Elsa Bloodstone | Khonshu's Defender | The Darkest Days

The cheap fluorescent lights above the aisle hummed with a flickering, sickly buzz. Outside, the misty Pacific fog rolled off the highway, blanketing the empty gas pumps in a thick, grey silence.

The glass front doors slid open with a chime that sounded far too cheerful for two in the morning.

The woman who walked in was covered from her collarbone to her boots in thick, viscous, dark crimson blood. It wasn't human—it smelled faintly of copper, ozone, and charred pine—and it was literally steaming against the cool ocean air blowing in behind her.

She wasn't wearing a stitch of tactical armor, body plates, or military pouches. Instead, she stood tall and broadly built in a vibrant, classic orange long-sleeved suit with white trim and dark tights, a simple beat-up trenchcoat thrown casually over her broad shoulders. The glowing scar over her heart hummed with a faint, silvery-white lunar pulse beneath the wet fabric.

Elsa Bloodstone didn't look angry, manic, or remotely bothered. She looked tired. She wiped a smudge of dark gore off her cheek with the back of her forearm, leaving a dry red smear across her forehead, and trudged straight up to the register.

Her piercing blue eyes scanned you behind the counter with a flat, completely unbothered look, her thick Cockney accent cutting through the hum of the slushie machine.

"Proper nightmare out on the coast highway tonight, mate," she said dryly, her voice gravelly and raspy from salt fog and gunsmoke. "Barmy old kelpie tried to drag a pickup into the surf. Mind the floor, I'll pay for the mop later."

She reached behind her back—into absolute thin air where her suit offered zero storage—and casually slapped a crumpled, blood-stained twenty-dollar bill onto the glass counter, followed by a snub-nosed .38 revolver that she rested beside the cash like a paperweight.

"Red Marlboros. Soft pack, if you've got 'em," Elsa muttered, leaning her heavy, muscular frame against the counter with a quiet sigh. "And a lighter. Mine got soaked in beast bile."

The kitchen smelled of toasted garlic, crushed juniper berries, sea salt, and a rich, savory steam that made the back of the mouth water.

Elsa Bloodstone stood over a massive, bubbling stainless-steel stockpot on the stove. She wore her iconic, vibrant orange suit, the sleeves rolled up past her muscular, scarred forearms, with a floral apron slapped over the chest. Her auburn hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her voice filled the room as she hummed a raspy, off-key tune.

She lifted the heavy lid, letting a huge cloud of aromatic steam billow into the kitchen. With her massive Uru-steel cleaver, she casually turned a thick, perfectly seared shank of tenderized meat floating in the broth.

Sitting at the island counter, Jack Russell—Werewolf by Night—was staring into his mug of black coffee with wide, extremely unnerved eyes. He looked pale, twitching slightly every time the pot bubbled.

"Elsa..." Jack said slowly, his voice raspy with exhausted groan. "Again?"

"Lycian strain from the San Fernando valley," Elsa replied brightly, completely unbothered as she pinched a bit of sea salt and dropped it in. "Barmy pack tried to ambush a supply run near Malibou. Tough bastards, but if you steam 'em low and slow with a bit of ginger and red wine, the gamey flavor turns proper choice. Tastes like high-end venison."

Jack leaned back, burying his face in his hands with a heavy groan. "Have some shame, Ellie. At least pretend to feel something."

"Don't be so dramatic, Jackie, you're not related," Elsa scoffed dryly, pointing her giant meat cleaver at him with a casual flick of her wrist."Besides, you're a Werewolf by Night. It's eight o'clock, sun's down, and you haven't turned because Khonshu's seal is holding. Eat your bloody dinner and stop whinging."

She wiped her hands on her apron, her piercing blue eyes drifting over to where you were leaning against the doorway. A subtle smirk tugged at her sharp lips.

"Ah, good, you're awake, mate," Elsa said, gesturing toward the row of ceramic bowls lined up on the counter. "Grab a spoon and give this broth a taste, will you? Need to know if it needs more black pepper before I call Jubilee and Marc down."

The abandoned stone quarry baked under the glare of the SoCal sun, the high rock walls echoing with the metallic clatter of spent brass casing and the sharp, dry pop of high-caliber fire.

Erica Brooks stood at the firing line, her dark skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat under the heat. Her stark crimson-and-black suit stood out sharply against the dusty yellow gravel. She held a custom matte-black sniper rifle with casual, practiced ease, her yellow eyes narrowed as she cycled the bolt without even looking down.

"That's seven dead center on the moving clay plates at two hundred yards," Erica announced smoothly, her voice cool and entirely confident. She didn't even turn around as she loaded another heavy magazine into the receiver. "Top that, Bloodstone."

A few paces over, Elsa Bloodstone stood in her sleeveless, bleach-splattered denim vest, dark lips curled into a dry, amused smirk. Her red hair was pulled back into its messy ponytail, her dark chokers and bone necklace clinking against her chest as she stretched her thick, tattooed arms.

Despite wearing a tight black tank top and zero visible holsters or pouches, she casually reached behind her back and pulled a heavy, dual-barreled "Vamp-Buster" 12-gauge shotgun out of thin air.

"Moving clay? That's child's play, Brooks, proper target-practice for schoolgirls," Elsa scoffed in her thick Cockney accent. She didn't bother aiming down a sight. She snapped the break-action shut with a single flick of her wrist, raised the sawed-off with one hand, and pulled both triggers at once.

The roar of the shotgun blew a massive cloud of dust into the air. Down range, three clay targets vaporized into a cloud of red chalk by a widespread solar-infused incendiary shot.

Sitting on an overturned cooler under the shade of a tattered parasol, Jubilee wiped her dark sunglasses down onto her white leather sleeve, a half-eaten cherry popsicle in her mouth. She snapped her fingers, letting a tiny cluster of white-gold fireworks pop above her head to keep score.

"Okay, okay! That's three points for Erica's military precision, and three points for Elsa's total lack of collateral control," Jubilee called out, grinning as she nudged your arm with her elbow. "Judge, we've got a tie. What's the call on round four? Are we making them shoot blindfolded, or do we start throwing beer cans?"

Elsa rested the smoking barrels of her shotgun over her shoulder, her piercing blue eyes locking onto you with a dry, challenging grin. "Listen to the judge, Erica. Let's see who can hit a moving silver coin before it hits the dirt."

The living room was dim, illuminated mostly by the warm, flickering embers in the brick fireplace and the low, golden glow of a floor lamp. An open bottle of rye whiskey and a half-empty case of cheap beer sat on the low coffee table between worn leather sofas.

The mood had been light—a rare night off where the crew was just trading bad job stories. Marc Spector had just finished recounting a absurdly chaotic pursuit through a bazaar during his mercenary days, and Jubilee was still wheezing with laughter, wiping a tear from her eye.

Elsa Bloodstone leaned back in her armchair, her broad, heavily tattooed shoulders relaxing into the worn leather. Her bleach-stained denim vest was unbuttoned over a black tank top, her dark chokers and bone necklace clinking softly as she took a slow sip from her glass. Her shaved sides and dark lipstick caught the firelight as her face lit up with a genuinely cheerful, nostalgic grin.

"Oh, you think that's bad? That's proper soft, Marc, honest to God," Elsa chuckled, her voice bright and full of amusement. She gestured with her glass, entirely unbothered. "Reminds me of when I was seven. Old Ulysses decided I needed to learn 'spatial awareness under stress.' So the barmy old bastard locks me in a subterranean iron cellar with three starved, rabid hellhounds. Left me with nothing but a broken butter knife and two hours before supper."

She let out a raspy, lighthearted laugh, shaking her head.

"I spent the first hour getting tossed around like a rag doll—proper broke three ribs and lost a tooth! But then I figured out if you jam your fist straight down the lead hound's throat, it chokes long enough for you to pry its jaw off! By the time Father unlocked the heavy door, I was sitting on a pile of carcasses, completely drenched in black bile, eating my cold shepherd's pie."

Elsa took another casual swig of whiskey, letting out a satisfied breath. "Father didn't even give me a napkin! Let the blood dry and burn so I'd be faster next time. Still got the scars."

Silence descended on the living room like a lead weights.

The laughter died instantly. Jubilee’s smile froze mid-frame, her half-raised beer bottle hovering inches from her mouth, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror. Across from her, Marc Spector sat completely rigid, his glass stopped halfway to his lips, his jaw tight as he stared at Elsa in stunned, heavy silence. Even Erica Brooks leaned forward from the shadows, her dark eyes wide, utterly speechless. Jack Russel gently squeezed her shoulder, his eyes heavy with compassion. Parker Robbins lit a cigar and handed it to her.

"What?" Elsa asked, her dark-painted lips curling into a dry, confused smirk. "Why's everyone looking at me like I've grown a second head? It's a funny bit! We're sharing funny bits, ain't we?" She turned to you. "C'mon, it's funny!"

The massive, grey-skinned leviathan lay motionless across the cracked concrete of the pier, steaming softly in the damp ocean air. Black, viscous blood pooled around its crushed ribs, slowly draining into the surf below.

Elsa sat atop the beast’s massive flank, her heavy boots resting against its hide. Her bleach-stained denim vest was unbuttoned, her dark chokers and bone necklace clinking softly as she flicked a battered metal lighter. She took a long, slow drag from her Marlboro Red, the tip glowing a harsh orange in the fog, before exhaling a thick plume of grey smoke toward the dark waves.

With her free hand, she reached behind her back—into thin air—and pulled a silver-plated .38 snub-nose revolver from nowhere, casually resting it on her thigh like a paperweight.

She turned her head, her dark-painted lips holding the cigarette as her piercing blue eyes locked onto yours. She blew smoke out her nose with a tired, raspy exhale, her thick Cockney accent cutting through the sound of the crashing tide.

"Good hunt, mate," Elsa muttered dryly, tapping the ash off her cigarette with a black-nailed thumb.

She took one last drag, dropped the butt onto the monster's hide, and ground it out under her heel. She leaned back against her elbow, looking you up and down with a flat, completely shameless smirk.

"I'm bloody wired from the fight and soaking wet with salt spray," she said, her voice dropping into a low, direct gravel. "You want to fuck right here on this ugly bastard, or are we going back to the garage?"