Luneshale Pass pantano

sangre takes two hits for soto. enough to bowl a grown man over. but she’s still standing. 

he can tell — as his jaws click around the empty space that medusa occupied moments before — that khusobek is not here for palaver. 

he’s here for him. 

gods are kind. gods are good. he shares a long look with niño, who tossed that fucking child like a football. shit. he’s not playing. 

hell, neither is soto. 

dogged, he swings back for medusa. as much as he wants to see khusobek shredded, he knows it would be the captain’s worse insult to see blood and yet not taste it. to die before his hunger for revenge is ever satiated. an eternal sisyphean tease; so close and yet —

khusobek’s got el toro and sangre on him. three would just be mean. 

so, the waifling woman is all that’s left. 

she’s not getting away this time. as she lunges for throat soto is there; the barricade to her crashing sea. and his jaws clank shut with an alligator’s hefty lethality — aiming for the flat of her face where his fangs would pierce eyes like a bullet eased comfortably into the chamber’s place.  

and if he’s lucky, seize what’s left of her brain.