The clerk's unique style of greeting made me draw up short, a heat in my face that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Fucking city people. Were all New Yorkers like this?
“Sorry,” I managed, though I was anything but sorry. “I was just hoping to get a room for the next few days. It was a long flight, and I'm kind of tired . . .”
To my surprise, the clerk's iron glare began to soften. “No, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have been trying to catch a nap when I should be working the desk. We don't usually get customers this late, and . . . well, that's not your problem. So one room? How many nights?”
I looked over the price chart posted in front of her and started to think out-loud. “Looks like I can only afford three nights. I could have really used a couple more days to get situated, but I'll figure it out.”
“We have a lot of empty rooms right now,” the clerk quickly interjected. “I could give you a week for three days' price and no one would blink.” She pulled out the hotel's old paper register. “What's your name?”
I revised my opinion about city people, and gave her a wintry smile. “Kurt Randall.”
She quickly scribbled the name in the book. “Alright, Mr. Randall. Er, Kurt? Can I call your Kurt?”
“Sure?”
She smiled, a far cry from the scowl she had worn when she had first appeared. “Alright, Kurt, I've got you all set up in Room 103 for the next week. It’s right down the hall. Oh, my name's Sophia, by the way.”
I met her smile, which seemed to be the polite thing to do, and she blushed and hurriedly tried to press out the wrinkles on her shirt with her hands. I realized I was younger, cleaner, and had more teeth than most of her other patrons, so our interaction verged into a date based on what a shitstorm she had to deal with working the desk. I schooled my face into something more kind, because it cost me nothing and I was unsure of my place in the city. For the moment.
Sophia was an attractive older woman, a bit frayed around the edges but still bright-eyed. In her, I could see a core of what she’d been before the city—and life—had begun to grind away, and her lopsided smile was open and inviting.
As I took the key from Sophia, she let her hand linger on mine. “You know, Kurt, if you need anything while you are staying here, my room is right here.” She stressed the word anything, so there could be no misinterpreting her intentions. “I'll be here all night.”
I might have been tempted, if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of a ring on that hand. There were a few lines that a man just didn't cross, and a wedding band was positively radioactive.
After getting into my room, I put down the duffle and immediately let myself fall on the bed. It had a musty smell and the mattress was full of unpleasant lumps, but at that moment it was the most comfortable bed I had ever been in. Within moments, I was drifting off to sleep, and the world continued shifting. I knew when I woke up, the man I had been would be gone, replaced by whatever it was that waited for me on the other side of sleep.
When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was it was still dark outside. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple hours. Grumbling to myself and determined to get a full night's rest for my exploration of the city in the morning, I turned over and tried to fall back to sleep. No luck. I fought the urge to kick my feet like a little kid, because sleep is as valuable as caffeine, and I hate being deprived of either.
To my surprise, I seemed to be full of energy. It was a wiry, nervous energy, like I would sometimes feel when driving through a particularly dangerous battle-zone. I was alert to the hotel's every creak, every light that passed by the windows outside, and every cat's yowl. I was tuned in to the world around me, and it wasn’t just being in the city. It was the flail, my dreams, and the new life I could feel building underneath me like a wave.
Eventually, I hit the sidewalk and let my feet take me into the night as my blood fizzed with restless purpose. A cold wind announced that fall was in full force. A light sprinkling of drizzle covered the land in a cool mist, and I walked against the breeze, enjoying the feel of not caring about my place or my destination. As long as I kept going straight, I probably wouldn't get lost. Probably. The ocean would stop me sooner or later, so I walked on, oblivious to the night.
All the while, that anxious energy continued to assault me in a whisper campaign, like a tingle on the back of my neck. I’m being watched. But that was crazy. No matter how many times I checked over my shoulder, the street remained empty, though my mild paranoia flared into something more muscular. I controlled my breathing and walked on, then took a sudden turn into an alley. If anyone was watching me, they would also have to come into the alley to keep me in their sights. I took a few paces in, then turned and waited, watching, my chest moving only under the iron control of my heightened awareness.
Nothing.
Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, the tingling returned—stronger, colder, and closer, like someone was blowing on the back of my neck with an icy breath. The instinct that I was still struggling to understand warned me that someone was there.
“What kind of juicy specimen is this?” a woman's voice called from behind me. “All by himself on these dark streets?”
I spun and prepared to square off against my pursuer.
Or I would, once I was done ogling her. As street criminals went, she was—exceptional. She was tall, with long, shapely legs that drew the eye up to a slender waist, which continued up to pair of perfect breasts, high and proud. Long, dark hair framed a face that was almost off-putting in the symmetry of its features. But it was what she was wearing that was the most eye-catching. Or rather, how little she was wearing. One thin black strap ran tightly across her chest, and two others crisscrossed her thighs and met in the middle, providing her with the barest modicum of coverage. She looked ready to star in a fetish video, and she was utterly comfortable in her own skin.
Oddly, one of my first thoughts when the blood returned to my head was how cold she should have been. The rain had begun to pick up, and the cool air made the droplets icy. Yet, despite being almost naked, this woman didn't so much as shiver as the near-freezing rain dripped down her body.
My instinct told me she was dangerous, but more importantly, my senses hinted that she was the reason I had come here. This is what my mother had wanted me to find. I didn't understand the reason for any of it, but I knew that much as I stood, staring at the exotic woman who didn’t fit.
“What's wrong, love?” the woman asked, her voice as smooth as honey. “Cat got your tongue? That's fine, you don't have to say anything. I like the strong, silent type.”
She sauntered toward me, her hips rocking in an appetizing sway. “There's something about you, the way you smell—it's driving me crazy. I've been wanting to get my fangs on you all night. Don't resist and I promise to introduce you to a different kind of pleasure.”
With one hand she beckoned me closer, and with the other she reached for me. I was tempted—she was oozing sexual promise—but my survival instinct was more powerful than her assault on my libido. I leapt back as her hand passed through the air in a motion that most inhuman, and my smile told her I was no easy mark.
“Fine. We'll do it the hard way. You won't find this as enjoyable.” She snarled like a wild animal, revealing fangs that were feline, long, and pointed. Her body tensed, and cord-like muscles rippled all along her figure. The tips of her fingers elongated and sharpened into deadly claws. Her sudden shift to a feral appearance was just what I needed to snap completely back to my senses. I was present, and I was ready.
As she lunged for me, I held out my arm, assured that the Night Flail would be there. My faith was rewarded as the mysterious weapon materialized, its chain wrapped along the length of my arm with a gleam of brilliant metal.
The creature stopped dead in her tracks. I let the flail dangle from the end of my arm, swinging it back and forth gently like a pendulum. Her eyes followed it intently. “You . . .” she whispered.
I grinned.
“Me what?”
“No wonder you smelled like . . .” She trailed off, which was a disappointment because every nerve in my body told me this wasn’t her first rodeo. That meant she had answers to why I was a hunter, why she was attacking me, and why I seemed, of all things, to be ready for it.
“What's wrong?” I mocked, speaking with a confidence I didn't realize I had. “Weren't we about to do this the hard way? Unless you want to call the whole thing off. Maybe we could . . . chat?”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because she let out a wild howl and rushed at me, claws extended.
The Night Flail felt good on my arm, and the sensation of wielding a weapon clicked with the first elegant spin of its deadly length. As to my skill with it, that remained to be seen.
Or so I thought.
As the wild woman rushed me, my body reacted from hidden memory, whipping the flail in graceful arcs to parry the swipes of my attacker's claws. She was fast, inhumanly so, moving with all the grace and ferocity of a tiger on the hunt. But the flail was faster. I kept it spinning in tight circles, and when she attacked, all it took was a quick jerk of the wrist to send the spiral to intercept, sending sparks from the impact with her claws. After the first two defensive strikes, she shook her hand as if it had gone numb. Hurts, doesn’t it? I thought. Her perfect features were drawn with concern and pain. It was a far cry from her earlier lustful swagger, and I liked the change—because I was causing it.
My mind moved slower than my body, and before I knew it, I was counterattacking, sending the end of the flail for a quick lash across her body after knocking her strikes aside with growing ease. She lithely tried to back out of the way but was still stung by the flail's tip, the first strike earning a yelp of pain that made her redouble the attacks. In just a few exchanges, her body became covered in nasty red welts, her breath hissing in agony with each vicious touch.
We danced like this for what felt like all night, even though it was probably just a few moments. It all came to an end when the Night Flail made a direct hit on her upper chest. There was a searing sound, like meat being thrown on a hot griddle, and the flail sunk into her, melting into her pale flesh with a speed that defied science.
As she howled in agony, red symbols—arcane lettering I had never seen before—appeared in a circle around the wound. They glowed, incandescent and painful to see-- and then a pulse of energy erupted from them that knocked me off my feet.
I rose with a groan, not quite sure what had just happened. What was it that the flail had done to that woman? Then I saw its victim lying a few feet away.
When I looked down at her, I no longer saw the seductive woman who had tried to lure me close, or the wild animal that had tried to claw out my throat. I saw just a regular woman—hurt, dying, and terrified. Pity welled up within me and I knelt down to try and help her.
She broke apart in my hands, falling to ashes at my first touch.
“What the—” I hissed, watching the flecks of her body drift away on the breeze. I couldn't explain it. One moment she was there, and then she was gone, little more of her left than a silky residue on the tips of my fingers. I looked down in shock as the ash ran through my fingers, and then the last of her finished breaking down into a powder so fine, the rain carried it away without so much as a smudge.
In seconds, it was if she had never really been there, and I was left staring at my hands, knowing that I too was a killer.
4
“You want books on what?” The librarian looked at me with tired eyes, his expression somewhere between bored and frustrated at having to do his job. A trail of smoke drifted from his cigarette to the 'No Smoking' sign hanging directly above his head.
I tried to think of a better way to phrase my admittedly odd request. “Creatures that roam the streets of New York. You know, like urban legends and stuff. Specifically, any that take the form of beautiful women.”
The librarian arched an eyebrow. “There's a whole section of paranormal romance books, if that's what you're into.”
“No, not fiction,” I said, realizing how crazy I must sound. “Like . . . real stuff people have seen. Women who attack men in the middle of the night, have sharp claws, and who turn to ash when they are killed.”
He must have seen something in my eyes that told him I wasn't speaking hypothetically. “You've had a rough few nights, huh?”
“You could say that.” I studied the librarian, whose face remained as impassive as someone watching paint dry. “You believe me?”
Letting out a puff of smoke that stung my eyes, he said, “It's New York.”
I was led to a section of periodicals and True Accounts style books from less than reputable sources. The covers proclaimed to tell of real alien abductions, ghosts roaming the halls of Fordham University, and mutated alligators living in the sewers. The librarian dashed away before I had the chance to ask him anything, so I was left on my own. With a sigh, I began my work.
Since my encounter that first night, I'd been struggling to learn anything about the creature I had killed. I didn't even really know where to start looking. It wasn’t like there was a listing for 'Monster Hunters' in the Yellow Pages. With no better ideas, I started to browse the city’s public libraries, but none of the big ones had turned up anything useful. One of the locals recommended this one, which was smaller, with rumors circulating that they had a secret basement filled with books on witchcraft.
The truth had been disappointing. The library, which had no name on its windows besides 'Public Library,' was crammed between a Starbucks and a store that sold Chinese knockoffs of brand-name tech. It was a squat building, only two stories tall, and if there was a secret basement full of occult texts, the librarian had neglected to mention it to me.
At least it was quiet. Despite the heavy foot-traffic outside, very few people seemed to come in here. Perhaps it was the smell of cigarette smoke and stale coffee that seemed to permeate every surface that kept them away.
I started flipping through the books at random, unsure what hidden gems might be found among the dull covers. Normally I wasn’t much of a skeptic, but the events of the past days caused a seismic shift in my ability to believe in the impossible. The books I picked up did not disappoint, if only in terms of the array of paranoia they expressed. There were giants, death rays, secret cabals of shadowy cults, and the requisite lizard people who wore human skin and ran major businesses. There was government conspiracy to control our minds using chemicals in the water—mint flavored, of course, and it had the side effect of causing women to give birth to twins, which was a nice detail. There was even an ancient order of knights who patrolled the streets with swords and crossbows, hunting creatures that lived in tales of legend. It was all rather dramatic in addition to being complete and utter bullshit, but the stories were told by survivors who had witnessed these things and barely escaped with their lives, yet were somehow able to write about it without their pursuers catching on.
Right when I was getting ready to give up, one book caught my attention. The Dark Places of New York was written by an urban explorer, someone with a hobby that involved poking around abandoned man-made structures. New York was apparently littered with forgotten subway tunnels, shuttered factories, and condemned buildings that were perfect for the reckless enthusiastic or novelty junkie with time on his hands.
What caught my attention were the references the author made to “figures lurking in the shadows,” and other things that made him uneasy during his excursions. The language was different—not breathless and sensational, but really imbued with a sense of fear. He never made any guesses as to what they were, but several times he felt as though he was being stalked and chose to beat a quick retreat. His most frightening experience had been when exploring a long-vacant estate out in the suburbs. He had heard a woman's laughter that seemed to come from everyone at once and had been assaulted with a perfume-like odor that had made him so dizzy he nearly collapsed. Only fear-induced adrenaline had
given him the strength to make a run for it.
Or so he claimed.
With no better leads, I took notes on some of the more notable locations mentioned by the author. If these things hunted in the darkness, that was where I would need to seek them out.
The first stop: that vacant estate. It was time to see just what went bump in the night.
By the time I arrived in the hamlet of Garrison, night had fallen. I was unlikely to come across any creatures in the light of day, so my timing matched my expectations of their unusual needs. The roads here were quiet and empty by this time, a far cry from the humming streets of the city. Thinly wooded areas offered a screen of privacy for the larger estates, making them inaccessible from the road except via a private road.
The road I was looking for had no street sign and had mostly been reclaimed by the plant-life of the surrounding woods, a covering of wilderness in the shadows of the city itself. As I walked down the path, that instinct of danger began to rear its head once again. It was as if my veins had been filled with icy water, the chill of combat awareness filling me from the inside out. It was an inescapable power that thrilled and worried me all at once. I was on the right track, or I was about to killed. Only one way to find out which.
The enormous house I approached was old. I wasn’t exactly an expert on architecture, but the round towers, elaborate chimney, and old-world windows made it feel like something I'd seen in a documentary of the turn of the 20th century. The wood rot and fading paint, as well as the way the trees leaned up against it and formed cracks in its side, made it clear that it had been uninhabited for some time. The moon was out and cast an eerie glow on the chipped paint, turning the cracks in the windows into spiderwebbed shadows.
Succubus Hunter Page 2
