail was making, a sort of giggle.

The leader spun around, a new rush of adrenaline taking over. He couldn’t see anything, save what the street lamp illuminated in front of him; there was nothing to see. 

“Who’s doing that? Who’s there?”

If Mikhail could’ve answered his question, he would have told him that it was the Prime Tormentor of the lands, She that knew not mercy or remorse; as refined in her technique as she was insatiable in her wrath. He wanted to tell him how it would take her seventeen days just to begin her management of his pain, but he was quickly proven wrong.

Hannah, someone as deadly as he had once been, materialized out of the darkness and slit the leader’s throat, and without breaking stride, walked over to where Mikhail lay.

She removed a glass vial from her pouch and broke it over his head, releasing living light that went straight to sealing his wounds. After several minutes of treatment, he looked up at her. She had the wardrobe and accessories of a hardened witch, the body of a porn star, and the annoyed expression of a mother whose daughter was in trouble at school.

“While you’ve been out with your friends here, having all sorts of fun,” Hannah told her husband, “Marie’s gotten into trouble at school again. The principle wants us BOTH in his office this morning. Now, I have to put you back together, because there is no way I am going there alone.”

“I-I nearly got killed twice tonight; I need at least two days to heal!”

Hannah whispered something to herself, then grabbed her lover by the collar and hoisted him over her shoulder like a rag doll.

“Yeah, remember when I had soul poisoning and you STILL made me go to your aunt and uncle’s stupid dinner? This makes us even.”

“Not the same. Your soul IS poison.”

“Take a nap, my rancid sack. I’ll see to it you’re ready.”