Chapter 14

The curtains part with a snarl of rusted rings on twisted rod.

A puff of black powder hissed upward—overshot, off-timed, and reeking of copper.

and the stage is revealed.

It is not a large stage.

A child could cross it in five steps.

But to the audience of wooden silhouettes nailed into tiered scaffolds—each face grinning wide, all pointed toward the stage—it is a grand arena of comedy and death.

Center stage, Mr. Punch raises his club.

It drips.

The red is fresh, arterial, and thick.

He turns to the crowd—eyes bulging, jaw unhinged, teeth like broken glass—and lets out a high, squealing laugh that saws across the boards like a rusted hinge.

"ThaAaat’s the WAY to do IT!!"

His victim—Judy, or what’s left of her—is still twitching beside him.

A bonnet. A smear. One twitching hand holding a baby that hasn't cried once.

Laughter erupts—not from the audience, but from off-stage.

Two more Puppets lurch in. Not with cloth and wood—these wear flesh like costume. One has no lower jaw. The other drags a sausage link made from spines.

Punch doesn't greet them.

He attacks them.

He is the star.

Clubs fly. Bones snap. The floor darkens.

Above them, a crude wooden crocodile dangles from a rigging arm—jerking and biting nothing, puppet teeth clacking. Below it, a trapdoor slams open. A new performer is vomited onto the stage—a pale, naked figure dressed in a ruffled collar, already armed with a blade lodged in its throat like a fountain pen in a desk.

More laughter.

One puppet grabs Judy’s corpse and starts dancing with it—mock-waltzing through the gore, stepping on entrails like tinsel.

The red curtain flaps once.

Mr. Punch looks directly at the audience.

Wooden, real, or otherwise.

He raised his club again—

and a stakehammer was raised in return.

Beatrice’s longer hammer came down like a falling bell.

Head, chest, and pelvis met the boards in one wet collision,

and the blow ended with a wooden spike driven deep into the stage,

pinning what was left of Mr. Punch like a squashed prop.

Behind her, Reuben climbed out of the trapdoor.

He didn’t hesitate.

Crossed the stage in three clean steps—

then pivoted, shifting weight, and drove the stake side of his hammer straight into a puppet’s chest.

The blow crumpled ribs inward before fire claimed the rest.

Ash swept sideways like spilled powder.

Then the trapdoor shattered.

The Sword Swallower erupted through in a bloom of wood and iron,

shards raining around him as he landed mid-stage in a crouch—

theater-perfect, boots cracking the boards beneath him with a graced thud.

And the show must go on.

The vampire with the knife in its throat gasped—

a wet, bubbling sound—and shambled toward Beatrice.

She stepped in.

The shorter hammer snapped low, catching its leg.

It toppled onto her, blade-first, slicing through her arm and thigh as it went down—

but she was already turning.

The momentum carried her weight into the follow-up swing.

The hammer came down.

The bark roared.

Ash followed.

The last puppet lunged at Reuben, spine-link sausages lashing like whips.

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Behind him, the Sword Swallower advanced—

blade already swinging.

Reuben stepped sideways.

The puppet didn’t.

Steel split it down the middle,

and as its halves began to fall, Reuben brought his hammer up and over.

One clean arc—

then the stake drove through its heart, pinning it to the boards.

Both sides crumbled to ash.

The Waltzing Puppet dropped Judy—

nothing left but a dead husk—

and picked up his waltz with the Sword Swallower.

The two showmen moved in perfect sync,

blade and gore swinging in rhythm,

as they danced their way toward Beatrice.

She slammed both hammers together—

chambers snapping open, spent shells clattering to the boards.

With a hammer under each arm,

she reloaded—smooth, practiced, unstoppable—

then stood with arms wide,

waiting to greet her guests.

The blur of flesh and blade spun—

twirling low, arcing high, then sweeping in with a flourish,

like a ballroom finale soaked in butcher’s blood.

Beatrice met the advance head-on.

Fossan clashed with Forgewood, bone caught on haft—

her hammers batted aside what they could,

and what they couldn’t,

she slipped past with footwork as brutal as it was precise.

“Damnation!” was all she could roar as orcish fury overtook her.

She dropped the smaller hammer and, with both hands clenched tight, hauled the larger one up— fury painted across her face clear as day.

It was a rage-slam turned release, a weapon launched mid-swing like it had betrayed her.

The hammer spun end over end, heavy and wild,

and crashed into the Waltzing Puppet—

sending limbs folding, bones snapping, the whole body crumpling like a kicked marionette.

Reuben stepped in behind, reloaded mid-stride,

and drove the stake down into the twitching chest.

Ash burst out like curtain smoke.

Beatrice strode toward the Swallower.

He wound up for another swing—

but she caught his wrist before the blade could land.

Her other hand clamped around his throat.

She lifted.

His shoulder popped with a wet crack as he rose,

feet dragging the stage,

sword arm twitching uselessly in her grip.

The Swallower’s maw opened wide—

gasping, twitching, searching for air.

But no breath came.

Instead, an arm punched out from his throat,

catching Beatrice clean across the cheek.

She staggered, dropped him.

He hit the floor hard, retching, convulsing.

The arm kept coming—

gripping a stained chef’s knife, knuckles white with pressure.

The man behind it choked and hacked,

laced in the telltale red tendrils

of something tapped straight from the vampires’ darkest repertoire.

A clown pulled itself free next—

scrambling upright with a jerking gait,

already juggling knives,

eyes locked on Beatrice with a leering, blood-slick grin.

Reuben didn’t have time to reload.

He moved to swing—

but a blade whistled toward him mid-step.

He twisted, narrowly dodging,

then scanned the stage again.

More were coming.

Another pair of arms had begun clawing their way up from the Swallower’s throat,

nails scraping the stage,

dragging something else into the light.

Beatrice scooped up her long hammer and brought it down—

aimed straight for the Swallower’s chest.

But as the stake reached him, his spine snapped backwards with a wet, impossible crack.

The head missed.

The stake detonated deep into the stage, blasting up splinters and blood-mist—

but not him.

Another clown clawed free in the blast’s wake, dragging itself upright.

This one juggled spiked mace heads,

broken where the hafts once met iron,

each pass whistling through the air as it fell into rhythm beside the first.

Reuben marched toward the clowns,

sidestepping knives and spiked balls hurled at him in jagged rhythm.

He dipped his head as blades rang off his helmet,

one glancing with a sharp ping.

He didn't flinch.

One of the mace heads came too slow—

he caught it mid-hop with a hammer swing,

and returned it into the knife juggler’s throat with brutal finality.

The clown collapsed, twitching.

Reuben reloaded—stern, mechanical—

then drove the stake down through the juggler’s chest.

Ash exploded outward, silent as smoke.

A few strides later, another mace head caught him across the helmet.

The blow rocked him.

He leaned back a moment,

then straightened,

and kept marching.

Another spiked ball came sailing in—

knocked his helmet off with a sharp clang and sent it spinning across the boards.

It was clear now.

Blood streamed down his face,

and his eyes burned—

with fury sharpened into judgment.

He reached out and seized the clown by the throat.

He squeezed—

knuckles whitening, tendons flaring—

then slammed the thing down onto the stage with a force that buckled the boards.

The stakehammer swung up,

then down—

clean, practiced, final—

like he was mining ore

and the clown was just another vein of filth to clear.

Ash bloomed where it landed.

Beatrice was still hammering the stage,

pounding at the slithering mess of a performer,

trying to stop the next horror from crawling free.

Arms kept creeping out of his mouth—

wet, twitching, reaching for purchase.

Then Reuben stepped forward.

He stomped—hard—onto the Swallower’s throat.

A pained gasp and a sharp squeal rang out from its mouth in unison.

The red, tendril-laced aura flickered—then vaporized.

Reuben raised his hammer—head down, like a stamping tool meant to flatten earth—

and brought it down onto the Swallower’s skull.

There was a splatter, a crack, and a spray of limbs across the stage

as the body convulsed.

Beatrice exhaled.

Reloaded.

Then ended the mess for good.