Hunted

It rained. Like the tears of Judgement - it was Old Testament rain – London rain. Around me, Londoners settled in for the onslaught, huddling under umbrellas, newspapers, whatever. In other cities, there’d probably be screaming and running. And cars skidding in to each other. But this was London. We’ve seen worse.

I’d seen worse. I was running.

Every fibre in my body telling me to stay in the crowds, with and near people – but the newer part of me knew that it wouldn’t count. That people didn’t matter. “Blood is thicker than water.” My mind reasoned, trying to be clever. “Not in this rain – it would still quite happily wash ours into the sewers.” I mouthed the words stopping short of actually saying them in case I tempted fate. It didn’t need tempting. I needed shelter – sanctuary. Time to call in a favour.

I was in the back alleys now, behind Soho, like one more cliché from an episode of Dempsey and Makepeace – where the opening scene is described in the script as: “Man runs through rain from unknown (unknowable) terror. Behind him, something lurks, hidden by the shadows thrown out by the twisting alley the man (moron) is running down”

Figuratively (fugitively), that was me. Like my on-screen counterpart, I paid no heed to rank soaked drains that welled and flooded the roads and paths, or homeless men that asked me for a quid and swore as I ran past unheeding. I ignored the darkened windows and black doors and they ignored me - they would bear no witness to my passing.

And behind me, the shadows loomed.

I saw the light. No, not the white light beckoning me into heaven (too late for that) or even the light at the end of the tunnel. The light. The low red light that glowed balefully from a rusting red Chinese lantern – welcoming. I did well to silence the laugh – Welcoming?! Christ, things had to be bad to be welcomed by that light. I slid to a halt and banged loudly on the large black wooden door that stood silent sentinel, keeping the sweet of the tourists from the sour of London. It opened, a crack, and I looked back along the road. Nothing. That was what I saw – it was also what it meant:
“Yes?”
“Open the god damned door you Kook bastard!” My mind screamed but my body just smiled. The eye spoke again:
“You?” The door half opened – opened enough. I yanked it and stepped through. The eye had a body. A man – a Kook – you know, “Oriental of indistinct origin”. They all look the same to me:
“We don’t want no trouble here, Hunter.” He almost spat the word
“Me either.”

I stepped across the threshold – out of purgatory where the rain tried to wash away my sins. Out of purgatory, into hell

A floor to ceiling red hell – the walls various shades of crimson, the floor covered in what would have been deep pile carpet about twenty years ago. It had long since been reduced to little more than carpet tiles. The red walls ran with damp and moisture and rain, giving the appearance of, well, you fill in the blanks. No, best not to think it.

Every city has a Hell, if you know where to look.

And yet, in that dim coolness, I had my sanctuary. I picked an out of the way table, a booth. This place had once been among the trendy waterholes of the city – in the 80s when London’s streets were paved with gold and the souls of market traders, when everything shone with the Thatcher gleam. In those days, you’d have paid extra for the booth, paid extra to be looking down from the lofty heights on the joe-smoes who just sat at ordinary tables. But now it was owned by Imports. In this case, Kooks and the only thing you paid extra for was clean drink.

A bouncer stood at the bar, one hand idly playing with whatever ageing hookers keep up their skirts these days, the other toying with the butt of something black and shiny, hanging just under the shoulder – kosh or cannon, I didn’t care which. The hooker had a look of bored indifference on her face, except when the bouncer looked at her, which was only whenever he took his eyes off his drink on the bar.
The owner – a Kook naturally, stood behind the bar, hands ready to inspect the coats of any patron stupid enough to pass on theirs for safekeeping. Not that the place was festooned with patrons. There were only three kinds of people that come here: The Lost – home is where your feet are, after all. The Cab-Driven – “Sure, I know a place where you can have a good time”. I bet the cabbies laugh as they drive off abandoning their fares here and counting the kickback they get, if they get one. Finally, the Desperate – this place has an all night liquor licence after all. And in a country that doesn’t licence bars all night, that’s quite a feat. I was desperate.

A group of Cab-Driven suits stood by one end of the bar, sipping watered down cocktails and laughing at an inappropriate volume, trying to make the place sound busy. A Goth came out of the men’s, face white (paint), eyes red (drugs). He stared at me so hard he walked into the Suits, spilling one of their Marguerites or whatever:

“This should be fun,” said a waitress appearing at my shoulder following my stare: “Handbags at dawn.”

We both watched as the Goth wiped the ubiquitous leather trench coat he wore, whilst the Suits palpated with fear. He almost missed the small multicoloured umbrella that had become embedded in a jacket pocket, but the waitress snorted:
“It doesn’t go with your hair.” She laughed. He reached down and stuck it behind the ear of one of the suits, who quivered – the others hung back but tried to look tough. He stared until a gap opened up and then he pushed towards the door, and was gone, swept away by the rain
“Another round?” The barkeeper managed in broken English to the suits. I admired his optimism.

“Wanna buy me a cigarette?” The waitress breathed in my ear. Her breath was heavy with scotch. And smoke. She brushed her leg against mine in what was supposed to be a suggestive manner, although the fact I was soaked to the skin may have dulled the moment. That and the static build up from the carpet and her nylons.
“No. But you can have one of mine. And it won’t cost me my watch.” I breathed back
“Screw you.”
“Doubtful, for one, I don’t like your watch.”
“Bastard” She stalked away
“Get me a scotch. Straight up. No ice, no water and NO water.” I called after her
She put on a mock hurt face, raised her middle finger and headed to the bar.

Scant minutes had passed. No-one had come through the door. Not that I’d seen, anyway. But what did that mean? Time for the bat-phone. I reached into my coat and slipped a hand into an inside pocket – my heart missed a beat as I struggled to find it – pockets have a way of doing that. Circes says that it has something to do with the Mages but then, she talks a lot of crap too. Then I had it. I pulled the small stone effigy out and looked at it closely. An eagle – or would have been, it was almost worn smooth. And it was cold. I swallowed my pride and put it on.

The Goth was back, this time with a couple of friends. They stalked back towards the suits – perhaps they’d come for the umbrella, perhaps not. Still, it might break up the monotony of being stalked by extras from Sesame Street.
“Where did you get that.” The voice came from the seat opposite me, a spot that everyone in the club had decided simultaneously not to look at. Nice trick.
“You took your time.” I shot back, and turned to look at my dinner date. Arabic (naturally), tanned skin, almost shoulder length hair, angular, almost crooked nose. He breathed out smoke. Heavy tobacco and something else – Lebanese Gold. Tough to get, solid was rationed – you could still get “proper” grass, although like everything else in London, it was way over priced and of dubious quality. He…it…didn’t respond at first. He drew heavily on the roll up and held in the smoke:
“Alright, so, you can breathe smoke. Big deal. I can drink blood if I want.”
The man, it, raised an eyebrow
“I said ‘want’.” It stared at the stone icon around my neck. At least, it was staring at my neck and I hoped, at the stone bird.
“How did a blood-bank like you get one of our eagles?” His brown eyes burned into me, and I did what I could to hide the rising anger of being this close to that which should not be – Circes again. She loved Lovecraft:
“Does it matter?”
“It matters. The contract does not cover…”
“Screw that. I have an eagle so you have to help.”
“Indeed?” He went quiet again, pulling out a battered cigarette tin – old Holborn in fact. He put another roll up to his lips, and licked one end.
“You still have to pay.” He said, languidly crossing a leg and settling back in the seat: “Can you?”
“Sure.” I lied. Well, stretched the truth. I went for it:
“Half now. Half when I’m clear.”
He laughed – shit – I persevered:
“Old blood,” He kept laughing
“Tremere.” He stopped. I had his attention now.
“Show me.”
I pulled the blood pack from my coat and passed it to him, in what I hoped was a surreptitious manner, but I needn’t have worried. He put it under his nose and sniffed:
“Jesus…you fucking freaks.” The waitress had returned and dumped my scotch on the table. She didn’t hang around.
“Well, it appears your credit is good. Do you know much about my brotherhood?”
I didn’t bother lying and shook my head:
“Good. If you screw with us, we will kill you and everyone that knows you. Understand?”
I nodded and pushed my luck: “Do you know much about my brotherhood?”
Another raised eyebrow, he had Roger Moore beaten into a cocked hat:
“If you screw with me, my friends will drag you and your brothers kicking and screaming into the sunlight. Understand?
It half smiled. It like being threatened by a mortal:
“Now let’s end this bullshit and get the hell out of here.”

A lot of things seemed to happen at once then. The Arab stood and I downed my scotch. A gun was already in his hand as the door of the club caved in – splinters flew in every direction, along with the body of the doorman. Two large black…tentacles, I don’t know what else to call them, whipped through the empty space smashing into the bar and crowning the bouncer. The girl at the bar started to scream, but was cut off half way by an ominous silence. She now looked like the painting, hands clasped tightly to the sides of her pale white face, her lungs going for it, but no sound. Someone had pressed a mute button.

I felt rather than heard the rapport of the Arabs gun as rounds (plural) were fired in very quick succession towards the main door, the tentacles receded and two shadowy forms moved smoothly into the club.

I looked up and saw the Goths friends advancing, wicked looking blades clasped tightly in their hands, faces now stripped of their masks: they were old, but not quite dead. Ghouls. Shit, I could eat them for breakfast. I mocked fear until they came close, close enough. The recoil of my sawn off knocked me into the Arab and ripped the hell out of my coat. Both of them looked much worse though. I fumbled for my last shell and slotted it home.

I turned my attention to the leaving part of this exercise. The Arab was knife fighting one of the shadows, the second slipped across the floor like oil on water, it ran up the wall behind him and started to form – he hadn’t seen it.

At this point, everything slowed to a crawl. I had a choice – run for the door and shoot whatever got in my way, or…fuck it..why fight what we are?. I levelled the gun and shouted, it might have been “look out” or “Fuck off!” The Arab vanished, the air quivering with a heat haze as he did, as the forming shadow lunged, as my gun went off. The effect was quite satisfying – the formed part disintegrated in a blast of black ichor. The shadow part quickly followed suit. Phosphorous stoked shells will do that for you though. That left me, unarmed, and the other shadow.

It solidified into the beast it was. Hideous. And it was old too. If I were lucky, it’d just shoot me. It grinned:
“Friend gone…” It hissed
“Seems that way,” and I waited for life to start passing before my eyes. It didn’t. I suppose I was a little disappointed.
“Can’t trust assamites…” it said through quivering lips.
“Seems that way,” my mouth said, watching frozen, entranced somehow, unable to move, as it levelled a handgun in my direction. Behind him the air quivered.

There were two dull thuds then and I fell forward. I tried to stand, but couldn’t. I remembered thinking that I couldn’t die here, not here. The shock caused indignation of dying on the floor of this Kook club helped me roll over, but then I felt tired and couldn’t move. I waited for the coup de Gras. But it never came. There was, however, a nasty noise like wet leather being torn.

The Arab looked down at me, his face half smiling as sound rushed back into the club, the pitiful moans and cries of pain – mostly mine, if I’m honest:
“Great job…” I managed through clenched teeth
“You still breathe, don’t complain.”

He picked me up, then pain enough to put out elephants rushed in, white noise burned my ears, vomit collected in the back of my throat. He put me over his shoulder and walked calmly out the club. There was no sign of that other…thing.

Much later, when I came round, the Arab was still there. I smelled his tobacco before I saw his face.
“How do you do that?” He asked
“What?” My head pounded and my chest screamed every time I drew breath.
“Heal. Your wounds closed up.”
“Yeah, well, I wish they’d do it quicker.”
“What are you?”
I managed to sit up – I was in my own bed. Back at home. I didn’t know how.
“Did you find the blood?”
“Yes. It isn’t quite of the same quality. But we’re even.” He paused and then said:
“You saved me, probably?”
“Probably?” I laughed, as best I could.
“Why?”
“Fucked if I know. Better odds maybe … or maybe I couldn’t stand the thought of someone other than me kicking your arse...I dunno. Why fight what you are?”
I pointed to the word emblazzoned across the wall at the end of my bed which said simply “Defend”. So much for a message.
“And what are you?”
“Outnumbered. And clinging to this hunk of rock by my fingers. And ready to take any ally in a storm.”
It fell silent then - I didn’t know what else to say. He just nodded and ducked toward the window. I pulled the eagle from around my neck and made to toss it at him:
“Keep it. You might need it.”
“We can look after ourselves. Mostly.”
It half-smiled. Then it flickered and faded:
“The next time we meet…” He started
“You’ll need sunglasses.” I finished with a grimace.
He did the vulcan eyebrow thing and was gone.
I gingerly climbed out of bed and started to pack. Time to move. Again.