Lana, Lilith, and Dickson exploded forward alongside the charging werewolves—not as soldiers, but as forces of nature wearing human skin. The werewolves hit the vampire line a heartbeat later.
And the killing began.
Not combat. Butchery.
The first werewolf through the gap didn't bother with claws—it bit down on a vampire's throat and pulled. The creature's head came away with a wet crack, spinal cord snapping like a rubber band, black ichor fountaining from the stump as the body crumpled. Another werewolf drove its snout through a vampire's chest cavity, ribs splintering outward in a spray of bone shards and shredded organs—heart, lungs, all of it exposed for one hideous second before the wolf shook its head and the corpse flew apart like wet paper.
One vampire tried to raise a blade.
A wolf took his arm at the elbow.
He had just enough time to scream before the same jaws closed around his skull. The crunch traveled across the battlefield like breaking stone.
"GOOD LORD—"
