A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 25: Hitting Back

Michael leaned against the bar in Strangefellows, a faint hum of exhaustion buzzing in his head alongside his swarm. Alex stood opposite him, polishing a glass with deliberate calm, his sharp eyes fixed on Michael. The man didn't say much, but his expression carried the weight of unspoken concern.

"So," Alex said finally, his tone dry, "you're really going through with this?"

Michael nodded, sipping the dark, bitter drink Alex had slid across the counter. "I don't have a choice. The Pembrokes won't stop until I'm gone or dead. If I wait, they'll tighten their grip. I have to hit them first—hit them where it hurts."

Alex set the glass down with a faint clink. "I'm giving you a leave of absence, kid. Not because I think this is a good idea, but because I know you're stubborn enough to do it anyway. Just remember—this kind of thing always ends badly. No exceptions."

Michael managed a faint smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Confidence won't keep you alive," Alex shot back, his voice edged with steel. "Think about what you're doing. You've made a name for yourself, sure, but going after the Pembrokes' business? You're not just picking a fight—you're declaring war. And wars in the Nightside don't leave survivors."

Michael finished his drink, the burn of alcohol grounding him for a moment. "If it ends badly, so be it. But if I don't fight, it'll end worse."

The first strike was surgical. Michael had identified one of the Pembrokes' key operations—a warehouse used to smuggle rare and illegal goods into the Nightside. The place was a fortress, with armed guards patrolling its perimeter and enchanted wards humming faintly around the doors and windows.

Michael crouched on a nearby rooftop, his swarm already moving. Flies buzzed through cracks in the walls, their compound eyes painting a picture of the interior. The warehouse was stacked with crates, each marked with sigils of containment and protection. Guards lounged near the entrance, smoking and chatting, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders.

Michael sent a pulse through his swarm, activating the first phase of his plan. The flies spread out, targeting the guards and workers inside. One by one, they started swatting at their faces, coughing as gnats flew into their mouths and eyes.

"What the hell?" one of the guards muttered, stumbling back as a tarantula hawk buzzed inches from his face.

The chaos escalated quickly. More insects flooded the warehouse, crawling out of crates and vents, swarming the workers in a coordinated assault. Michael's tarantula hawks dove toward the guards, their stingers flashing as the men screamed and fell to their knees.

Michael used the distraction to slip inside. He moved quickly, his swarm guiding him toward the largest crate in the center of the room. It was marked with intricate runes, the magical energy radiating from it almost palpable.

With a flick of his wrist, Michael sent his swarm to disrupt the wards. Spiders spun webs over the sigils, their silk dulling the enchantments. Beetles chewed through the bindings, and ants pried open the latches. Within minutes, the crate's protections failed, and Michael pried it open to reveal its contents: a cache of rare and dangerous artifacts, the kind that could shift the balance of power in the Nightside.

Michael grabbed a few smaller items—nothing flashy, but enough to keep as leverage. Then he pulled out a canister from his bag, a small incendiary device he'd picked up from a back-alley merchant. He set it inside the crate, activated the timer, and slipped out the way he'd come.

From the safety of the rooftop, he watched as the warehouse erupted in flames. The fire spread quickly, consuming the illegal goods and leaving the guards scrambling to contain the inferno. Michael smirked, his swarm buzzing with satisfaction.

Over the next few days, Michael escalated his attacks.

A Pembroke-owned nightclub was next. The place was a hub for their dealings, a front for laundering money and conducting business in the shadows. Michael infiltrated the club during its busiest hours, his swarm blending into the chaos of the dance floor.

While the patrons partied, Michael's insects worked. Flies infiltrated the ventilation system, spreading a noxious gas that left people coughing and gasping for air. Spiders dropped from the rafters, sending panicked screams through the crowd.

The chaos gave Michael cover to move through the club, targeting the Pembroke operatives he'd identified earlier. A well-timed swarm of tarantula hawks drove one of their enforcers into a storage room, where Michael cornered him.

"Tell your bosses," Michael said, his voice low and cold, "this is just the beginning."

He left the man unconscious, bound with webs, and slipped out before the authorities arrived.

Word of Michael's actions spread quickly. The Pembrokes were furious, their operations disrupted and their influence shaken. Alex's warning echoed in Michael's mind, but he pushed it aside. He couldn't afford to stop now—not until the Pembrokes were crippled.

At Strangefellows, Alex greeted him with a grim expression when he returned to restock his supplies.

"You've stirred the hornet's nest, kid," Alex said, sliding a drink across the counter. "They're not going to take this lying down."

"I'm counting on it," Michael replied, his tone steady.

Alex shook his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "You're either brave or stupid. Maybe both. Just remember—there's no going back now."

"I never planned to," Michael said, downing the drink in one gulp.

The fight wasn't over, not by a long shot. But for the first time, Michael felt like he had the upper hand. The Pembrokes had made him a target, but he was proving that he wasn't an easy one. And in the Nightside, survival was a victory all its own.

The week passed in a blur of tension, exhaustion, and blood. Michael found himself constantly on edge, his senses heightened by both his swarm and the creeping paranoia that came with being hunted. The Pembrokes were retaliating, their response as brutal as he'd expected. He had to fight for his life more than once, each encounter leaving him more battered but also more determined.

The first attack came on a narrow street as Michael was scouting another Pembroke property. His swarm had alerted him to the presence of two figures tailing him, their movements too coordinated to be random. He ducked into an alley, letting the swarm spread out to scout ahead. The moment he turned a corner, a blast of fire narrowly missed him, scorching the brick wall beside him.

"Found him!" one of the attackers shouted, stepping into view. He was a tall, wiry man with sharp features, his hands glowing with the faint shimmer of magic. Behind him, a second figure—a stocky woman wielding a pair of curved knives—moved in silence.

Michael didn't hesitate. He sent a wave of tarantula hawks at the man, their bright orange wings glinting in the dim light. The man screamed as the insects dove at him, stingers poised to strike. The woman lunged forward, her knives flashing, but Michael's swarm intercepted her, a cloud of gnats swarming her face and forcing her to stumble back.

He drew his revolver, the weight of the weapon grounding him. With practiced aim, he fired a single shot, the silver-infused bullet finding its mark in the man's chest. The spellcaster collapsed, his magic flickering out like a dying flame. The woman cursed, slashing wildly at the swarm, but Michael sent his tarantula hawks after her next. Within moments, she was on the ground, convulsing from the stings.

Michael didn't wait to see if they survived. He reloaded his gun, called back his swarm, and disappeared into the night.

A few nights later, Michael was ambushed in a dimly lit plaza near an old fountain. He had just finished disrupting a Pembroke supply line when three enforcers surrounded him, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight.

"Well, well," one of them sneered, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek. "You're the one causing all this trouble. Boss says we bring you in alive. Can't promise you'll stay that way for long, though."

Michael smirked, though his heart pounded in his chest. "Alive? You're not trying hard enough."

The first enforcer charged, swinging a heavy baton. Michael ducked, sending a cluster of spiders scurrying up the man's arm. The enforcer screamed, dropping his weapon as the spiders bit into his skin. The second attacker fired a shotgun, the blast grazing Michael's shoulder and sending him stumbling back. Pain flared, but he pushed it aside, directing a swarm of hornets at the shooter's face. The man dropped his gun, clawing at his eyes as the hornets stung him relentlessly.

The third enforcer—a lean, tattooed woman—threw a knife that embedded itself in Michael's thigh. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his vision blurring for a moment. With a growl, he pulled the knife free and sent a cloud of fire-enhanced beetles at her. The insects ignited as they hit her, the tiny bursts of flame forcing her to retreat.

Michael limped to the fountain, using its stone edge for cover. His swarm buzzed around him, a chaotic mass of wings and legs that swarmed the remaining attackers. By the time the plaza fell silent, Michael was bleeding and battered, but alive. He retrieved the enforcers' weapons and disappeared into the shadows.

The final attack of the week was the most brutal. Michael had been holed up in an abandoned building, resting and tending to his wounds, when the Pembrokes' men found him. They didn't bother with subtlety this time. Explosive charges rocked the building, collapsing part of the roof and sending debris raining down around him.

Michael scrambled to his feet, coughing as dust filled the air. He could hear their footsteps—four, maybe five men, moving with military precision. He sent his swarm ahead, the insects darting through the rubble to locate his attackers. A flicker of motion caught his eye, and he dove behind a pillar just as a hail of bullets tore through the air where he'd been standing.

"Flush him out!" one of the attackers barked.

Michael's mind raced as he directed his swarm. Beetles crawled through the cracks in the floor, their small bodies carrying flammable chemicals he'd prepared earlier. With a whispered command, the chemicals ignited, creating a series of small explosions that forced the attackers to scatter.

Using the chaos to his advantage, Michael emerged from cover, his revolver in hand. He fired twice, each shot finding its mark. One attacker fell instantly, while another stumbled back, clutching his bleeding leg. The remaining men regrouped, their movements more cautious now.

"You're outnumbered, asshole!" one of them shouted. "You can't win this!"

Michael smirked, wiping blood from his face. "Outnumbered doesn't mean outmatched."

He unleashed his tarantula hawks, the vicious insects diving at the attackers with unrelenting fury. The men panicked, their coordinated assault breaking down into chaos. Michael took advantage of the confusion, taking down the remaining enforcers with a combination of gunfire and swarm attacks.

When the dust settled, Michael was slumped against a wall, his body screaming in protest. His wounds were severe, but he was alive. He closed his eyes, letting the hum of his swarm soothe him as he prepared to move again.

The Pembrokes weren't done with him, but neither was he. The fight was far from over.