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#Post#: 20454--------------------------------------------------
Exiles WIP: Timothy "Tim" Dovan
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 30, 2025, 1:30 am
---------------------------------------------------------
"Riding ain’t just wind in your face—it’s the only law that
matters. You throttle, you scream, you own the road, and for
once, nothing can chain you down. Life tries to cage you? Laugh
in its face and burn rubber straight past it. That’s freedom,
that’s chaos, and damn, it’s beautiful."
~ Timothy "Tim" Dovan
"I don’t dance around my enemies—I crash through them. Every
punch, every kick, every hit’s a promise: chaos and pain. I
fight like I live: fast, reckless, and with a grin that says,
‘You picked the wrong fight, pal.’ Blood, sweat, and broken
bones… that’s my rhythm, and I never miss a beat."
~ Tim Dovan
"The Crimson Dogs ain’t a club, and we sure as hell ain’t
saints. We’re a pack of misfits who laugh in the face of order,
howl at the rules, and leave chaos in our wake. Loyalty? Only to
the pack. Fear? Only to death. And anyone dumb enough to stand
in our way… well, they won’t stand long."
~ Tim Dovan
"I… I thought I was ready for him. I wasn’t. Tim Dovan doesn’t
fight—he erases. One second you’re standing, the next your ribs
feel like they’ve been hammered into dust, and he’s already
smiling like it’s a game. He’s chaos wrapped in muscle and
anger, and if you’re lucky, you walk away remembering what real
fear is."
~ A random man who survived a bar fight that Tim was in
"Tim Dovan… he’s a nightmare wrapped in leather. Charming,
reckless, untouchable—every move he makes is designed to mock
the law I swore to uphold. You can try to pin him down, try to
cage him with paperwork and statutes, but he thrives in the
chaos I can’t control. I hate him, but damn it… I respect the
sheer audacity of that bastard."
~ District Attorney Pulman
"Tim Dovan… he’s the kind of man that makes you question every
rule you’ve ever sworn to uphold. He doesn’t just break the
law—he laughs while burning it to ashes. I’ve seen men go down
to him, and even when they crawl away, they’re never the same.
He’s a storm you can’t outrun, and I fear the day it turns on
this town."
~ Sheriff Grady
"I’ve patched up a lot of men after fights, but the ones who
walk away from Tim Dovan… they’re not the same. Broken bones,
shattered teeth, torn skin… but worse than that, their eyes
carry something darker. Fear, awe, a little madness. He doesn’t
just hurt people—he leaves a piece of himself behind, and it
never heals."
~ Doctor Smith
Erin: C’mon, big bro! You can’t just sit there—look at that poor
guy’s car, all alone in the alley… begging to be pushed into the
fountain!
Tim: Erin… we talked about this. Not everything is a game.
Erin: Game? Life’s the biggest game, Timmy! And I play to win.
Watch this! She darts off toward the car with a mischievous
grin.
Tim: Damn it, Erin! He pushes off his bike, catching up to her
in a few long strides, grabbing her shoulder mid-spin. You’re
chaos wrapped in leather, I get it—but I’m the older brother.
That means I stop the worst of your stupid ideas.
Erin: The worst of my ideas? Oh, please… the fountain idea is
pure genius. You just don’t have the vision.
Tim: He grins despite himself. Yeah, yeah… pure genius until the
cops show up. Then it’s pure headache. Come on, let’s find a
better target. One that won’t land us in the hoosegow before
breakfast.
Erin: She mocks sighing. Fine… but only ‘cause you said please,
big bro. I’m still the queen of chaos, remember?
Tim: Queen or not, little hurricane, you follow me. Or I’ll dump
you in the fountain myself.
Erin: She laughs maniacally. Deal!
Name: Timothy Dovan
Nicknames: Tim, Mad Dog
Age: 241 years old
Species: Vampire
Gender: Male
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 210 lbs
Clan: Brujah
~ Generation: 10th
Organization: Crimson Dogs Motorcycle Club
~ Rank: President/Founder
Family:
~ Father:
~ Mother:
~Younger Brother: Frederick "Freddy" Dovan
~ Younger Brother: Joseph "Joe" Dovan
~ Older Sister: Irava "Poison Ivy" Dovan
~ Younger Sister: Cheryl "Blood Witch" Dovan
~ Younger Sister: Erin "Wild Child" Dovan
#Post#: 20455--------------------------------------------------
Re: Exiles WIP: Timothy "Tim" Dovan
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 30, 2025, 1:35 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Background:
Blood and Asphalt
New Orleans, 3:47 a.m.
The sound of roaring engines ripped through the humid night air
like the growl of beasts freed from Hell. The Crimson Dogs—New
Orleans’ most feared biker gang—tore through the French Quarter
with red lights gleaming off chrome and blood-spattered leather.
At their head rode Timothy “Tim” Dovan, a vampire whose grin
could make devils look twice before shaking hands.
Tim wasn’t subtle. He was a storm on two wheels—tattooed arms
slick with sweat and vitae, sunglasses still on even in the dead
of night, and a leather cut marked with a bleeding wolf’s head.
Every vampire in New Orleans knew that symbol. Every mortal
feared it.
The Prince of New Orleans had outlawed the Dovan family from
entering the Quarter months ago. Too loud, too wild, too much
Masquerade risk. But Tim didn’t give a damn about decrees. The
Prince’s rules meant nothing to the Brujah, especially one who
lived and died for chaos.
Beside him rode his younger brother Freddy—lean, jumpy, always
with a shotgun strapped to his back and a cigarette hanging from
his lip. Behind them was Joe, the quiet one, his face blank as a
slate but his eyes cold and calculating. He didn’t need to speak
to be heard. When Joe stepped in, it meant someone had crossed a
line, and cleanup was about to get bloody.
Riding flank was Ivara—razor-edged and merciless. She wore
mirrored shades, a studded jacket, and a machete strapped to her
thigh. And somewhere back in the pack, laughing louder than the
bikes themselves, was Erin—the youngest sister, the family’s
wildcard. Erin loved chaos for the thrill of it, for the art of
destruction. She once blew up a sheriff’s cruiser just because
the flashing lights annoyed her.
Together, they were the Dovans—the Brujah brood that turned New
Orleans’ nightlife into a war zone.
They rolled to a stop at the edge of Canal Street, where the
neon signs bled color into puddles of rainwater. The mortals
scattered when they saw the gang pull up. A few Kindred lurked
nearby, slipping into the shadows. Nobody wanted to be seen when
Tim Dovan and his bloodline came out to play.
“Prince says we’re outta bounds,” Freddy muttered, spitting out
smoke.
Tim smirked, running a thumb across a jagged scar on his cheek.
“Prince can kiss my undead @ss. This is our city. Always has
been.”
“Until he sends his enforcers again,” Joe said quietly. “Last
time, they came with stakes.”
Tim revved his engine and grinned wider. “Then we send them home
in ash this time.”
Erin laughed from her bike, kicking up the kickstand with a
metallic clack. “Let’s see how fast they burn tonight!”
“Hold it,” Ivara snapped, her voice a whip-crack. “We’re not
here to start a war. We’re here to remind the Prince we’re still
alive.”
Tim turned his gaze to her—his big sister, the only one who
could still talk him down from frenzy. “You say that every
night, Ivy. But what’s the point of being alive if you don’t
raise a little Hell?”
She sighed. “Just don’t make me mop up your mess again.”
Joe gave a low chuckle. “That’s my job, remember?”
The siblings exchanged knowing smirks. Blood bound them tighter
than the Embrace ever could. They were family first, anarchs
second, and enemies of order to the grave—and beyond it.
They parked outside Le Cercueil, a vampire bar that pretended to
be neutral territory. Inside, the Kindred whispered and drank
from their crimson-filled goblets, pretending at civility. The
Dovans burst in like a shotgun blast through stained glass.
Music stopped. Every eye turned.
Tim swaggered to the bar and slammed a blood flask on the
counter. “A round for me and mine. On the Prince’s tab.”
The bartender—a Toreador with too much perfume and not enough
spine—hesitated. “The Prince doesn’t approve—”
Tim’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. “Then send him
the bill. And tell him Timothy Dovan says New Orleans doesn’t
belong to princes—it belongs to wolves.”
Freddy laughed. Erin whooped and climbed onto the bar, knocking
over glasses and kicking bottles across the floor. Ivara just
rolled her eyes, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed.
Joe quietly scanned the exits—calculating, as always.
Then came the sound of polished boots on tile.
Three enforcers entered, wearing the sigil of the Prince’s
court—a fleur-de-lis with fangs. They didn’t speak. They didn’t
need to.
Tim smiled like a man who’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Well,” he said, cr@cking his knuckles, “the party’s here.”
What followed was beautiful chaos. Tables shattered. Fangs
flashed. Erin cackled as she smashed a bottle and dragged it
across an enforcer’s face. Freddy fired his shotgun point-blank
into another’s chest. Ivara fought with surgical precision,
slicing tendons and arteries with her machete.
And Joe—silent, grim Joe—snapped the neck of the last enforcer
with mechanical calm, then dragged the corpse into the alley.
When it was over, Tim stood amidst the ruin—covered in blood,
panting, his eyes burning crimson.
He raised his flask to the stunned survivors and grinned.
“Tell the Prince,” he said, voice like gravel soaked in fire,
“that the Dovans don’t bow. Not tonight. Not ever.”
They left the bar in flames.
Their bikes roared again, engines echoing off the Mississippi
like thunder.
Five shadows vanished into the smoke and night, laughing like
devils as New Orleans trembled.
The Dovans were on the move.
And the city’s Prince had just been reminded—
Anarchy doesn’t die.
It rides.
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 2 — “The Howl of Steel”
The storm rolled in over New Orleans like a living thing—thunder
growling in the distance, lightning cutting through the humid
night like the flash of knives. The Dovans tore down Highway 90,
their bikes spitting fire into the dark. Smoke and rain mixed
with the scent of gasoline and blood.
Timothy Dovan led the pack again, his hair whipping behind him
like a banner of rebellion. Erin rode on his left, laughing at
the storm. Freddy kept to the right, scanning for headlights.
Ivara followed close behind, eyes sharp and serious, while Joe
rode tail—silent, watching, calculating.
It had been three nights since Le Cercueil burned. The Prince
hadn’t struck back yet. That silence alone was enough to make
Tim’s blood stir with suspicion.
“Feels too quiet,” Ivara said over the roar of engines. “Prince
should’ve sent something by now. Ghouls, Kindred, something.”
“Maybe he’s scared,” Erin said, flashing a grin. “Or maybe he’s
dead. I’d drink to either.”
Tim chuckled. “Nah. He’s waiting. But I’ll be damned if I’m
gonna sit around waiting for him.”
Joe’s voice cut through the comms, low and calm. “Tim… you
hearing that?”
The others slowed. In the distance came another sound—low,
mechanical, and angry. A pack of motorcycles. Big ones. Engines
deeper and meaner than theirs, rumbling like an approaching
storm front.
Out of the rain emerged another group of riders. Fifteen at
least, maybe more. They wore black leather emblazoned with a
snarling wolf’s head and blood-red fangs. Their headlights cut
through the fog, glaring white and gold.
The lead rider was massive, his silhouette broader than any man
had a right to be. When he stopped twenty feet away, the others
fanned out behind him, forming a semicircle of chrome and
muscle.
Tim revved his engine once. “You’re far from home, boys.”
The leader grinned, revealing teeth too sharp for human. “Home’s
wherever the road takes us, leech. Name’s Cain Voss. This here’s
my pack—The Bloodhounds. Heard the Dovans were making noise in
our territory.”
Erin smirked. “Your territory? Thought this was the Prince’s
turf.”
Cain’s laugh was deep, rumbling like thunder. “Prince don’t own
nothin’ here. Not anymore.”
Freddy leaned forward, shotgun across his handlebars. “And what
exactly are you, friend? You smell like a kennel with a morgue
problem.”
That got the pack laughing—a low, animal growl of amusement.
Cain’s grin widened, and his eyes flashed gold. “We’re what
happens when the Beast and the Blood stop fighting and start
breeding.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Werepyres.”
Cain nodded slowly. “Half blood, half fury. We hunt in the dark
and drink in the moonlight. And we don’t take kindly to Kindred
trash burning down our favorite hangout.”
Ivara’s hand drifted toward her machete. “Le Cercueil was your
bar?”
Cain’s grin turned feral. “Used to be. Until you turned it into
a bonfire.”
The air between the two gangs thickened, heavy with tension and
ozone. Lightning **** overhead, painting the scene in white
fire.
Tim smirked and cr@cked his neck. “You wanna dance, dog? Let’s
see if you bleed like one.”
Cain’s bike roared to life again. “You got guts, Dovan. Let’s
see if they look good on the pavement.”
And then the world exploded into chaos.
Freddy’s shotgun boomed, sending silver slugs through the air.
Two of the Bloodhounds went down, twitching and snarling. Erin
rode straight into the fray, swinging a chain like a whip,
cackling as sparks flew.
Joe dismounted, moving with cold precision—blade flashing in
arcs of steel. He was the family’s ghost, silent and efficient,
cutting down anything that got too close.
Ivara met one of the Bloodhounds head-on, her machete clashing
against claws. The creature shifted mid-swing, its body
half-wolf, half-vampire, muscles tearing and reforming. It
grinned with both sets of fangs.
“You fight like a machine,” it growled.
“Good,” she hissed, and buried her blade in its throat.
Tim and Cain circled each other in the storm.
Cain dismounted, cr@cking his knuckles as his transformation
began—fur sprouting, claws extending, eyes glowing with feral
light. His voice came out guttural and deep. “I heard about you,
Dovan. The Prince’s thorn. The anarch. The mad dog with no
master.”
“Damn right,” Tim said, baring his fangs. “And I don’t need a
leash.” He lunged.
Cain met him mid-air, their collision cr@cking asphalt. Fists
met claws, fangs tore skin, and the scent of supernatural blood
filled the rain-soaked night. Cain’s strength was monstrous, his
hybrid form a perfect union of predator and undead. Tim fought
like fury incarnate, channeling centuries of rage, his Brujah
power boiling through every strike.
They slammed through a parked car, flipping it like tin.
Erin whooped from across the lot. “Kick his hairy ass, Timmy!”
Cain howled, slamming Tim into the ground. “You can’t win,
leech. You’re fighting evolution.”
Tim spat blood and grinned through broken teeth. “No, you’re
fighting Dovans.”
Freddy’s shotgun fired again—silver buckshot tearing into Cain’s
shoulder. Cain roared and turned just as Joe appeared behind
him, driving a silvered rebar through his thigh. Ivara leapt in,
slashing at his arm.
The pack fell apart as the Dovans worked in unison—brutal,
precise, unstoppable.
When Cain finally fell to one knee, bleeding silver and crimson,
Tim stood over him, panting, wild-eyed.
“You picked the wrong road, mutt,” Tim said, then drove his boot
into Cain’s skull.
The impact cr@cked concrete. The Bloodhound leader hit the
ground and didn’t rise.
The surviving werepyres fled into the storm, dragging their
wounded.
The Dovans stood amidst the wreckage—bikes smoking, blood mixing
with rain, the air heavy with ozone and death.
Erin lit a cigarette with shaky hands and grinned. “Well… that
was fun.”
Ivara wiped blood from her face. “You think that’s all of them?”
Joe looked into the dark where the Bloodhounds had vanished.
“No. That was just a warning.”
Tim spat on Cain’s corpse and smiled, sharp and bloody.
“Good,” he said. “I love when they bring friends.”
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 3 — “Moonlight and Gasoline”
The night after the Bloodhound massacre, the rain refused to
stop. It fell like liquid steel, hissing on the Dovans’ bikes as
they rumbled into the warehouse they called home—a gutted
freight terminal on the edge of the Mississippi, lit only by oil
drums and red floodlights.
Inside, the gang worked in silence. Freddy patched bullet holes
in his jacket. Ivara cleaned her machete with cold precision.
Erin sprawled across a crate, humming to herself while flipping
a butterfly knife. Joe was at the table, scrubbing blood off his
gloves.
Tim sat on an overturned engine block, staring into the flames
of a barrel fire. His sunglasses were gone. The Brujah’s eyes
burned faintly red, reflecting the firelight and something
else—thought.
He didn’t think much. Not usually. But this time…
The Bloodhounds weren’t ordinary muscle. He’d seen werewolves
before. Fought a few, too. But werepyres? That was something
new—and wrong.
“You’re quiet, boss,” Freddy muttered. “That’s never a good
sign.”
Tim didn’t look up. “They weren’t just mutts, Fred. Someone made
them.”
Joe’s voice cut through, even and cold. “Splicing the curse with
the blood. Someone’s experimenting.”
Erin grinned. “Sounds fun. We could use a few of those, huh?
Bite a werewolf, see what happens.”
Ivara gave her a hard look. “You’d probably explode.”
Tim finally stood, stretching his shoulders. “Whoever’s behind
the Bloodhounds—made them—didn’t do it for fun. This is
strategy. Somebody’s stirring the pot. And I’m guessing the
Prince’s dainty hands aren’t clean.”
Freddy cocked his shotgun. “You think he sicced ‘em on us?”
Tim smirked. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Too scared to send his
own dogs, so he hires hybrids.”
Erin blew a smoke ring. “Then we hunt the hunters.”
The Dovans split up that night—old-school recon. Freddy and Joe
hit the docks, shaking down ghouls and mortal smugglers. Ivara
went to her contacts in Tremé, the witches and blood cults that
trafficked in secrets. Erin followed her own kind of lead:
chaos.
Tim rode alone.
The storm had thinned to drizzle as he coasted down toward the
industrial backroads of Chalmette. The scent of oil and wet
metal hung thick in the air. He came to a stop outside a rusted
steel refinery that hadn’t operated in years—except the lights
were on, faint and red, like blood seen through fog.
He killed the engine.
And then he heard it—low voices, animal growls, and the sound of
chains.
Tim grinned. “Found you.”
He kicked the door open and stepped inside.
The interior stank of rust and blood. Chains hung from the
rafters. The floor was smeared with old stains. But what caught
Tim’s eye wasn’t the Bloodhounds—it was what they surrounded.
Steel tables. Surgical tools. Restraints. And in the center, a
massive, humanoid shape under a tarp—still twitching.
“Guessing that’s your science project,” Tim said.
The Bloodhounds turned, stepping from the shadows. A dozen of
them, this time. Their leader—Cain Voss—wasn’t among them, but
his voice carried from the far end of the room.
“You killed my brother, Dovan.”
Tim’s grin didn’t waver. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.
I lose count after midnight.”
Cain stepped out from behind the tarp—alive. His head stitched
back together with steel wire, his eyes glowing gold and
crimson.
Erin had called him hairy before. Now, he looked monstrous.
“You think a silver slug’s gonna end me?” Cain growled. “I’m
both curses in one body. You can’t kill me easy.”
Tim cr@cked his neck. “Then I’ll make it hard.”
Cain snapped his fingers. The tarp came off.
What lay beneath was abomination—a figure twice as tall as a
man, covered in cables and flesh, its veins pulsing black. It
had fangs and claws and a heart that beat with a mechanical
rhythm.
“Meet the next generation,” Cain said proudly. “No masters. No
hunger. Just rage.”
The thing opened its eyes—one yellow, one red—and roared.
Tim barely dove aside before it smashed the floor where he’d
been standing. The concrete cr@cked like thunder.
He sprang back, activating his Brujah speed. His fist slammed
into the creature’s chest—bone splintered—but it barely
flinched.
Cain laughed. “You can’t stop evolution, leech!”
“Evolution?” Tim spat blood and grinned. “Looks like a bad
science fair project.”
The fight tore through the refinery—chains snapping, steel beams
collapsing. Tim fought like a devil, dodging and striking, using
every ounce of supernatural strength he had.
Just when the creature pinned him against a wall, a shotgun
blast ripped through its spine.
Freddy.
Behind him came Ivara, blades flashing, and Erin on a
bike—inside the damn building—crashing through crates to slam
straight into Cain.
Joe followed last, calm as ever, tossing a satchel toward the
machinery.
“Time to go,” he said.
The explosion ripped through the refinery. The shockwave threw
them all outside, flaming debris raining down around them.
Cain staggered out of the flames, half his face gone, the hybrid
monster collapsing behind him.
He looked at Tim, eyes burning. “This ain’t over.”
Tim wiped blood from his mouth. “Good. I’d hate for it to be
short.”
The Bloodhounds’ leader fled into the night, his pack scattering
into the rain.
The Dovans stood together, bruised and bloodied, but smiling.
“Think that was their boss?” Erin asked.
Tim shook his head. “No. That was just muscle. There’s somebody
else behind this. Someone with money, tech, and bad ideas.”
Joe stared at the burning refinery. “If hybrids are being made…
this city’s about to tear itself apart.”
Tim grinned, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Then let’s make
sure we’re the ones left standing when it does.”
The five Dovans walked toward their bikes as sirens wailed in
the distance. The rain hissed against the flames, steam rising
like ghosts.
New Orleans wasn’t ready for what came next.
Neither was the Prince.
And somewhere, deep in the city, a figure in a crimson suit
watched through a glass window—smiling as two shadows, one wolf
and one vampire, flickered on the wall behind him.
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 4 — “The Flesh That Thinks”
The moon over New Orleans was swollen and red that night,
bleeding light across the rooftops like a warning. The storm had
passed, but the air was still thick with the smell of ozone and
gasoline. Somewhere down by the levee, the Crimson Dogs
regrouped.
The refinery was ashes. The Bloodhounds were scattered. And yet…
none of the Dovans were celebrating.
They’d seen too much. The thing in that warehouse—the hybrid
creature stitched together with steel and sinew—wasn’t something
made by rage or nature. That was crafted. Sculpted. Designed.
And that meant one thing. Someone in New Orleans was playing god
with monsters.
Tim stood over a spread of bloodstained blueprints laid across a
crate. Joe had fished them from the wreckage, edges scorched,
the paper stiff with soot and vitae.
The drawings weren’t mechanical. They were organic. Spirals of
veins, glands, organs modified by hand, annotated in an archaic
script older than modern Kindred dialect. A sigil stamped on the
corner was unmistakable—an ouroboros made of bone.
Freddy squinted. “That’s not the Prince’s mark. Looks older.
Real old.”
Ivara frowned. “Tzimisce. Clan of flesh-shapers. They make war
machines out of blood and bone.”
Erin laughed nervously. “Oh, that’s cute. We’re fightin’ mad
scientists who turn people into meat sculptures.”
Tim’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Nah, sis. We’re fightin’
the guy who invented that idea.”
By midnight, the Dovans were cutting through the Garden
District—where the Prince’s influence was strongest. The streets
glowed gold and white under gas lamps, immaculate, quiet. Too
clean.
Tim hated it.
The mansion they stopped at wasn’t on any registry—an old estate
from the 1800s, its wrought-iron gates twisted into gothic
snarls. No guards. No ghouls. Just silence and the faint hum of
something alive beneath the ground.
Joe crouched by the lock. “Old wards. Flesh-bound. Living
metal.”
“Meaning?” Freddy asked.
“Meaning if I break it wrong, the gate’ll scream.”
Tim cr@cked his knuckles. “Then we do it loud.”
With a roar, he ripped the gate from its hinges. The wrought
iron squealed like something dying.
“Guess we’re doing it loud,” Joe muttered.
Inside, the mansion was a cathedral of bones. The walls pulsed
faintly, veins of dark vitae running through the plaster.
Paintings watched them with living eyes. The furniture was
shaped from muscle and lacquered skin.
Erin gagged. “This place looks like an anatomy textbook had an
*rgy.”
Freddy muttered a prayer he hadn’t believed in since before he
died.
They followed the heartbeat sound down to the cellar—an open
surgical pit lit by bioluminescent tubes and humming blood
machines.
And there, standing at the center of it all, was him.
Tall. Gaunt. Dressed in black that shimmered like dried blood.
His face was pale and sharp, but not skeletal—almost beautiful,
in a way that felt wrong. A series of bone ridges traced his
jawline like jewelry grown from flesh.
“Timothy Dovan,” the figure said softly, his voice echoing from
everywhere at once. “And his charming siblings. How rare it is
to meet a family that has not forgotten what blood truly means.”
Tim stepped forward, eyes hard. “You the bastard making
half-breeds in my city?”
The figure smiled faintly. “Your city? You anarchs are adorable.
You think rebellion makes you free, but you are merely a symptom
of the disease that sustains me.”
“Name,” Ivara demanded.
The Tzimisce bowed slightly. “Doctor Sava Vaduva. Bio-architect
of the Old Clan. And lately… artisan to your Prince.”
Tim spat on the floor. “Figures. The old man hides behind a
freak.”
Vaduva’s eyes gleamed. “Not behind. Through. Every beast you
faced—the Bloodhounds, the hybrid—was my experiment. The Prince
wanted warriors loyal to him, unbound by hunger or moon. I gave
him evolution. And you destroyed my work.”
Freddy cocked his shotgun. “Sorry, Doc. We don’t do polite
disagreements.”
Vaduva didn’t flinch. “I don’t seek one. I seek samples.”
The walls moved. Flesh peeled back like curtains, and the air
filled with snarls. The Bloodhounds were there—dozens of them,
re-forged, scarred, their eyes burning red and gold. But this
time, they weren’t alone. Some crawled on walls. Some fused with
machinery. All of them bore Vaduva’s touch.
Erin grinned wildly. “Okay, that’s horrifying. Let’s do this.”
Tim’s voice was pure fire. “Dovans—tear it down!”
The room erupted into chaos. Freddy’s shotgun barked flame and
silver, echoing through the vault. Ivara leapt into the swarm,
blades whirling, cutting through fur and tendon. Erin danced
through the madness, her chain whistling, laughter echoing like
a banshee.
Joe fought with mechanical precision, snapping necks, ripping
hearts, always near Tim—protecting his flank like a shadow.
Tim charged straight for Vaduva. The Tzimisce moved like liquid
nightmare, limbs reshaping mid-swing, fingers elongating into
blades.
“You can’t stop progress!” Vaduva hissed.
Tim’s fist connected with his chest, cr@cking bone and throwing
him into a table. “Progress died with your humanity, freak.”
Vaduva’s body split open—and another hand reached out from
inside, gripping Tim by the throat. A voice whispered in his
ear, distorted and wet. “I will make you perfect.”
“Already am,” Tim growled—and bit down. Hard.
Vaduva screamed as Tim tore his throat open, vitae and bone
spraying across the lab. The Bloodhounds howled in unison,
staggering as if their hive-mind connection had been severed.
Joe lit a Molotov and threw it at the ceiling. “We’re done
here!”
The room caught fire instantly—flames crawling up living walls,
the mansion itself screaming as it burned.
Tim dropped the twitching Tzimisce to the floor and spat blood.
“Tell your Prince—” he growled, voice thick with fury, “the
Dovans are done playin’.”
They fled the collapsing mansion, the fire chasing them out into
the night.
Behind them, the estate imploded in a shower of sparks and
embers. The red moon loomed overhead, huge and heavy.
Erin laughed breathlessly as they reached their bikes. “So… we
killed an undead mad scientist working for the vampire Prince.
What’s next, space aliens?”
Freddy smirked. “Don’t give the universe ideas.”
Ivara looked back at the burning ruin. “That Tzimisce—he said
artisan to the Prince. He wasn’t working alone.”
Tim stared at the inferno, eyes reflecting the flames. “Yeah.
Which means the old man’s building an army. And he just lost his
favorite toy.”
Joe zipped his jacket. “Then he’ll come for us next.”
Tim grinned, blood still dripping from his chin. “Good. Saves me
the trip.”
The Dovans mounted up, engines roaring beneath the crimson moon.
New Orleans shuddered as five shadows tore through the
night—anarchs, killers, and family.
Behind them, the city of the damned began to stir.
The war for New Orleans had just begun.
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 5 — “The Bayou Burns”
New Orleans didn’t sleep anymore. Not after the Dovans burned
the mansion. Not after word spread that the Prince’s pet
Tzimisce—Dr. Vaduva—was nothing but ashes and screams.
For the first time in a century, Kindred walked the city with
fear on their faces. The Prince’s control had cr@cked. The
Anarchs whispered in the corners of Bourbon Street, old gangs
rose from the shadows, and the mortals—unknowing—could feel it
in the air.
Something had shifted.
And in the dark places of the bayou, something worse had woken
up.
The Crimson Dogs were laying low—or trying to.
Their safehouse, an abandoned steamboat called The Magdalene,
sat half-sunk in the reeds. The metal creaked with every ripple
of the swamp. It smelled like rust and death, which suited the
Dovans just fine.
Freddy was cleaning weapons on the deck. Erin lounged on a
railing, tossing empty bottles into the water. Joe sat
cross-legged, sharpening a blade with silent precision. Ivara
was pacing—restless, listening for trouble.
Tim stood at the edge, staring out across the mist.
“I know that look,” Ivara said. “You’re thinkin’ about lighting
something on fire again.”
Tim smirked faintly. “Nah. I’m thinkin’ about who’s coming to
kill us.”
Freddy snorted. “Aren’t they always?”
Joe’s eyes flicked up. “Not like this time. The Prince’ll want
blood. Publicly.”
“He can want all he likes,” Erin said, stretching like a cat.
“He’s gonna get lead and fangs.”
But Joe didn’t smile. “No. This’ll be different. He’s sending
his Hounds.”
They came with the storm.
The first flash of lightning revealed figures riding through the
fog—sleek bikes, black armor, pale faces under helmets. These
weren’t ghouls or Bloodhounds. They were Kindred, handpicked and
sculpted by the Prince himself.
The Gilded Guard.
His personal army. Old Ventrue, Lasombra, even a few of those
half-dead Tremere warlocks—all wrapped in steel and arrogance.
Their leader was a tall, silver-haired vampire with a saber
strapped to his back. His name was Laurent DuPre, the Prince’s
right hand. He was centuries old and had executed more anarchs
than the Inquisition ever counted.
He stopped on the dock, rain hissing off his coat.
“Timothy Dovan,” he called. “By order of His Grace, Prince
Alphonse Duval, you and your kin are sentenced to final death
for treason, anarchy, and the destruction of His Majesty’s
assets.”
Tim grinned from the steamboat’s deck. “You rehearsed that, huh?
Sounded real pretty.”
Laurent’s expression didn’t change. “You should be honored. The
Prince wanted you destroyed personally.”
“Then he should’ve come himself,” Tim said, baring his fangs.
“’Cause you? You’re just another lapdog with a fancy coat.”
Laurent’s eyes flared silver. “Kill them.”
The night detonated.
Automatic fire screamed across the dock. Erin ducked behind a
railing, laughing like a maniac as bullets tore through the
hull. Freddy returned fire with his shotgun, silver shells
flashing in the rain.
Ivara moved like lightning, cutting through two enforcers before
they even hit the planks.
Joe was a ghost—silent, surgical, striking from shadows. He slit
throats with precise grace, his movements a dance of death.
Tim leapt from the boat, landing on the dock hard enough to
cr@ck wood. His fists glowed faintly red as Brujah fury burned
through him. The first Guard who tried to grab him had his neck
broken before he hit the water.
Laurent stepped forward, drawing his saber. “You’re an animal,
Dovan.”
Tim cr@cked his knuckles. “Nah. Just honest.”
Their clash sent sparks flying. Laurent moved with inhuman
grace, blade carving arcs of silver through the rain. Tim met
him head-on, blow for blow, raw power against centuries of
refinement.
The fight turned brutal fast—Tim bleeding from a cut across his
chest, Laurent’s ribs shattered from a counterpunch.
Erin threw a pipe bomb into the mix. “Fireworks, baby!”
It detonated in midair, scattering fire across the dock. Two
Guards went up in flames, their screams echoing across the
swamp.
Freddy shouted over the chaos, “We’re gonna have the whole damn
court on us!”
Tim slammed Laurent’s head into the ground. “Then we kill the
court too!”
But Laurent laughed through bloodied teeth. “You think you’ve
won, anarch? You don’t even know what he’s built.”
From the fog behind the Guard came the growl.
The Bloodhounds were back.
Dozens of them—only now, they moved differently. Faster.
Smoother. Their bodies stitched tighter, their eyes burning
brighter. They weren’t just monsters anymore. They were
commanded.
Behind them, lightning lit up a silhouette standing in the
storm—a tall figure in a crimson coat, cane in one hand,
umbrella in the other.
The Prince of New Orleans.
Alphonse Duval himself.
His voice carried over the rain, calm and cold as marble.
“Timothy Dovan. You’ve made my city bleed long enough.”
Tim snarled. “Your city? Naw, Prince. It belongs to us.”
Duval raised his hand. The Bloodhounds lunged.
The bayou exploded into war. Erin’s laughter turned manic as she
rode her bike straight into a cluster of werepyres, chain
flying. Freddy’s shotgun barked silver and flame, the shells
tearing holes through flesh and fur. Ivara carved a path toward
the Prince’s Guard, cutting through armor with blood-slick
precision.
Joe moved like a shadow among shadows, severing throats before
they could howl.
And Tim—Tim met the Prince himself on the dock.
Duval dropped his cane. The air around him warped with age and
power. His fangs gleamed like ivory knives. “You think rebellion
makes you strong?” he hissed. “It makes you predictable.”
Tim’s grin was all teeth. “Then you ain’t been payin’
attention.”
They collided with the force of thunder.
Duval’s strength was ancient—controlled, deliberate. Tim’s was
wild, chaotic, alive. Every punch was a storm. Every strike was
centuries of Brujah fury unleashed.
Lightning split the sky as they fought across the dock,
shattering planks and sending sparks into the swamp.
Freddy shouted, “We’re surrounded!”
“Then fight harder!” Tim roared, driving his fist into the
Prince’s jaw hard enough to send him flying into a pillar.
Duval rose slowly, his coat torn, his face burned. “You can’t
kill me, boy.”
“Maybe not,” Tim said, grabbing a silver fuel drum and kicking
it toward him, “but I can make you wish I did.”
Erin flicked a lighter. “Boom time!”
The bayou erupted in fire.
When the smoke cleared, the Prince was gone. So were most of the
Guard and the Bloodhounds. The Dovans stood among ashes and
corpses, half-burned, half-laughing.
Freddy leaned on his shotgun. “We still alive?”
Ivara nodded. “Barely.”
Erin grinned through soot. “Still counts!”
Joe wiped blood from his knife. “He’s not dead. Duval. He’s
regrouping.”
Tim looked toward the burning horizon, where the city lights
still flickered. “Let him. I want him to see what he built fall
apart.”
He turned back to his siblings, the flames reflecting in his
eyes.
“New Orleans is done playin’ Prince and Court. From now on—it’s
Dovan country.”
They mounted their bikes as the fire ate the docks, thunder
rolling overhead.
The war for New Orleans had begun in blood, and it would end in
it.
And as the Crimson Dogs roared back toward the city, the bayou
behind them burned like Hell’s own promise.
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 6 — “The Devil’s City”
The fire from the bayou still burned in the distance, smoke
curling over New Orleans like a black crown. The storm had
passed, but the city trembled beneath it—its pulse thick with
fear, blood, and chaos.
Tim Dovan’s laughter echoed through the streets as the Crimson
Dogs rolled back into town, tires hissing over wet pavement.
Their bikes looked like beasts in the neon glow—chrome and blood
and teeth. The scent of gasoline and ash clung to them like
perfume.
New Orleans had seen monsters before. But it had never seen
this.
They took over a warehouse by the river—an old smuggler’s den
long forgotten by the Camarilla. The walls were painted with
graffiti sigils, anarch symbols, and crude vampire skulls. Erin
sat on the bar, kicking her boots against the wood, as Freddy
unloaded ammo crates.
Ivara was at the back, torching the last of the Prince’s
tracking chips from their bikes. Joe, quiet as always, was
cleaning his knives, his mind working behind cold eyes.
Tim stood in the center of it all, stripped down to his
bloodstained shirt, arms crossed, staring at a city map tacked
to the wall. Every circle on it marked a fight waiting to
happen—Camarilla havens, feeding zones, loyalist safehouses.
Erin tilted her head. “You look like you’re planning a goddamn
war, big brother.”
Tim smirked, not looking up. “That’s ‘cause I am.”
Freddy chuckled, cr@cking open a beer. “We just burned half the
bayou, crushed the Prince’s pets, and sent his lapdog cryin’.
Ain’t that enough for one night?”
Tim turned, eyes gleaming crimson. “You think Duval’s done? He’s
got blood magic, old money, and half the damn elders in his
pocket. He’ll be comin’ back meaner than ever.”
Joe spoke finally, voice low. “Then we’ll have to hit first.”
“Damn right,” Tim said. He slammed a knife into the map. “No
more hiding. We’re takin’ his city, one street at a time.”
The first phase hit the docks.
Ivara led that one—precision strikes, no mercy. They raided a
Tremere blood refinery disguised as a seafood plant. The workers
screamed as Ivara tore through their thaumaturges like tissue
paper. Erin followed behind her, torching vats of vitae, singing
at the top of her lungs.
By dawn, the whole district reeked of burnt blood and ozone.
Next came Freddy’s turn.
He rolled through the Ninth Ward with a convoy of mortal bikers,
anarch sympathizers, and ghouled mercs. They took out the
Nosferatu data hubs, silencing the Prince’s eyes and ears
underground. Freddy laughed through the firefight, teeth
flashing as bullets ricocheted off the concrete.
“Long live chaos!” he roared.
By the time the sun rose again, the Camarilla had lost two major
feeding zones, a dozen enforcers, and their entire surveillance
web.
New Orleans was unraveling.
But the Dovans weren’t the only ones moving.
In the shadows beyond the Quarter, the Bloodhounds regrouped.
Their alpha—an enormous werepyre named Marcus Vale—knelt before
the smoldering ruins of the bayou dock. His hybrid form
shimmered between fur and pale flesh, fangs glinting in the
moonlight.
“The Prince failed,” he snarled, voice a mix of growl and
whisper. “Now it’s my turn.”
Behind him stood a dozen hybrids, eyes glowing with hunger.
One of them spoke hesitantly. “You said we’d be free once Duval
was gone.”
Marcus smiled—a cruel, hungry thing. “And we will be. But first,
we tear down the ones who made us monsters.”
He turned toward the city, scenting the air like a predator.
“Dovans.”
Back in the warehouse, the Dovans were celebrating another
victory when Joe stiffened.
“Quiet.”
Everyone froze. The sound came from outside—low growls, too
steady, too heavy to be human.
Ivara grabbed her blade. “Heard that one before.”
Tim nodded. “Bloodhounds.”
The walls shook. Then the front gate exploded inward.
Marcus Vale stormed through the smoke like a nightmare—a
creature of claws, muscle, and undeath. His voice was deep,
shaking the rafters.
“You think you’re kings of the street? You burned my kin,
vampire!”
Tim stepped forward, fearless. “They came at us.”
“You burned them alive!”
“They were tryin’ to eat us!”
Marcus roared and lunged.
The warehouse erupted into chaos—Erin leaping onto a hybrid’s
back, stabbing with wild laughter; Ivara slicing through one’s
throat with surgical precision; Freddy firing silver rounds into
the mob. Joe vanished into the smoke, reappearing behind Marcus,
slicing a tendon, moving like a ghost.
Tim and Marcus crashed through the concrete floor, locked in a
brutal grapple. Marcus was stronger—feral, mutated, built for
killing. But Tim was pure fury. He headbutted Marcus hard enough
to cr@ck bone, slammed his elbow into his snout, and drove a
rebar spike through his shoulder.
“You want blood?” Tim snarled. “You came to the right family!”
Marcus caught him by the throat and threw him through a wall.
“You don’t understand!” Marcus bellowed. “Duval made us! He owns
us! You kill me, he’ll just make more!”
That stopped Tim cold. “What?”
Marcus’s eyes burned red. “You think I wanted this? He turned us
into weapons—half Kindred, half beast—to destroy you! You’re
fightin’ his war for him!”
The truth hit like a hammer.
Erin froze mid-laugh. Freddy lowered his gun. Even Ivara
hesitated.
Joe, ever calm, stepped forward. “Then maybe we kill the
puppeteer.”
Marcus growled. “You’ll never reach him. He’s gone underground.
Beneath the city. He’s got a lab down there—a nest.”
Tim wiped blood from his mouth, staring into Marcus’s eyes.
“Then that’s where we’re goin’.”
He offered his hand.
Marcus hesitated, then clasped it, claws scraping against Tim’s
calloused skin.
The Dovans and the Bloodhounds—sworn enemies hours ago—stood
together in the flickering ruin of the warehouse.
“Guess we got a new hunt,” Erin said, lighting another
cigarette. “And a bigger monster to kill.”
Tim grinned, a savage glint in his eyes. “Oh, yeah. We’re takin’
this fight underground.”
The Crimson Dogs and their new werepyre allies rode into the
night together, leaving fire and corpses behind.
And far below, in the ancient catacombs beneath New Orleans, the
Prince waited. Surrounded by vats of vitae and flesh-shaping
machines, Alphonse Duval smiled.
“So,” he murmured, watching through his blood-scrying glass,
“the dogs have found their new leash.”
He turned to the shadows, where something vast and chittering
moved.
“Let them come.”
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 7 — “The Flesh Below”
The underbelly of New Orleans was older than the city itself.
Before the French Quarter, before the bayous were mapped, before
mortals called it Louisiana—it had been something else.
Something alive.
The tunnels stretched for miles under the streets, built atop
ancient catacombs, collapsed voodoo shrines, and buried slave
tunnels. And deep within, under layers of brick and bone, the
Prince of New Orleans had made his lair—a lab born of blood,
bone, and Tzimisce craft.
The Dovans and the Bloodhounds descended into that darkness like
devils on a mission.
They entered through a drainage culvert, bikes parked at the
edge of the storm channel. Tim led the way, flashlight beam
cutting through the wet, rotting dark. Marcus followed close
behind, his werepyre form hunched to fit beneath the ceiling.
The rest of the Dovans fanned out behind them.
The air was thick—too warm, too wet, the smell of rot mixed with
iron and something else. Something breathing.
Erin wrinkled her nose. “Smells like a slaughterhouse and a
hospital had a baby.”
“Welcome to Tzimisce country,” Ivara muttered.
Freddy kicked a skull aside. “Man, this ain’t even hell anymore.
It’s the hallway to hell.”
They moved deeper. The tunnels pulsed faintly, as if veins were
hidden under the concrete. Fleshy growths crawled over the
walls, twitching when touched by light. Strange whispers drifted
through the air—like chanting played backward through water.
Joe crouched beside a pool of black liquid, dipping his blade
tip into it. “Blood. Fresh. Human.”
Marcus growled, sniffing. “No. Mixed. There’s vitae in it.”
Tim scanned ahead, jaw tightening. “Duval’s makin’ something.”
Erin’s grin widened. “Then let’s ruin his damn experiment.”
The first chamber they entered was filled with vats.
Dozens of them, each one glowing faintly red from within. Shapes
floated inside—bodies in various stages of becoming. Some had
wings. Some had claws. Some had too many mouths.
One of the creatures pressed against the glass, its face
half-formed, whispering in a dozen voices at once:
“Free… us… brother…”
Erin backed away, voice trembling with rare unease. “Tim… that
thing just called me brother.”
Tim clenched his fists. “They’re using our blood. Clones. Flesh
constructs.”
Ivara moved closer to one of the vats, tracing the sigils etched
into its glass. “This isn’t just Tzimisce work. There’s Tremere
wards woven in. He’s blending disciplines.”
Freddy’s voice was quiet for once. “Why? What’s he buildin’?”
Joe answered flatly. “A replacement.”
Marcus turned sharply. “What?”
“A replacement,” Joe repeated. “Duval’s makin’ a new court—one
that obeys without question, that doesn’t need ghouls, doesn’t
rebel. An army that bleeds for him, feeds for him, and never
disobeys.”
Tim slammed his hand against a vat hard enough to cr@ck it.
“He’s makin’ a new breed of slave.”
The creature inside moaned and twitched, as if agreeing.
Then the alarms went off.
The walls split open. Flesh peeled back like doors, and Duval’s
Sentinels poured out—Tzimisce war-spawn, bone and steel fused
together, their faces molded into masks of eternal agony.
Erin grinned, cr@cking her neck. “Party’s started!”
Freddy pumped his shotgun. “Let’s make some noise!”
The tunnels erupted in gunfire and screams. Erin and Ivara
fought back to back—Erin’s claws dripping gore, Ivara’s blade
slicing clean and fast. Freddy laid down heavy fire, blowing
holes in Sentinels and sending chunks of engineered flesh
splattering against the walls.
Marcus tore through enemies like a hurricane, claws rending
metal and bone. Joe vanished into shadow, reappearing only to
strike a perfect, surgical kill.
Tim met a Sentinel head-on, ripping its jaw off with brute force
and shouting over the chaos: “Duval! I know you’re listenin’!
You can hide underground, but we’re diggin’ you out!”
As if in answer, the lights flickered—and a voice filled the
chamber.
It wasn’t coming from speakers. It came from everywhere.
“Timothy Dovan,” it purred, rich and calm. “How gratifying to
see you come crawling. I’d hoped the bayou fire would’ve ended
your… rebellion.”
“Didn’t stick,” Tim spat. “Guess we’re tougher than your toys.”
Duval’s laughter was cold and ancient. “You’re not anarchs.
You’re tools. Hammers that break what I tell you to. Even now,
you do what I designed you for—destroy.”
The vats began to rupture one by one, glass shattering, fluid
pouring out. From the red mist rose the new breed.
Creatures shaped in the Dovans’ image—warped copies with burning
red eyes and snarling mouths.
Erin froze. “Holy hell… they’re us.”
Each clone bore a twisted resemblance—a half-formed reflection
of the siblings. One of them, a pale copy of Tim with exposed
ribs and too many teeth, whispered, “Father says we’re perfect.”
Tim’s fury boiled over. “You ain’t perfect. You’re pitiful!”
The real Dovans charged.
The battle was chaotic.
Erin tore through her own double, laughing and crying at once.
“You ain’t me, sugar! I like what I am!”
Ivara fought with precision, striking her clone through the
heart. “You’re nothing but stolen blood.”
Freddy dual-wielded sawed-offs, screaming, “Ain’t enough room in
this city for one of me!”
Joe moved silent as smoke, beheading his own reflection without
hesitation.
Marcus roared, shattering a mutant with one massive swing of his
claws.
And Tim—Tim met his clone in a flurry of fists and rage,
breaking bone after bone. “He made you to be better than me,
huh? Too bad he forgot the one thing that makes me what I am.”
The clone hissed, “What’s that?”
Tim drove his hand into its chest, ripping out its heart.
“Choice.”
When the last vat was broken and the last clone burned, the
Dovans stood among heaps of meat and broken glass. Blood pooled
at their feet, the air thick with steam and death.
Erin lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Well… that was
traumatic.”
Freddy sat down on a crate, grinning despite himself. “You think
Duval’s still watchin’?”
Tim wiped blood from his mouth and looked up at the flickering
lights. “Yeah. And he’s scared.”
A slow clap echoed through the tunnels.
From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a figure
emerged—tall, regal, face pale as bone. Alphonse Duval, Prince
of New Orleans, untouched and immaculate.
He smiled faintly. “Scared? Oh, my dear Timothy. You still don’t
understand.”
Behind him, something moved. The walls shifted, the floor
trembled. From the depths of the lab, a colossal mass of flesh
and machinery began to rise—veins glowing red, eyes opening
along its length, a fusion of vampire and construct.
“My masterpiece,” Duval said softly. “The city’s new guardian.”
The Dovans stared in horror as the monstrous creation unfolded—a
creature the size of a cathedral, its heart pulsing visibly
within a ribcage of steel and sinew.
Marcus whispered, “He made a god.”
Tim’s eyes gleamed with fury and a crooked smile. “Then we’ll
kill a god.”
The monster screamed, shaking the entire catacomb.
And as the roof began to cr@ck above them, Erin laughed wildly,
loading another mag. “Guess Chapter Seven’s endin’ with
fireworks again!”
Blood and Asphalt, Chapter 8 — “The Heart of the Machine”
The tunnels screamed.
Not with voices—but with pressure, with the groaning of flesh
and steel.
The air was thick with vitae mist as the Prince’s monstrous
creation rose to its full height, scraping the roof of the
cavern.
The creature was a cathedral of horror—a fusion of vampire,
machine, and nightmare. Hydraulic pistons pumped where veins
once were, gears spun through muscle, and a thousand mismatched
eyes rolled and blinked across its flesh.
At its center, visible through a translucent chest cavity, a
heart the size of a car throbbed—glowing bright red.
Every pulse shook the ground.
Every beat whispered, feed… obey… feed…
Tim stood before it, jacket torn, face spattered with blood and
oil. Behind him, the Dovan clan and the Bloodhounds stood
shoulder to shoulder, weapons ready, eyes burning.
Erin whistled low. “Damn, big brother. You sure you didn’t bring
a tank instead of a god?”
Freddy pumped his shotgun and grinned. “Either way, I’m shootin’
it.”
Marcus Vale, half-shifted into his monstrous werepyre form,
rumbled low. “The heart. It’s the control core. You destroy it,
the beast dies.”
Duval’s laughter echoed from the catwalk above, soft and cruel.
“Oh, Marcus. Still thinking like a beast. The heart is not the
mind. I am the mind.”
The Prince stepped forward, his fine coat now marked with faint
sigils glowing across his skin. His eyes were pools of molten
gold.
He raised his hand, and the Guardian moved.
The ground exploded underfoot as a massive arm swung down, made
of cables and bone. The Dovans scattered—Freddy firing, Ivara
leaping aside, Erin rolling under the strike with a grin.
Tim shouted, “Spread out! Don’t bunch up! Take the limbs first!”
The fight began in fire and fury.
Erin darted between metal tendons, planting explosives as she
laughed hysterically. “Bet you didn’t think you’d need kneecaps,
huh, sweetheart?”
She pulled the pin. The explosion rocked the chamber, sending
chunks of flesh raining down.
Ivara moved like a dancer, twin blades flashing silver as she
sliced through the exposed muscle at the monster’s leg joint.
Sparks flew; vitae sprayed like a waterfall.
Freddy unleashed silver buckshot into the open wounds, the
weapon roaring with each pull of the trigger. “Eat lead, you
ugly son of a—” He dove as a metal claw the size of a truck
slammed down, pulverizing the floor where he’d been.
Marcus roared, leaping onto the creature’s arm, ripping into its
shoulder with claws like scythes. He tore open a cavity and
snarled, “Tim! NOW!”
Tim sprinted up the fallen debris, leaping onto the beast’s
chest. He drove his fists into the pulsating flesh, punching
through armor and tissue. The beast screamed—a sound that wasn’t
just physical, but psychic. The noise tore through the air like
a banshee’s cry.
Duval’s voice rose over it, filled with madness and power.
“You can’t destroy progress! I am evolution! I am New Orleans
reborn!”
Tim looked up, blood dripping from his fists. “You’re just a
corpse with a god complex!”
He leapt for the heart.
But the Prince was fast. Faster than he’d ever been before.
Duval blurred across the catwalk, his body flickering through
shadows, and slammed into Tim midair. They crashed onto the
creature’s ribcage, rolling through blood and metal.
Duval bared his fangs. “I made this city, boy. I made you!”
Tim spat in his face, eyes blazing red. “You didn’t make ****!”
They collided again—fangs, fists, claws. The heart throbbed
behind them like a war drum. Sparks rained as their blows
cr@cked the metal plating.
Down below, Erin saw her chance. “Ivara! He’s on the core!”
Ivara hurled one of her blades upward. It spun end over end,
catching the light as it sailed through the smoky air. Tim
caught it mid-fight and buried it straight into Duval’s
shoulder, pinning him to the creature’s ribcage.
Duval screamed, his blood boiling with thaumaturgic energy. The
Guardian convulsed, arms flailing wildly, smashing through
pillars and catwalks.
Marcus was thrown off, slamming into the wall with a roar.
Freddy ducked just as a chunk of debris crushed a Sentinel
behind him.
Joe, silent through the entire fight, moved unseen—his eyes
fixed on the pulsing red core. He vanished into shadow and
reappeared on the creature’s spine, blade ready.
He called up, voice cold and calm: “Tim. Get clear.”
Tim looked down, recognized that tone, and dove aside.
Joe drove his blade into the Guardian’s heart.
The world went white.
The explosion wasn’t fire—it was bloodlight.
Every nerve in the tunnels screamed as the Guardian’s body
imploded, its vitae boiling into vapor. Duval’s shriek echoed
through every wall as the flesh melted away, the magic
unraveling.
The Prince’s body caught fire from within, his face a mask of
disbelief. “No… I was—”
Tim was already on him. He grabbed Duval by the collar and drove
him backward into the molten wreckage. “Yeah,” Tim growled, “you
were.”
He shoved the Prince into the heart’s collapsing core.
The explosion swallowed them both.
When the light finally died, the cavern was silent.
Smoke hung like ghosts. The Guardian’s corpse was gone, reduced
to a crater of blood and ash.
Freddy coughed, leaning on his shotgun. “Tell me he made it
outta that.”
Ivara scanned the ruin, lips tight. “If he didn’t, we’ll burn
down whatever’s left in his honor.”
Marcus shifted back to his humanoid form, half-broken, blood
running down his arms. “He’s Brujah. He’ll crawl back out of
hell if he has to.”
Erin stared into the glowing pit. For once, she wasn’t smiling.
“He better. I ain’t done laughin’ at his dumb jokes yet.”
Then—movement.
A hand. Charred. Bruised. Rising from the rubble.
Tim Dovan pulled himself free, smoke curling from his skin, his
eyes burning like coals. He coughed up ash and spat out a tooth.
“Told you bastards… I don’t die easy.”
Erin whooped, jumping down to help him up. “Damn right, big
brother! You’re too damn mean to die!”
He grinned weakly. “Someone’s gotta keep y’all in line.”
Ivara smirked. “That’s never happening.”
Freddy raised his beer from his pack, dented but unbroken. “To
the Prince.”
Erin added, “And to the dumb monster he built.”
Marcus growled approvingly. “And to the dogs that burned his
kingdom.”
Tim stood, staring into the abyss where Duval’s masterpiece had
been. “Nah. To New Orleans. She’s free now.”
The clan mounted their bikes as dawn approached, engines roaring
through the tunnels. The sunlight above would burn them, but the
tunnels led out to the bayou—a place of shadow, where they ruled
the roads.
As they rode out of the collapsing underground, Tim looked back
one last time.
Beneath the rubble, faint and unseen, something moved.
A heartbeat. Slow. Rebuilding.
The Prince’s voice—faint, distant, but alive—whispered through
the dark:
“Evolution never dies…”
Tim revved his bike, roaring over the sound. “Neither do we.”
They rode out into the sunrise, a pack of devils laughing at the
dawn.
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