Hunter's Legacy

by N. P. Martin

  "What about whiskey?" I asked him as I trudged behind him up a steep road, my breath coming in gasps. "Does that help you stay optimal?"

  "Of course, now speed up. You have a long way to go yet."

  After breakfast, it was out to the clearing around the back of the cabin for fight training. The first few days of this, I did nothing but practice hitting pads and bags with the strikes Frank would show me. The strikes themselves were nothing fancy, but they were brutally effective. Frank proved this on the first day when he insisted I take the full force of every strike he showed me at least once. Hence, I was knocked out by his palm when it struck me on the forehead, nearly had my sternum fractured by his elbow, and was knocked out once again when the side of his fist bludgeoned my temple. Oh, and don’t forget the kick to my leg, which nearly snapped it in two, and the knee to my skull that felt like a sledgehammer blow. I’ll be honest, I thought Frank was needlessly abusing me until he explained I needed to know not only what each strike felt like on the receiving end, but also how to take them.

  "Fact is," he said. "You’re going to get the shit beat out of you on a regular basis. You’ll be going up against monsters, and those fuckers don’t go easy."

  "Neither do you," I said after awakening from a bout of Frank-induced unconsciousness.

  He just shrugged. "This is what you’ll face. This is your new reality."

  "Getting the shit beat out of me?"

  "You’d better get used to it."

  Luckily, Frank also helped me develop my healing powers— that is, by having me learn how to heal what he'd busted up. Being baptized in a lake of brimstone and fire was a notion which repeatedly came to mind. "You want the pain to stop," he would say. "You direct your grace to where it’s needed."

  This was easier said than done. Getting a handle on my grace was like trying to keep a grip of an eel with just one hand. It never seemed to remain still once I managed to summon it. It would come forth from my gut area first, though I have no fucking idea how. It just came, either when I was in some sort of distress or danger, or when I concentrated and brought it forth myself. When the grace came unbidden, it seemed to know itself where it was needed most in my body, and off it would go without any conscious direction from me. But when I summoned the grace myself, it proved to be tricky to direct and control. It was almost like my new power was testing me, forcing me to work for the bounty it could provide. It took me a few days of constant trying before I was able to direct my grace to where I wanted it go. Sparring with Frank made my learning a necessity. He didn’t hold back much. "Demons don’t hold back," he would say. "Why should I?"

  I soon learned that if I wanted his strikes to hurt less, I would have to learn to quickly direct my grace to the point of impact. Grace, as it turns out, is like the strongest of painkillers, but without any of the side effects. Get it right, and the pain stops immediately. It’s quite amazing really.

  Once I got the hang of directing my grace, sparring became more enjoyable, and I could focus solely on practicing my fighting skills…not to mention giving Frank back some of the pain he had dished out.

  If inwardly directing grace to stop pain was a revelation, outwardly directing it was an even greater one. I hadn’t forgotten the exhilaration of using my grace for the first time against the demon that attacked Kasey and I. With Frank’s help, I was soon able to direct this grace into almost every strike, which greatly increased the power of whatever strike I was using.

  "Try not to get carried away with using your grace," Frank warned me. "For whatever reason, we only have so much in us before it runs out, and then we have to wait for it to build back up again. I guess our bodies can only hold so much at one time. If we could hold more, we’d be angels, not Nephilim."

  "So how long does it take for the grace to replenish?"

  "It depends. It seems to vary from person to person, which comes down to genetics. It also depends on how desperately you really need it. In dire circumstances, grace can fully replenish in mere minutes from being depleted. When it’s not essential to your survival, you’ll be waiting a while longer, maybe several hours."

  "So use only when needed."

  "You got it."

  These training sessions would last all day, no matter the weather, and would often run into the evening as well. The evenings though, more often than not, were for a different kind of training.

  After dinner, Frank would hand me books and tell me to read them. The first book he gave me was a small leather-bound volume called The Book Of The Watchers, which was apparently a bit like the Bible for Nephilim, only more instructional. It was chock full of helpful advice on fighting, magic use and general conduct when it came to being a Watcher. Surprisingly, the book didn’t advocate living like a monk, or behaving like a nun (as if). Instead, it preached the value of finding strength and motivation from whatever source you could, "no matter how dark". As long as you continued to walk the path of light and righteousness by fighting the good fight, you could pretty much do whatever you wanted.

  Of particular interest to me was the lore on demons. Frank gave me a few different books that outlined the inner workings of demonkind. More importantly, he gave me a book that would help me protect myself against them. The book was written almost entirely in Latin, and it contained a few different protection spells, plus the words for a complete exorcism. Every night, Frank would make me stand in the living room and recite every word of the spells. If I fucked up, which I often did, he would make me go back to the beginning and start again. Needless to say, it was a frustrating experience, not only trying to get my tongue around the unfamiliar language, but also trying to remember all the words and pronounce them exactly right, all while trying to keep in mind the meaning of each word as told to me by Frank. More than once I tossed the books away in frustration and stormed out of the cabin, standing outside with a joint as I tried to calm my aching brain.

  The studying would go on all night, and then when I went to bed, I would read over my mother’s journal for the umpteenth time, as much to try and get to know her as to learn from her. I would also let the video of her play on a loop, as I found her voice soothed me to sleep.

  Then the next day, the training would start all over again.

  I didn’t forget Kasey throughout all of this. I would remind myself that I had to phone her to see how she was doing, but the rigors of training were so great that I always forgot about anything else, including calling Kasey.

  Yeah, I know, I’m a terrible friend.

  As part of my training, Frank showed me how to shoot as well, explaining the difference between the various guns and the types of bullets they fired. All day, he would stand beside me as I fired round after round at variously placed targets. After a week or so of this, I found myself becoming more comfortable with the guns, and my targeting soon improved enough for Frank to let me practice on my own while he went and did other things.

  As part of this firearms training, Frank insisted I learn how to mint my own bullets as well. This entailed spending hours in his cellar, hunched over while I practiced engraving runic glyphs onto the bullet casings, which is as tedious as it sounds. According to Frank, these magic bullets, if you want to call them that, went some way to making up for the severe shortage of runic blades in the world today. The bullets were also imbued with the grace of whoever made them, and depending on what kind of glyphs you used, some bullets incapacitated an enemy, while others killed. Frank even went so far as to carry two guns, one loaded with incapacitating rounds, the other with kill rounds. The engraving was highly intricate work, and it took a lot of skill to get right. It would take me years to master the process completely, that much was clear.

  To break up the shooting practice, Frank also showed me the basics of knife fighting with the Watcher Knife. "It’s your main kill tool," he told me. "You need to know how to use it."

  He taught me how to wield the knife properly, and how to use it in conjunction with a gun or my fist. He also acquire
d a pig carcass from somewhere, and hung it up from a tree branch (much to Bane’s delight, whom Frank had to keep chasing away as the dog tried to bite chunks from the carcass). Then he showed me the various stabbing and slashing movements on the pig carcass. Actually using the knife against flesh and bone was a bit different from swiping at the air, but I soon got used to it after days of constant, unrelenting practice.

  I’ll be honest, the intensity of Frank’s training was unbearable at times. I wasn’t used to any kind of training, never mind Frank’s grueling, brutal regime, so it was all a massive shock to me until I got used to it. But despite the pain and suffering involved, I had to admit that I’d never felt more alive in my entire life. Everyday when I was outside, either fighting with Frank, or practicing with the weapons, I felt myself infused with a clear, bright energy, and a pure sense of focus that was revelatory in its clarity. For the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I had to do, why I needed to do it, and where I fell in the scheme of things.

  After so many years of being directionless, I finally felt like I had a burning sense of purpose at last.

  Throughout those few weeks of training, I never once heard from Josh. No more phone calls, no nothing. I worried, of course, but thanks to the training every day, I barely had time to think about it. In a sense, I was bidding my time, molding myself, with Frank’s help, into someone who could actually do something about Josh’s situation. I needed to get strong for him, and so that’s what I did. At night, I would think about him, wondering what he was up to with the demons, worrying that he was losing a piece of his soul with each passing day.

  In between training me, Frank would make enquiries to try and locate Josh and the demons he was with. He would go off for a few hours at a time, and while he was gone I would allow myself to become hopeful. But that hope would be dashed when Frank would return and merely shake his head at me, signifying that he was no further on. If it wasn’t for the training that kept me focused, I would have crumbled under the wave of emotions and mental anguish, likely returning to a state of oblivion through substance abuses. As it was, the training gave me the strength to carry on in the face of despair.

  Then one day, Frank came to me and said, "I think it’s time you got some experience."

  I was practicing with the two swords I took from my mother’s storage unit. I held them by my side as I looked at Frank with a slightly worried look on my face, wondering what brutal training practice he was about to throw at me next. "What do you mean experience?"

  Frank almost smiled. "I mean the bloody kind. Gear up, we’re leaving now."

  17

  As I got inside Frank’s car, I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to embark on some sort of test. Before I left, I changed into one of the outfits that used to belong to my mother—a mostly leather ensemble that was even more comfortable than it looked. The various scuff marks and small tears all over it gave some idea of how much good use it had been put to. I also have to say, the tight trousers and jacket made me feel bad ass, especially when I thought of all the missions my mother had probably worn them on. I made sure to strap the Watcher Knife to my lower right leg, and I carried a Glock 19 inside the jacket. Despite this whole get up, I still shook slightly with all the nerves and adrenaline rushing around my system, especially as I had no idea what kind of situation I was about to head into.

  "Relax," Frank said as he pulled off in the car, taking us down the steep mountain road. "You have to learn to control those nerves."

  "How?" I asked as I looked at him with eyes that were probably too wide.

  He took a small hip flask from out of his jacket and held it out toward me. "This helps."

  I smiled at him and shook my head. "Jesus, Frank, is there any occasion not worthy of a drink in your book?"

  Frank smiled back as he then seemed to concentrate on searching for such an occasion, before finally he shrugged and opened the flask to a definite, and resolute, "Nope."

  "I didn’t think so."

  Once we were on the main road heading into the city, I asked him the burning question. "So where the hell are you taking me, Frank?"

  "To hunt vampires," he said casually as he leaned forward and turned the radio on to some classic rock station.

  "Vampires?"

  "Yeah. Demon’s aren’t the only monsters you know."

  "Yeah, I know that. I have read my mom’s journal, you know."

  "Then why do you sound so shocked when I say we’re going to hunt them?"

  I shook my head, puffing my cheeks out slightly. "I dunno, Frank, maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’ve never even seen a vampire before, let alone hunted one."

  Suddenly, things felt very real. And very dangerous.

  "You’ll be fine," Frank said as we neared the city. "Just stick close and do as I tell you. I’ll try to make sure you don’t get hurt."

  "Try?"

  He nodded. "Now’s as good a time as any to learn the two most fundamental aspects of the hunt: first is, no matter how well you plan, there's always going to be aspects you simply will never be able to cater for; and second, is that no matter how ready you are, there'll always be times when preparedness isn't enough to entirely save you. As such, neither I nor you can ever guarantee your safety entirely, Leia. The sooner you let that sink in, the better."

  "What, so I’m on my own?"

  He nodded again. "In a sense, yes. I’m just trying to tell you that its best for everyone if you take full responsibility for your personal safety. It’s not good practice to rely too much on anyone else. People can let you down, and not be there when you need them."

  I had some experience with what he was saying. Growing up in the foster system, I had no choice but to look out for myself, and Josh, of course. I quickly learned that Josh wouldn’t always be there when I needed him, so I had to cultivate self-reliance. "I get it."

  Frank looked across at me. "Do you?"

  I nodded as a feeling of resentment stirred in me, even though I wasn’t necessarily mad at him for being so blunt. "I don’t expect you to protect me. You never have before, so why would you now?"

  Frank’s face tensed as he stared straight ahead. "I guess I deserved that."

  I sighed and shook my head. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that."

  "Yes, you did. It’s fine, though."

  Now I felt like shit. "It isn’t, not after everything you’ve done for me these last few weeks."

  Frank leaned forward and turned the radio up. "You like Rush?" he asked, nodding his head in time with the music.

  I shook my head. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them."

  "You’ve never heard of Rush?"

  "No."

  He shook his head in mock disgust. "An education in music will be a part of your training from now on. Consider this your first lesson."

  I couldn’t help but laugh. "You’re not right in the head, you know that, right?"

  "Hey, I’m a damn Watcher," he said. "None of us are right in the head."

  Well, it certainly seems I’ll fit right in! I thought as I turned and looked out the window, feeling a greater sense of freedom in that moment than any I’d ever felt before.

  We ended up in the Southside, a place I—and most other right-thinking people—avoided like the damn plague. The Southside was like the scabby elbow of the city’s body, a place that inspired repulsion in those that lived outside of it. It was a place of poverty and degradation, ruled by crime lords who ran an economy based mostly on drugs, and who weren’t afraid to murder anyone who went up against them. Even the cops and local authorities gave the Southside a wide berth, for fear of their lives. I was a little concerned therefore, when Frank’s next turn took us into the place, although it did make perfect sense that demons and other denizens of the dark had been drawn to somewhere that the rest of the city’s inhabitants had all but wiped from their memories. For such dark-dwellers, the Southside no doubt provided the perfect safe haven.

  "Jesus."
I stared out the window in slightly fearful disgust at the rundown buildings, and the people who hung out in the shadows like menacing wraiths. "This is where all the vampires hang out?"

  "Just the one’s who don’t want to be found," he replied, taking one of his Berettas out from under his jacket and placing it in his lap.

  "What’s that for?" I asked in almost a whisper, my brain torn between wanting to know, and hesitant over that answer I knew I would get.

  "In case someone tries to carjack us."

  I nodded, my sense of adventure suddenly shrinking somewhat in the face of such a harsh reality. "That’s happened to you before in here?"

  "Twice."

  I shook my head this time. "Christ, are we going to end up in a shooting match before we even get to wherever we’re going?"

  Frank smiled at my cynicism, perhaps recognizing it as a Swanson family trait. "Relax. This place isn’t as bad as everyone thinks. As long as you don’t cause trouble, people around here generally leave you alone."

  I wasn’t that reassured by his words. "But isn’t that what we’re here to do? To cause trouble?"

  He shrugged. "Well, yeah…in a sense. Where we’re going, there won’t be many people, though."

  After considering that for a moment, I decided it didn’t make me feel any better.

  "What’s wrong?" Frank asked. "Are you getting cold feet?"

  I gave him my best fuck you stare. "Of course not."

  He stared at me a moment, then said, "Good," as if that was enough for him.

  About ten minutes later, we were driving through what seemed like an abandoned neighborhood full of boarded-up houses that was now no more than a ghost town strewn with shadow and decay. As Frank drove, I thought I saw movement in the darker shadows, though that could’ve just been fearful imagination working overtime.

  Eventually, Frank stopped the car in a weed-strewn parking lot. Looking out the window, I could see what looked like an abandoned factory building that may once have been painted a light blue, but which was now dull and gray. Darkness leaked out of every broken window; a darkness that seemed more potent than the night outside.