He comes to a particular fork in the road, following the gently sloping downward angle until going further off the lit path. He sees the flicker of light coming from fire instead of publicly-provided lamps. He notes the dark shapes huddled in various positions about the flame licking up from the rusted barrel. He knows most of them, and they know him. He finds one of particular import, taking a seat on the ground beside him.
“There was a message,” he informs.
“What was it?”
“Something about someone else digging into things.”
“Someone else?”
He nods. “Another ‘seeker’, the message said.”
The other one studies him. He finally breaks the focus, looking around. Many of those here are watching.
“What are we supposed to do about it?” he asks, eyes again finding the messenger.
“Wait. Watch.”
“That’s it?”
“Look, Lance, I’m in this just like you are. You’ve read the messages before. We’re-” and his voice stops as he cringes, forcing a swallow. He looks away, producing a loud burp which resolves into a series of unsettling coughs.
“Pierce?”
He looks over to Lance tapping his own lip. He takes this to mean something is on his, so he checks, and his grimy fingertips come back with the reflective mark of blood.
“Getting worse?” Lance asks.
“I don’t know,” comes out too defensive, but he relents. “Maybe.”
Lance rises to his feet, evincing his own pain and soreness as he winces and groans. Both are in their twenties, but this life ages them. Lance presses a hand into his own lower back, trying to stretch, but the pain takes him again.
“I’ll check with some of the others. See if they’ve noticed anything.” He begins to walk away, a noticeable limp to his stride.
Pierce watches, trying to focus, ignore the signs. His head feels fuzzy, pressured. He needs to find something to take the edge off.
They all have their masters. He’s not entirely sure who pulls their strings, but he knows this life is shit. No matter what he does, no matter the charities he visits, his condition just continues to worsen. Still, the compulsions are undeniable, so just like Lance, he carries on.
*****
Though the City indeed has its share of a history of crime, she is only concerned with the past couple of years at most. Having narrowed the search and used some custom scripts to pick and sort the data, she has come across some interesting things.
She’s been a victim of crime, herself, twice kidnapped and twice rescued by the vigilante. She recalls the serial killer that once haunted the City and when she trailed the spooky-seeming man into the strip joint. That was the first time she was attacked, and she felt sure it meant that guy was the killer. Thinking back on it now, though, it makes no sense. She supposes it never did, but the overwhelming mysterious nature obscures like a fog.
Therese finds a disturbingly imaginative description of one murder, calling it a “demonic killing”, and she uses the key words, finding others. Such colorful language was eagerly used by the more provocative news outlets in describing the condition of the victims of that serial killer. No one was ever arrested, but the murders did stop.
She does more digging, hacking, trying to find out if the police ever came up with something they did not report to the news outlets. She doesn’t find anything. She hates coming upon such dead ends. She trusts her scripts and searches and realizes there is nothing more. She stares, as though using force of will to plumb an answer. As expected, nothing more happens. She gets up to make more coffee.
The City is enjoying a record low of particular violent crimes, just the sort to draw the vigilante’s attention. Therese has to admit that just because she finds nothing of late concerning the shadowy crusader’s activity doesn’t mean they’re gone from the City. That work may finally just be paying off. Criminals may be finding other places more agreeable to their pursuits.
The microwave beeps, and she takes out the mug of water, casually spooning in the instant coffee. She doesn’t even watch as she does, thoughts off exploring other avenues as ceaselessly as her programs constantly search the internet. She goes back to the computer, sifting through other data.
She easily found more on Denman Malkuth, searching through the faculty records at the University. He is a very attractive man, possessed of many academic accomplishments. He is also, apparently, on leave. She wonders if there’s much of a point of tracking the man down. She’s trying to garner more information on Lilja, trying to put this whole vigilante business to bed once and for all. What knowledge might this professor have?
Based on Amanda Honeycutt’s claims, Professor Malkuth holds knowledge on valuable books. According to his curriculum vitae, he also possesses a good deal of understanding on other subjects. None of it seems germane to Therese’s pursuits, but she is nothing if not meticulous. She’d rather rule a source out than leave it hanging. Sometimes the threads of the web are indistinct. Such is the nature of mystery.
She leans closer, her practiced fingers flying over the keys as she puts together a script to do some virtual digging on Denman Malkuth. Perhaps she’ll find something interesting.
*****
Lilja strolls casually about the campus grounds. The days are hot, of course, during this mid-summer month, but this one holds an alluring pleasantness. Work is also not as demanding during the break, so she enjoys the times to get away and just experience nature. She ponders a more involved hike, perhaps adding in some rock climbing. Her lips subconsciously take a light curve as she thinks on such activities.
There are few people about, and she meanders to an area off the beaten path, feeling the well-cultivated grass beneath her shoes. She stops atop the gentle hill, looking out over the city. From this vantage, she cannot make out much before other buildings obscure. She begins to look more inward, letting thoughts swirl about as they may. She does hold some concern about the upcoming trip. It is all being sorted, and mostly, it seems, without her input. She’d like to participate more, but her main worry lies in going at all. Though Skot has told her they want her along, Lilja harbors some anxiety that this may not come to pass.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Lilja blinks, looking over to see another person here. How could she not have heard the approach? She must have been too deep in her own musings. She recognizes her as the one who appeared that time when she was working out. The one who inquired if she was accepting new students.
“Yes,” Lilja finally agrees.
The woman stares off in the direction lately observed by Lilja, though the librarian gives her more of a study. She is obviously older than Lilja, but she has that appearance and bearing of one whose age is difficult to pin, as though she carries her years well.
“It’s important to stop and smell the roses.”
Lilja is also inclined to agree with this, but something about the woman makes her more hesitant than usual to engage in conversation. She’s also never been much for small talk. The woman turns her eyes on Lilja.
“I think too many people forget that. Our time is limited, and all of this is so fragile. We should enjoy it while we can.”
Though delivered conversationally, the words come across as a warning, even showing a hint of self-righteousness. Lilja does not like it. She turns to leave.
“All done with your smelling?”
She pauses, not liking the woman’s implication one bit, yet she has halted her egress. She gives a casual-seeming glance. “I have to get back to work.”
“Oh, you work here, too?” the woman asks, having the audacity to walk over to Lilja, accompanying her as the redhead again tries to walk away.
“Yes,” she gives.
“Oh, it must be nice. You’re a professor?”
“Librarian.”
“Oh, how interesting.”
Lilja finds the woman more and more irritating, not only from her forwardness but also he
r repeated use of the word ‘oh’. She sees no reason why these “revelations” about herself should be any sort of a big deal at all.
“I’d imagine this library has a great many interesting books,” the woman carries on. “Still, with the internet, I do wonder if such things are not on their way to obsolescence.”
“I doubt it.”
“Ah, an optimist.”
Lilja glances at the woman, noticing a deep grin on her lips.
“It’s very easy to get lost in all of it.”
She gives another brief look.
“The internet,” the woman answers the unspoken question. “So much information can be like a fog. I’m sure it’s nice to come to a place like a library and have it all laid out, especially with someone to help find those books you need.”
Lilja nods once, non-committal.
“One might say that librarians are like shepherds.”
Lilja stops. The woman does so, too, and Lilja looks at her. “It’s not like that at all.”
“No?” she asks, keeping up that infuriatingly pleasant smile.
“The students mainly handle it all themselves. They don’t usually need help finding anything.”
“Oh, no.” The woman emits a soft chuckle. “I meant more as you shepherding the books.”
Lilja blinks, staring.
“And you teach those lovely self-defense classes, don’t you?” the woman carries on. Lilja says nothing to this, just stands and looks. The woman, of course, speaks. “There must be some reason you teach those, yes? It’s not just for exercise, is it?”
“There are risks and threats out there.”
“And you want to protect everyone from them.”
“No, I want to help people to help themselves.”
The woman’s smile shallows somewhat. She cocks her head, staring right back at Lilja. She finally nods, contemplatively.
“Yes, humans are terrible monsters, aren’t they?”
“Some can be,” Lilja gives, though so many other things crowd her mind. She thinks of the conflicting things with how people act, how some truly do treat others in horrible ways. She feels the burning rise of memory that reminds her of the children that died at the hands of that horrible human trafficker. He may be dead now, but he was clearly not the only one.
She snaps out of it, eyes refocusing on the woman.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she quips.
She then turns and heads to the library doors. She wonders if the woman will follow. She wonders if she might have to be firm about being left alone. As it turns out, the woman just watches as Lilja departs. She does glance at the large library building, then back to the redhead. The smile is gone.
She produces a cigarette from her pocketbook, setting it aflame with the flick of a silver-plated lighter. She stands there, just looking in that direction, taking a lengthy drag. The cigarette burns down quickly, and the woman squats, flicking the length of ash onto the concrete, then running the butt through it as though making sure to put it out. She does not look at this, her eyes kept on the library.
She stands, taking her leave. The ashen smear on the ground holds a shape beyond a mere abstract mess. It holds the suggestion of a portrait, and it looks like Lilja.
Chapter Five
She holds the compact assault rifle close to her body with a practiced ease. Her grip and poise do not compromise safety, everything about her showing a relaxed focus. The signal given, she moves. She comes about, raising the weapon from its downward angle to sight-in and fire quickly, giving off light pops of single-round deliberation. The rapidly responding pings announce direct hits on the metal targets. She moves within the complicated cover, dipping and side-stepping, coming out to aim and fire again, fluid, quick, accurate.
The magazine expended, she slides the rifle behind her, the strap holding it taut, and whips out a sidearm, bracing properly, both hands on the gun. She continues the quick squeezes of the trigger, so fast as to perhaps make an inexperienced observer think the handgun fires in fully automatic mode. This magazine also finds itself shortly emptied.
She has come to a point in the training course to find a shotgun conveniently resting atop a stack of plastic bins. It is semi-automatic, unloaded, and she retrieves it, sliding the shells in with nary a glance. She racks the first with a casual slip of her left hand, then unloads the barrage, striking targets at varying distances. Large holes opening in the cardboard brook no question.
She weaves about some more, using her petite form to keep to cover unless she is shooting or changing position. She drops the shotgun, bringing her handgun back out, reloading a fresh magazine and unleashing these bullets. She leans out from thin cover, firing multiple rounds, then stepping out further to empty the remainder.
Now without ballistics, she unsheathes the gleaming bladed weapon from her back, the length having waited patiently beside the assault rifle. She cries out, face a grimace of determination, striking the target. These are denser, made to better mimic the fleshly bodies of an opponent. Broad tears appear as she swipes, cutting into the material. She lodges her weapon sharply into one’s neck, not beheading it, but she pulls free instantly, twirling and giving another lethal cut. She moves through this collection of “enemies”, dodging, ducking, delivering hit after hit until she finally comes to the end.
She stands, gasping, catching her breath. The sun has witnessed it all, casting its bright rays onto the field. She squints, looking up toward it, then turns to the approach of feet.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the offered water bottle and having a lengthy taste.
“That was good, Zoe.”
“How good?”
David gives a half-grin, hinting at apologetic.
“Shit,” the young Hunter replies. “How slow?”
“Oh, come on, now,” her cousin chides, “you were only off by a half second or so.”
“Or so?” she pushes, giving a steely-eyed stare.
“Drink your water,” the senior Hunter suggests, walking back to cover from the sun.
Zoe does so, guzzling more before joining the others at their station.
This land is owned by the Felcrafts, and they use it often for training and practice. Though they have this temporary shelter and many boxes, obstacles, and targets, they’ll have it all gone when they’re done. Unwanted observation out here seems unlikely at best, but they are in the habit of cleaning up after themselves when out in the open.
“I should have been faster,” Zoe comments, then tipping up the water bottle to finish it.
David looks up from giving his S&W 500 revolver a final wipe down before they get to cleaning and packing up. The others here are already out collecting items, even picking up as many spent shells as they can find.
“Why are you pushing yourself so hard? You’re about the fastest one of us.”
“About?”
He glances at Zoe, then continues with his gun, giving a smirking chuckle. “Are you so worried about beating her?”
“This isn’t about jealousy.”
He slips the cleaned and gleaming weapon into its holster then gives her a more serious stare. “Then what is it, Zoe? This whole rivalry thing you’ve got going on with Lilja needs to stop. Some competition is healthy, but-”
“Look.” She steps closer to him. “I’ll admit to some jealousy. She comes in here and suddenly is numero uno Hunter, and that chaps a bit.”
“Come on, Zoe, she’s not-” David tries, but he’s cut off again, this time with a raised hand.
“Whatever. That’s not the point.” She looks at him, waiting, and he does so, too. “You weren’t there at the Barrington House. Something bad happened.”
“I read the reports.”
“That attack was because of her. Taking her along on this next mission is a bad idea.”
“Maybe,” he gives, “but that’s not our call.”
“It’s Skot’s.”
David nods.
“L
ilja’s boyfriend.”
“Yes,” David agrees. “And the Head of the Family.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s infallible.”
“No one thinks that.”
A moment stretches, the two caught in a stare, friction beginning to all but sizzle between their gazes. Some of the others pick up on it, giving them a wide berth as the clean-up continues.
“Do you think his judgment is compromised when it comes to her?” David presses. “Do you think he’s incapable of making those sort of decisions?”
“Maybe,” Zoe finally gives, but her usual forceful tone is much reduced.
“None of us are perfect, Zoe. But we are family. This isn’t the first time the Head and their spouse are both Hunters. Can you imagine how difficult it is to make these sort of command decisions when the people are your kin?”
“She’s not kin.”
“Oh, stow that shit. Jericho isn’t, either, technically, but you go tell him he’s not part of the family.”
Zoe gives back silence to this. David turns to continue packing.
“Yeah, well, what about the attack at Barrington House?” Zoe pitches.
“What about it?” David replies, still putting things away.
“If it was against Lilja, then sending her on this mission may be a bad idea.”
David stops, looking over, noting the careful diplomacy of the young woman’s chosen words.
“That’s not how the Infernal work. We know they’re patient. Hell, they have longevity we don’t, but what they did was launch an attack from a place they’d already seeded, and they twisted it against Lilja.”
“Well? Isn’t that enough reason to be cautious?”
“I’m going to ask you again, Zoe – do you really think Skot’s not being cautious? Do you really think he hasn’t considered all of this? You know Nicole is probably his closest advisor. Do you think she’s not all over this?”
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