There were dozens of them heading his way.
With chaos taking over the estate, it was no surprise that Billy was in the midst of it. The moment the enemy began to flood in, the lycan was swift to make himself known. While he held no real loyalty to the Alsolusso group, there was one person in particular that he did have a soft spot for. Marlowe. Whether it was their bloodthirsty nature, or the fact that Billy enjoyed having someone as demented as he was running around, he wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that the other lycan was one of a few he’d dare dub a friend. By the time he had found them, blood had drenched the flannel he wore and stained the blonde beard he always sported, as he hadn’t even taken it upon himself to properly shift during the attack.
He came around the corner to see them, and instantly, a relieved smile twitched onto his face. He wasn’t so relieved to see the Boucher bitch was with them, but he’d hold his tongue and resist the urge to put a round between her eyes. “Nice to see you’re havin’ fun, beautiful,” he remarked to Marlowe, eyes briefly settling on the bodies that lay around the lycan and their bloodsucking companion. Closing the distance between them, Billy could see the annoyance etched on their face, and immediately he knew something was wrong. In the now quiet hall, the truth of their little problem was revealed. A bomb hadn’t gone off as planned, and someone needed to set it off manually for the plan to work.
Before too much more could be shared about the unfortunate situation the destructive duo had gotten themselves into, a flash of movement down the hall had Billy’s eyes darting behind Marlowe. It was a swift, impulsive motion that the male moving between the attacker and Marlowe as the sound of shots rang out. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. The enemy vampire that had rounded the corner fell, two UV bullets being swiftly embedded into her skull--but not before she pulled the trigger on her own gun. Billy was pressed against the wall, left hand covering the shoulder where a single silver bullet had torn through.
The burning was immediate, the liquid beginning to pump through his veins as curse words spilled from his lips. His eyes fell to Marlowe, their shocked thanks managing to bring a guttural laugh from him even as his insides were on fire. “--don’t say I ever did nothin’ for ya.” Already, he could see the silver in his veins, as is crept down his fingers and up his neck. Pain was something he was use to, but this was another level. “Fuck,” he breathed, back pressing harder against the wall as he knew the inevitable was happening. The odds of coming back from a Boucher bullet were slim to none. Billy Branson was dying--and it was long overdue.
Closing his eyes as he accepted he didn’t have much longer, a choppy breath was sucked in to burning lungs. “Guess we know who’s settin’ that bomb off, huh?” Even as he was dying, he was still trying to crack a poorly timed joke. With a grunt, the dying lycan pushed himself off the wall. “Give ‘em hell for me, kid.” His final request came as he gave Marlowe a bloody pat on the cheek before he began to limp ( thanks for the bullet in his foot, Stella ) down the hall as quickly as his weakening body would allow him. Luckily, the destination wasn’t far, and the few bullets he had left were used to clear the path. Bodies lined the way, including the face of the pretty lycan he had been trying so hard to get. What a damn shame.
Finally, he was there--the pillar the bomb was strapped behind coming in to view. Heaving his body next to it, Billy struggled for breath as he slid down the pillar, vision becoming hazy as the silver continued to destroy him from the inside out. Death had never been something the lycan feared--not even when he was human. One hundred and sixty eight years. That was how long he had been tormenting both the human, and supernatural world. From piles of bodies in the Old West, to strings of mutilated prostitutes in Whitechapel, he knew his deeds wouldn’t be forgotten when Death finally managed to catch up with him. And it seemed that finally, the reaper had come to claim the wicked.
Shaky fingers slipped into the pocket of bloody jeans, fingers closing around a pack of cigarettes. It was a struggle to fish one out, but eventually, it dangled loosely from crimson lips. He lit it up, lighter being tossed to the side as he sucked in a choppy, painful inhale. A final item would be fished out of the depths of his jeans--a small, silver hair clip. He had plucked it from her hair the night he marked his territory, and not once had he ever been too far away from the treasured item. Weak fingers curled around it, and his eyes were forced up from the token when he heard the sound of incoming footsteps. There were dozens of them heading his way, but he’d make damn sure they didn’t get to their destination.
With the burning cigarette still stuck between his lips, Billy slid a barely working hand over to the bomb, fingers curling around the wire that needed to be pulled. The enemy was closing on him fast, but not fast enough. “Fuckin’ leeches,” he choked out with a grin, before he used the last of the energy he had to yank the wire from the bomb. An explosion erupted immediately, incinerating everyone in the area. Body parts flew, fire spread, and a portion of second floor of the once lavish estate collapsed down amidst the mess.
A clinking sound of metal bouncing across the rubble could be heard as the small, slightly burned hair clip came to a rest far from the initial blast. It was all that was left of Billy Branson.
