This isn't the first time he's been dragged into the dark recesses of limbo. The reason he's personally named this place as such is simply because there's no one to dispute the claim. There's no ferryman to hold his hand, demand payment, or give him tricky riddles so he can cross to the other side.

Kane doesn't oppose the force and lets it drag him along; after the first few times, he's concluded that struggling does little, and the quicker he gives in, the faster he can leave this place.

Still, the cold sensation of death is dreadful.

When Kane blinks, he's no longer drowning in darkness. He's standing among a myriad of people, walking the opposite way. The crowd is tightly packed. His shoulders are bumped, but he weathers his footing, standing firm. The people are diverse, their clothing a swash of colour against the smoky grey of the blurry horizon. The collective shuffling of dirt beneath the feet of thousands is the sole sound. No one speaks, dim eyes ahead, because, for some reason beyond Kane's understanding, souls don't find the need to communicate, drawn to the golden shimmer in the distance; the other side, he guesses.

Kane turns and begins shoving against the throng. He makes his way slowly and roughly through slack faces. He's glad he's not in his suit, thank fuck, and even in his dismal predicament, with death literally on the horizon, Kane thinks it's pretty badass that his soul has given him a leather jacket, and shit-kicking boots.

There's no reason he shouldn't be another soul drawn to the other side. And there's no reason he should be able to shove his way through, towards the black swirling void that more and more people step through every passing second.

Kane's soul won't resign. He's simply brighter than the dim light that shrouds the other poor bastards taking their final walk to whatever claims them when they close their eyes for the last time.

It's been like this since he can remember. Literally. He can't recall any memories from before he woke up from limbo when he was a child. Milton had been there when he'd awoken, claiming they were meant to meet. Milton was always crazy. Did the old man come through here? Did he shamble like the dead, searching for salvation? Fuck, Kane should have killed himself, and he'd have ended up here; maybe he could have pulled Milton back through.

Kane pushes those thoughts away. He can't dwell on those regrets, not right now. Later, when he has the luxury of time.

This hasn't happened for years. The last time he'd been with Reid after Milton died, a narbrath had stuck him through the stomach. Kane had decided to shoot himself to escape its venom, which promised an agonizing death. He probably should have told Reid to look away; the idiot wasn't the same for an entire month afterward. He'd driven Kane into craziness with a bout of clinginess verging on maniac.

That time had been nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds precisely; Reid had timed it with his phone.

What will happen to Kane's body if he doesn't return promptly? That's a question he doesn't want answered.

He shoves through the crowd faster, uncaring that some souls lose their footing and fall, lost in the neverending shuffle. There's a face in his mind that's keeping his eyes ahead, never wavering: Hannah. The sight of her teary eyes, her red cheeks, and her quivering pink lips drives his feet onward. He has to tell her he's fine, she'll be fine, and he'll save her, just like he promised.

He's so close to the void that the coldness of death prickles his skin as specks of water blow from the vast sea of darkness beyond, as if to remind him that where this leads is just that—cold and unforgiving.

The sea of bodies suddenly plows him backward. He curses and drives against the pressure; if he falls, he might never stand up again.

Then, with widening eyes, he sees what's causing the uproar.

From the void of black leading to the living world, a smoky leg of hoofed bone emerges, and with it, a body with curved horns and claws the size of his arms. Bending its gigantic form, its maw of jagged teeth rips into the soul of an older man wearing a hospital gown. The beast devours the man whole before moving on to the next, tossing bodies into the surrounding mist and ripping others apart.

Kane is stuck standing, mouth agape. Milton's ravings in the end had been of a shadow creature, The Devourer, as he'd called it. No. This can't be it. Can it?

On the beast's chest, a symbol is gouged, jagged, and familiar, only this time it's not dripping in blood above a grisly victim long dead. This creature is connected to the ritual that Azrael is perpetuating. There's no doubt. Is this why it's able to invade limbo—because it's being called by the symbols?

Resurrection. The book had written that the symbol was a catalyst for an archaic ritual to resurrect darkness and bring evil forth, but it didn't have any fucking fine print to explain that it was trying to bring a literal beast of shadow into the living world.

Kane's vaguely aware that his shoulders are being struck; he's a statue, his feet firm as the countless souls begin running towards the light. Whatever is drawing them to the afterlife has allowed them the mercy of a hasty retreat from the beast feasting on them with jagged teeth and rending claws.

What happens to a soul that's eaten by this beast? They're gone. Aren't they? Never able to pass on. Outrage for these people taking their last walks only to be snuffed like candle flames rushes searing in Kane's blood. 

The familiar weight of a sword is suddenly in his grasp, the memory roused from his soul and made tangible. He tries to morph the sword into something more useful against a gigantic beast of darkness—a huge fucking gun, for instance—but the outdated weapon remains.

The beast has a mouthful of a woman's upper body; its teeth are jagged, tearing asunder bloodless flesh. Its hellfire eyes flicker up and over the throng of bodies, and the beast's gaze finds Kane enduring the rushing of the crowd. The beast drops the soul of the half-devoured woman; her aura of light, paltry before, has gone dark, snuffed.

The beast towers higher than a small building, and its hoofed stomps quake the ground as it advances straight for Kane, knocking spirits aside.

So the beast isn't mindless. It's decided that it no longer wants the effortless pickings of the dim souls coming through the void, unaware of what's waiting for them. The beast instead wants to try and sate itself with a brighter soul. Kane can only imagine he's a delicacy among the throng; better for it, let the dead souls have peace.

Flexing his fingers on the hilt of the blade, Kane sharpens his mind, starting forward at a steady pace. He needs to reach that shimmering void. There's no time for nerves or fear; he learned a long time ago how to shove those useless feelings aside.

The sword is a good weapon; it is sharp and imbued with spells, so it can kill many different creatures that would be impervious otherwise. It's a perfect rendition of Milton's blade, but it may not do anything against a beast like this. But Kane has his magic. He pulls for it and finds it at full power. His current consciousness is directly connected to his soul, and that's where his magic dwells, so he might even be more powerful here. He wonders if he'll even have ordinary exhaustion from overuse.

The beast stomps quicken, kicking and shoving, sending unlucky souls flying into the mist. Taking a deep breath, Kane shoves his magic outward and makes an orange-hued barrier that keeps the fleeing souls from hindering him. There's no feeling of lethargy. It's been years since he's been able to go all out; he's more than unpracticed. Magic is a direct representation of a soul, and Kane's has always been powerful, but it's fiery, uncontrolled, and destructive. Even here, he can't let it go unrestricted, or it could destroy the hundreds of spirits running for the light of promised salvation.

He wills a wrathful flame to ignite the steel of his blade. The heat licks at his fingers. At the sight, the beast bellows a rageful growl that settles in Kane's bones and rattles his teeth. It's intelligent enough to sense the threat that magic poses.

Closing ground with the beast gives Kane a good look at its sooty black fur and smoky horns atop its huge head.

With every step nearer, the blood in Kane's veins uncomfortably thrums as if it's being drawn through his skin. The feeling that shudders up his spine isn't unlike the one he has when facing a vampire, only more overwhelming—pure dread emanating from this shadowed beast of death incarnate.

Kane doesn't slow; he can't let this beast feast on the souls of the dying, and above all else, he needs to reach that void and his body beyond. He drops his barrier, raises his sword, keeps his magic ready for his command, and meets the gigantic bastard head-on.

The clash with the beast is unlike any Kane has ever had before. He arcs his sword towards the monstrosity's giant leg; the blade rends and the flame sears flesh, filling the air with the distinct smell of scorched fur. Kane evades the swipe of the giant claw by bursting his barrier from within at the last moment with a force of uncoordinated flame that sends the beast stumbling and the ground shaking.

He's fought giant fucking creatures with teeth and claws, wanting nothing more than to rip his throat out, but the howl of this beast, so close, rusts even his steely resolve; it isn't a sound of pain; it's rageful, angry, and hungry.

The beast's hellfire gaze moves toward the spirits, passing them in droves. Stomping, the monstrosity grabs the head of a passing child with a swaying braid of blonde hair and, with a growl, tosses her. 

If it wasn't a kid, Kane would have sidestepped the attack without a thought, but fuck, he hesitates, the instinct to catch the tiny body despite her condition overtaking his logic.

The force of the thrown girl hits Kane's chest like a barreling truck. He's flung back straight onto his ass, sword dropped when the girl threatens to fly from his arms. Cradling the small body against his chest, his logic returns, and he shoves her away. The soul instantly rises and resumes its hasty stride towards the light.

Kane's diverted attention almost costs him everything.

The beast is shadowing him, growling its earthshaking rumbles of rage. It lifts a gigantic hoofed foot and brings it down. Kane rolls away, acutely aware that he's not out of crushing range. He scrambles onto his hands and knees, crawling towards the gleam of his fallen blade.

Fire envelopes him, protecting him from another near swipe of those deadly claws, and the beast howls louder. Pain rips up Kane's back as the monstrousity swipes again, angrier, and manages to break through the magic, ripping through Kane's jacket and cutting flesh.

From the gritty dirt, Kane grasps for his sword, the steel smoking, his magic flame having extinguished since he dropped the weapon. His fingers curl around the hilt, his barrier falling, his arm rising to arc the blade, smelling the burnt fur behind him in striking range, but then his leg is seized, and he's tossed like he weighs nothing, which is a singular experience for a man such as him.

Flying through the air lurches his gut.

Hitting the ground shouldn't hurt, but, fuck, it does.

From the force, Kane slides so close to the misty edge that his fingers slip through. He can feel the unnatural coldness permeating from beyond. Rising onto his hands and knees, he breathes raggedly, the pain in his body enough to have him questioning if he can stand.

There's only one recourse. Kane wills a barrier greater than he's ever dared. Ablaze and enveloping him and the beast, a few unlucky souls are sent flying from the force of its awakening, but at least the poor bastards are protected.

Rising to stand when the pain ebbs, Kane realizes belatedly that he's been tossed near the void. The beast is on the far side. Kane could make it if he runs. He's closer.

As if reading his intentions, the beast rushes him, growling, and the stomps of its hoofs thud in tandem with Kane's rapid heartbeat.

Kane has seconds to decide.

Stay and fight a battle that could very well be unwinnable, but guard the souls of those passing over from being snuffed out, or he could drop his barrier, leave the spirits to their fate, and return to the living.

The decision isn't hard.

There's an idiot that needs him on the other side; without Kane, those blue eyes will once again dim and become another of the dead passing in droves. His blade slips from his fingers, and the steel hits the dirt with a puff of dust. And the tears that had streamed down Hannah's cheeks and her broken voice begging him to keep his eyes open has Kane turning on his heel and sprinting, using his barrier to keep his route clear.

He covers his face in the curve of his elbow, hits the shadow of the void with a deep breath, and the familiar cold of death embraces him—this time willingly.

The growls of the pursuing beast rumble even in the overtaking darkness.