Having seen enough, the boy strode across the threshold,
his hands coming up from his sides. “I am Petbe,” he
announced. His voice, though shrill and high-pitched, was
strong and unwavering. “I am your destruction.”
The vampires were slow to realize the danger they were in.
They could not take seriously the threat from such a small
child. With a blinding flash of speed, Petbe crossed the
room in an instant and stood in front of the old crone
before she could even rise from her chair. His short sharp
talons, dipped in molten silver and sharpened, ripped her
neck open so savagely, that her head fell free, rolling
across the floor as it crumbled into dust. He felt the
familiar tingle, like pins and needles across his skin, as her
life force, and those she had stolen, flowed into him. He
felt his power swell.
The Mistress’ sire flew at Petbe in a rage. He slashed at the
petite figure, spinning his arms like a windmill as he
advanced on the boy. Petbe continued to step back,
allowing pursuit until just before the vampire’s spinning
claws might actually land. Bending forward, Petbe reached
around his attacker’s leg, slashing deeply across the back of
his knee, severing muscles and tendons. The sire dropped
to the floor. Unable to continue the assault, the wounded
vampire started to drag himself away, pleading for survival.
But Petbe seized up a tipped over chair, smashed it against
the wall. The chair erupted into a hundred pieces; the leg,
with a jagged point at its tip, remained in Petbe’s hand. He
plunged it directly into the back of his retreating opponent.
With a final screech, the vampire’s impalement was
complete, and again, Petbe felt the surge.
41