“Motherfu—”

  I didn’t quite finish the cuss, not with the spear-tip slashing through the air, just inches from gouging my eye out. My reflexes kicked in before my mind had fully registered the threat, and I jumped back, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike.

  The goblin ambush had been flawless—far too well-executed for a bunch of monsters I’d assumed to be no more than primitive creatures. They may have been barbaric, crude things, but there was no denying it—they knew their craft. Their knowledge of the land, of ambush tactics, far more advanced than I’d anticipated.

  Another arrow sliced through the air, loosed by the gibbering green bastard hidden in the trees.

  I sidestepped, the movement sharp and swift despite my slopiness, projectile sailing just past my ear, but the strafe put me right in range of another goblin. Four foot nothing, clad in rags, a hide hauberk and wielding a rusty cleaver with all the devil-may-care abandon of a meth head.

  And all its implied efficiency.

  It bellowed its shrill cry and slashed out at my hip, scoring a shallow cut through my jeans.

  With a venomous hiss I jumped back in the middle of the kill circle and finished my cuss.

  “---fucker”

  This fight had, at the very least, answered some of my questions. Specifically about the extent of my new abilities. After how I’d handled the group of goblins and rotbloods before, I thought this ambush would be a breeze. Wrong.

  I was mad then. Driven to the brink of insanity by thirst and bloodlust. Fought like a rabid animal, uncaring of anything and everything save burying my teeth into a throat. Ignorant to wounds, doubt and hesitation.

  Now, I fought like a person. With all the reflexes and instincts of self-preservation that being human entailed.

  But I wasn’t human anymore.

  And all those reflexes were actively getting my way.

  As if the universe itself sought to drive the point home, the archer in the tree released another arrow—its flight slow, almost pathetic in its predictability. My senses, heightened to the point of superhuman, unraveled the projectile in excruciating detail. Every crook in the shoddily made shaft, the frayed fletching barely holding together, every edge on the stone arrowhead.

  To my eyes, the arrow crawled through the air, each inch taking an eternity.

  I could’ve sidestepped it. Deflected it with my hatchet—just a flick of the wrist. Hell, with my durability and regeneration, I could’ve taken the damn thing in the chest and barely felt a thing, given how blunted the arrowhead was.

  But I did none of those things.

  Instead, my body acted in obedience to the primal instinct of self-preservation. I tumbled, jerking out of the arrow’s path in a desperate, graceless roll that sent me crashing to the ground.

  Only to rise within reach of another goblin, the jagged, serrated dagger in its hand poised for a downward thrust.

  The goblin screeched and stabbed at me.

  Again, I could perceive the attack in all its clumsy slowness, calculate its trajectory, estimate the impact point. All I needed to do was charge into the monster’s guard and swipe my hatchet across the little beast’s arm.

  I was fast enough.

  Agile enough.

  I KNEW I was.

  And yet again, my own subconscious reflexes betrayed me. Instead of charging in, I drew back, backpedaling and shielding my face with a raised arm. The dagger, though blunted and pocked with rust, cut through the jacket and scored a deep gash into my forearm.

  With a malicious bark of laughter, the goblin jumped back and its three allies moved, tightening the kill-circle around me. They fought like a pack of jackals, nipping and cutting, trying to exhaust me, to bleed me over time.

  70 pounds soaking wet and barely tall enough to reach my stomach, there was no denying the little beasts possessed a cruel animal cunning. And for all their small frames, they had a wiry strength to them almost rivaling that of a grown man. All fiber and sinew in compact little packages that made them infinitely more dangerous than their small forms suggested.

  I forced myself back to my feet, ignoring the sting in my arm. My hand found the spear-dagger at my belt, and I pulled it free in one smooth motion, taking it in a reverse grip. The goblins paused for a heartbeat, then drew back, extending the kill-circle just out of my reach.

  They weren’t foolish enough to rush in. And they were patient, waiting for me to make a move, circling around, trying to slink through blind spots. A dangerous combination.

  I stood my ground, hatchet and spear-dagger steady in my hands. The circle was widening, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. They were waiting for the right moment to close in again.

  “Focus. Focus” I mentally snarled.

  Like most orphaned young men growing up in the slums and ghettos, I’d had my share of back-alley fights, so I was a decent enough brawler, despite my weight and cowardice when it came to certain individuals. But this wasn’t a brawl.

  It’s one thing to react to a punch being thrown at you, but a dagger or a spear? I was an amateur at that and my body kept going on auto-pilot, subconsciously trying to get as far from the weapons as possible.

  I had to focus. Override instincts hardwired into my brain.

  The gash on my forearm hurt to high heaven, like someone had poured boiling water on it. It burned deep, but even as the pain throbbed through it, the sensation was already beginning to fade, dulled by regeneration. My skin was already stitching itself back together, tissue mending with an unnatural speed.

  The cut on my hip? I barely even noticed it anymore. A faint discomfort lingered, the kind you get from a paper-cut that’s starting to scab over. Nowhere near what a gash like that should feel like.

  I drew in a breath, exhaling it slowly, the air cool against my lungs. Not that I needed to breathe—hell, I wasn’t tired at all—but it helped steady the storm of frustration gnawing at me.

  “You’re not human anymore”, I reminded myself, “so stop fighting like you are”.

  These creatures were nothing but beasts with scrap iron in their hands, and whatever they threw at me—whatever they could dish out—I could heal it. All of it.

  I clenched my jaw, mental gears grinding as I stared into the widening kill-circle.

  “This IS nothing more than a back-alley brawl for me”.

  It was time to put up or shut up.

  As soon as I heard the bowstring tighten, I went into a boxer’s guard, hatchet in my right hand, improvised dagger in my left, head squeezed as low between my shoulders as I could.

  The twang of a loosed arrow was like a racer’s bullhorn and I snapped into motion, charging the spear wielder, guard up and stance low, deliberately ignoring the projectile. All my focus was on one singular point. A target I had mentally painted on the spear-wielder’s face.

  It struck my shoulder with a dull thunk, the stone tip scraping against the thick fabric of my jacket, a shallow bite into my flesh. It didn’t even slow me. A nuisance, nothing more—a prickling annoyance, like a fly buzzing around your ear.

  Not nearly enough to slow my headlong charge.

  5 yards.

  The goblin shrieked and stumbled back in a panic.

  3 yards.

  The monster thrust out with its spear, wrought iron tip aiming for my chest.

  2 yards.

  Time seemed to distend and expand. Every cell in my body screamed for me to stop, jump to the side, avoid the speartip.

  It seemed so close.

  It was so close.

  If I didn’t stop I’d run myself through it…

  I ground my teeth against the fear and turned my last step into a lunge, lashing out with my hatchet at the same time. The blade struck the iron speartip, pushing it to the side in a shower of sparks.

  0 yards.

  I rammed into the goblin like an angry bull, my weight, speed and strength taking the monster off its feet and bludgeoning it into a tree trunk. Brittle bones cracked, folding around my shoulder as I crushed the beast into bark.

  A half-step backpedal and a thrust was all it took for my spear-dagger to bury itself into the goblin’s stomach. It barely had time to scream before I split its skull open with my hatchet.

  There was no time to savor the win.

  From the point I had charged to this moment, two maybe three seconds had passed. The suddenness of my attack had been the only thing keeping the other goblins away, but they had recovered from their stupor and I could already hear them charging behind me.

  With less effort than I thought I would have needed, I spun, levering the corpse one armed and launching it into the group behind me. The 70 pound projectile slammed into the leading goblin, knocking him prone, and stopping the other two in their tracks, eyes wide with fear and hesitation.

  An opening.

  A chance.

  The brief pause was all I needed. Fingers closing around the discarded spear’s shaft, I surged forward, windmilling it through the air in wide, brutal arcs, the sharpened tip cutting a vicious path through the space between us.

  Three goblins.

  The dagger-wielder, prone and dazed on the ground, trapped under the corpse’s weight, and two more, hamstrung by hesitation.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The first goblin jumped back, narrowly dodging my spear’s arc, crashing to the ground as it scrambled away. The second didn’t react fast enough. My spear hit the side of its head with a solid thud, and the goblin spun, disoriented, staggering, the side of its skull leaking red.

  Primitive and rudimentary though it was, the spear was still a length of oak capped with an iron weight. Add my own abnormal strength to it and it was as much a bludgeoning tool as it was a lance.

  Not enough to outright kill the monster, but by the sound alone I could tell it had crushed the cartilage in his ear if not outright fractured its skull.

  With the area cleared, I drove the heel of my boot into the fallen spear-wielder’s back, pinning the one underneath it down. Bulging, yellow eyes went wide and it let out a shrill, panicked scream.

  Cut short, as my hatchet split its face open.

  Two down. Two to go.

  With a guttural growl, I tore my hatchet out in a shower of blood and splintered teeth, and barrelled into the dazed one. Blood oozed from where I had struck it with the side of my spear and it was wobbling like a drunkard. The glancing blow must have done more damage than I’d thought. It swiped at the air clumsily, depth perception completely shot and tried to back away, tripping on its own feet. Before it even had time to try and get up I plunged the spear into its gut, running the monster through.

  It bellowed out and grabbed for me, tenacious and vicious like a cornered rat, tangling gnarly, deceptively strong fingers into the skin of my face, slashing with its notched cleaver.

  It wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  But I didn’t even try to back away this time.

  With every passing second it was becoming easier to override my instincts and hesitation.

  Instead, I plunged further into his guard, its forearm harmlessly slapping against my shoulder, balance crumbling against my weight as we both sprawled onto the ground. So close, I could see the cavity marked, yellow slabs of teeth, smell its putrid breath and hear the gurgling of blood flooding its lungs.

  Then I slammed my forehead into the monster’s face, folding bone and cartilage like dry twigs.

  It went limp.

  I jumped off it and pivoted, pulling the spear in a spray of gore, just in time to face the last dagger-wielder. The little beast was already in the air, jumping toward me, arm cocked for an overhead stab. Credit given where it’s due, the bastard had tried to use its comrade’s death as a way to get the drop on me.

  Again instinct reared its ugly head, demanding I dodge or backpedal. But it was easier now. To ignore it. To deny it. I lashed out, open hand reaching for the dagger’s tip.

  Pain shot through me, burning and sharp as the blade pierced my hand and came out the other side, hilt slapping into my open palm. I roared and cussed but didn’t retreat, closing my fingers around the hilt, digging them into the goblin’s fist, feeling bones pop and give way under my grip.

  Standing to my full height, holding the struggling beast off the ground, I snarled at the goblin, giving voice to the adrenaline high roiling inside. It shrieked, kicked and punched, every blow weightless and ineffective, as if thrown by a toddler.

  Mine was anything but.

  With a sharp stab, I dug the spear-dagger in between his ribs and pushed, until the tip burst out of his back.

  “Twang”

  A jolt shot through my side as the stone-tipped arrow struck.

  Damn it, I’d been too focused on the goblins on the ground, forgetting the archer lurking in the trees. It tore through my jacket and sank deep, embedding in in my flesh. I tore it out with a cuss and rounded towards the tree. In five lunging steps I was already at the trunk, pulling myself atop the old oak.

  *Twang*

  Another bowstring thrum, another arrow loosed, glancing harmlessly against a branch. In the oak’s thick crown, range was a disadvantage, and the goblin was too sloppy a shot to make use of it.

  *Twang. Twang*

  Two more shots skidded off the trunk by the time I closed in on the top branches, climbing the tree with an ease and speed that would have been more fitting for a mountain climber half my weight, fingers piercing into the bark.

  Wait… piercing?

  I stopped mid-climb, barely able to notice the grotesque facsimiles of claws my hands had become.

  They weren’t like this a minute ago…

  *Thunk*

  Another arrow almost took me in the eye, only the goblin’s panicked haste saving me, as it flew a few inches too far right and slammed, quivering into a branch.

  Dammit. Now wasn’t the time to consider my body’s changes. I was still in the middle of a fight.

  With a monumental heave I launched myself up the trunk, hatchet lodged between my teeth, crawling up like some aberrant parody of a spider in human form.

  By the time my boot struck the topmost branch, the bug-eyed goblin was desperately trying to knock another arrow.

  We locked eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough for me to see it— the same raw, desperate desire to survive burning in its beady, yellow eyes, mirroring my own.

  Then, I brought the hatchet down. Hard.

  Wood groaned under the force, splintering as the goblin’s scream echoed through the air, long and shrill. It snapped, and the creature plummeted, twisting and flailing, crashing to the ground in a ragged heap thirty feet below. Not high enough to kill it but considering the way it was writing on the ground, holding a foot bent the wrong way, more than enough to break its leg.

  I took my time descending the tree, levering myself slowly, unsurprised by the fact that they were now no longer clawed, but normal human hands. The reality that I knew far too little about my vampiric body, kept impressing itself onto me.

  The goblin whimpered and wailed, limping and trying desperately to distance itself from me, lame leg trailing behind it. It looked pitiful. So small. So desperate to live.

  For a moment I almost felt sorry for it.

  Then it spun on its back and threw a dagger at my face. It was a desperate throw, clumsy, telegraphed and easy to dodge, but it was sudden enough that it clipped my shoulder.

  Rage, red and raw, covered my sight like a blanket and I ran towards the prone monster, slamming a massive kick at the side of its head. Cartilage ruptured, bones shattered and vertebrae splintered from the strike.

  The monster went limp, neck broken. Along with three of my toes.

  “Ah, sonova…!” I cussed aloud, limping.

  What’d come over me?

  I was usually a lot less prone to glorified temper tantrums like this. Certainly a lot more in control of my own anger that I’d know better than to football kick a skull while wearing sneakers.

  Was this also a part of the changes? Throughout the fight I had snarled and growled like a damn animal, but never truly lost control. But I’d been angry. Either at my own amateurish behavior or at the goblins.

  I needed to be better. I needed to make sure I kept my cool. Anger is only an advantage in fiction and comics. In real life, all it does is make you sloppy. Gets you killed.

  Grimacing, I limped back to the bodies. Already, the hairline fractures were mending, the cuts and bruises starting to fade, but I knew instinctively that blood would speed the process.

  More than that, I was feeling a little thirsty.

  Nowhere near as bad as the first time, though enough to warrant attention. At least I had learned something new. The more I exerted myself, the more my blood-hunger progressed. It was like fuel. Like needing carbs after a hard day at the construction site.

  I drank my fill, their lukewarm blood spilling down my throat in gluttonous gulps, delighting in the sweet ambrosia like the addicts I’d seen growing up, slumped against walls, eyes akimbo and needles in their forearms. My earlier anger and questions dissipated like dust and, for as long as that red nectar cascaded down my throat, all was right with the world.

  An all too temporary feeling. As soon as I drained one, the thirst would come again, like a cold traveling up my spine, even though my stomach was bloated with it. And I would immediately reach out for the next corpse. Until there was no more next to be had.

  An addiction. This was definitely an addiction and nothing less. It wasn’t just a need for blood. It was a “want”.

  As soon as I finished drinking, I took the hatchet to the goblins chests, removing the odd, pulsing stones lodged in their sternums, and squirreling them away in my makeshift pouch.

  It was time to leave. Dawn would be fast approaching.