Sam's vision went red and black. She saw visions of ancient battles. Warriors struck out with spear and sword, crushing their enemies through armor all the way to bone. She saw war horses tear through huddled soldiers, heroes atop them, with their great hammers swinging. She was every one of them. Every battle ever fought, she was there. Their strength had become hers.

  Her vision returned. She felt lighter. Her body pushed out the blades stabbed into her stomach. She backhanded the man holding them. He flew back into the cement wall like a thrown doll. The crunch of his bones and the limp grunt he gave satisfied her. If this was what it was like to bow before a demon's power and take some of that power for herself, she didn't mind it.

  Sam marveled at the strength in her limbs. Her legs felt like coiled springs. Her arms felt like they could punch through solid stone. She had never felt fury that she could answer with such justified violence.

  Sam turned to face her second attacker. The man tried to strike at her with his daggers. She swiped at his hands with her daggers, casually, like swatting at a fly. It seemed like he was moving in slow motion, like he was trying to push his hands through tar. Sam's anger was what moved her hands now. Sam's anger was what pushed her serpent dagger through the man's wrists, cutting his hands clean off. His face twisted in pain and shock. She pushed a dagger through his chest, and it caved like an eggshell. A burst of blood spurted out and splashed on the floor, wet, thick, and red.

  She stepped over his twitching body, past the one crumpled against the wall, and kicked at his head. Her leather shoes caved in his skull. It felt like she was crushing porcelain. She slipped her daggers back into their sheaths. She wanted to feel her hands on the remaining three men's necks as she crushed their spines. The three remaining men, to their credit, did not cower before her in fear. They still took the measure of her with their eyes and could not comprehend what she had just done to their compatriots.

  Every step she took, every blow she struck, felt easy, like she was puppeteer to someone else's body.

  The three remaining men, two stood abreast and one behind, raised their serpent daggers and charged her.

  The one behind, the chef, held back. At least one of them noticed what had happened to the two men laying on the ground.

  She reached out with her bare hands and pushed the men's daggers aside, grabbed their throats, past their flailing arms, and squeezed tight her fists. The flesh in her hands bulged and oozed out between her fingers.

  She continued squeezing while they spasmed and flailed with their knives, trying to stab at the smaller woman. She squeezed until she felt bone, until she felt bone crack, until their bodies hung limp. She dropped them.

  Her hands were covered in gore. She shook it off while staring at the last man. His snake eyes widened as she stepped toward him.

  He turned tail and ran from her. Sam dashed to catch up with him. Her legs carried her like she was floating on a breeze. She caught the man on the back of the neck, pressed his face towards the ground. His feet flipped up into the air. She pushed hard. When his face met the concrete floor, his bones shattered under her strength. The man hadn't even had a chance to make a sound before he lay crumpled and dead.

  She crouched, listening, waiting for more attackers to spring out at her. But none came.

  Her sprint after the final man brought her into the room with the long tables and pass-through to the kitchen. She waited to see if more snake-eyed men would jump out at her from somewhere. The battle rage that had filled her started to subside. As her rage faded, so too did the strength she used to murder her attackers. As her senses returned, and her humanity with them, she took stock of what she'd done.

  Sam wasn't a violent person by nature. She didn't seek out fights, even when she was drunk. But the power and strength and rage had filled her mind and erased her inhibitions. Under normal circumstances most folks wouldn't murder in cold blood, but if you got them angry enough they'd at least strike out. But they would hold back for fear of retaliation. But when they had the strength of a predator and knew that no one could retaliate? Would they still shrink back from violence?

  Sam was shocked at how thoroughly she'd punished these men. But they were coming to kill her. They had succeeded a few short hours before. She rationalized the violence by assuring herself they would've done the same or worse to her.

  Well maybe not worse, but they would have killed her just the same.

  She made her way into the kitchen where she found a sink to wash the blood off her hands. It had stained her overcoat but she figured if she could wash it out in time the stains wouldn't be permanent. She liked that coat and didn't want to lose it because of these idiots.

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  She considered what happened. She had relied on the Elixir of Life to keep her alive while she murdered enough men in combat to please Furcas the Warmaker. Her plan had succeeded better than she hoped. The strength he'd given her was incredible, but not more than she paid for. Enough bodies had fallen and enough blood had flowed to raise the dead, and she wasn't asking for miracles of that scale. She just wanted to fight. But the strength had faded with her anger. She still felt a trickle of it in the back of her mind.

  Sam decided to ponder the nature of Furcas' gift later. For now, she still had a basement full of snakemen to kill and hopefully a mystery to solve. She still didn't understand why they wanted her dead in the first place.

  The kitchen had a set of double doors, each with a circular window. Through the windows she could see a well-appointed room with wood panel walls, leather couches, and gas lamp sconces on the walls. She stepped into the room ready to maul more attackers, but none greeted her.

  The room smelled of old smoke. Cigar ashtrays sat waiting on the dark wood tables between leather couches. She thought a cigar sounded like a great idea. A woman deserves a cigar after dying. She pulled out a fresh Cuban, struck a match, and drew on the smoke. It tasted of cherry and victory and life.

  With the power of Furcas and the Elixir she felt invincible. It would take a platoon of snakemen to even slow her down now, much less kill her outright. She wondered what the limitations of the Elixir's healing were. She had felt the snake dagger pierce her heart through her ribs. She felt herself die. Yet here she stood, with her enemies dead and herself alive. She wondered if they'd have had a cigar after killing her. And why they tried to kill her in the first place. After a few minutes of rest and smoke she decided to go find the answers.

  Sam cast about the room, looking for clues. The room had been well-used. Cabinets sat against the walls. Inside were board games, well-worn books, and blankets. She wondered what kind of evil lair this was.

  The room had two doors. One led to a bathroom. The other, out into a wood-paneled hallway. The walls had paintings of people she didn't recognize. Some wore dress from different eras of history. She didn't know enough history to determine from when the paintings came, but they were old. People didn't dress like that anymore. They must've been of folk associated with the Rosicrucians in some way.

  Sam walked down the new hallway. At its end were two more double doors. These doors were solid wood and gave no indication of what was beyond. This time, Sam didn't bother listening or hesitating. She kicked them open. Some of her anger returned and with it, her strength. The doors flew open and slammed into the walls behind them.

  The chamber beyond the doors was dimly lit. It was a long room, some sort of ballroom or auditorium or meeting hall. The floor was hardwood. At the far end of one side were more doors. These hung open and let the light from electric bulbs beyond through.

  At the opposite end was a stage. Deep red curtains hung from the ceiling. A podium stood at the center of the stage, facing the massive chamber. It gave the impression of a professor waiting for unruly students to take their seats.

  The stage was illuminated with a spotlight on the podium. From the darkness of the wings of the stage stepped a man. He was middle-aged with black hair and light skin. He wore a tan suit. A cigarette hung from his lip. She'd never seen him before.

  "Get her!" he shouted. Sam spent a moment wondering who he was talking to before she got her answer. Snakemen poured in from the lit doorway. She counted seven of them before the first reached her.

  The first man reached her and struck out with his daggers. He was a skilled fighter. He feinted. Sam fell for it and was struck in the same arm that had been cut before. The pain caused her anger to flare up again, and the anger caused her strength to rise with it.

  This man was no fool. He raised his daggers and unleashed a flurry of blows. But he moved as if he was wading through sludge. Sam dodged the blows, punched the man in the throat, caving it in. He grabbed at his throat and bent over. She punched him in the jaw, hard enough to send him to the ground.

  By this time, the other six men had surrounded her, stabbing with sharp knives. They ganged up on her. The unfairness of it, and the pain of their strikes, made her angry. She pushed them all back. She broke an arm here, cracked a leg there. The men fell back, stunned at her strength. She snarled at them like a wild animal.

  Sam didn't wait for them to think of a strategy. She used the newfound strength to dash toward the closest one. She grabbed his outstretched wrist and pulled as hard as she could. She felt tendons separate. The man howled in pain. She spun him around, picked him up, and threw him bodily into the next closest man. They tumbled together to the ground, which bought her precious moments she needed to dash over to another man. This one she skewered with her own dagger.

  That man fell dead. She hoped his last thoughts were of how he regretted facing her. Of the original seven that attacked her, only four were left in a state suitable to continue the fight.

  One of them, who had been unbroken by her initial assault when they surrounded her, stepped back. This one was smart like the first. He tried stabbing at her from behind. Her leg moved almost without her thinking about it. She kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over in pain. She kicked him again in the face, crushing it, sending him to the ground.

  Three were left now. The men had ample space to gather around Sam. They exchanged looks, checking each other for the guts to keep attacking this savage woman who had killed most of their compatriots.

  Sam decided to end the battle. She leapt towards one of the three remaining men, landing in front of him. To his eyes, she must have been a blur. He spun his body around, attempting a spinning slash, but she ducked under it and brought her hand up, palm crushing into his jaw. He folded like wet cardboard and fell back, stunned or dead. She dashed over to the next man, cut his throat before he could react. She walked towards the final man, staring at him. Her remaining eye filled with fury.

  He jabbered something at her, then spun on his heel and tried to run away while the man on the stage yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING! KILL HER!"

  Sam caught up with him in a flash, grabbed the back of his neck, and crushed his spine with her bare hands. He trembled in her grip and fell.

  She turned to face the man on the stage. It was time to get some answers.