Blake’s eyelids were sealed shut, an involuntary action caused by the jolts of pain from the tasers. Between winces, he caught momentary glances of what occurred next.

Agnes Winters, his Scarlet Woman, throttled one of the men that had been assaulting him — raising him above floor-level by the throat. He spasmed and convulsed, attempting to break her steel grip, but to no avail. His screams would have been audible if not for every possibly secretion and excrement his body was capable of forcibly exiting from his orifices — and, in the end — his pores. He died in agony, of dehydration.

Van Helsing, trailing a thin mist of black smoke, moved like lightning into his position. Before the second agent that was tasering Blake had a chance to act, his neck was broken in three places.

Blake, still reeling, coughed up orders. “Agnes, kiss Angela. Abraham, all the guys with guns are yours.”

Damn Blake’s lesbian fantasies, thought Winters, turning her attention to the possessed girl. “Kiss me,” Winters commanded.

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