Anton Kriskov was not a happy man, and that was why the bottle of Stolichnaya was half empty and he wasn’t even feeling it. It was only Thursday and already one of his girls had been done over by a punter so badly she’d be no good for anything but the blind ones. Even the satisfaction of beating the living shit out the man hadn’t pleased him as much as it normally did.
He knew that he presented a tough figure to those who saw him, dwarfing his fellow man with sheer body mass and an impeccably trimmed haircut and beard. He emitted and enforced such an aura of calm that even his few friends joked that they couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. The only person who made him smile was his mother, on the odd occasion that he called her.
Anton now sat in his apartment located next to Regent’s Canal. Soundproofed and fitted out with the finest works of art that he could afford, it showed a devotion to all things electrical and had a minimal approach to taste. It was also located close enough to the tourist magnet of Camden Town for him to have a constant supply of living products.
But today was going to be one of those days. The skinny durak who had arrived at the door of the building twenty minutes ago wasn’t going away, and despite being a patient man, he was being pushed. The ugly little visitor pressed the button again, the faint smile on his lips visible to the camera and never fading, almost as if he knew how annoying the sound was to Anton’s ears.
“Petrov, get rid of him.” He ordered the bullet-headed mountain of muscle that stood by the door, a man that he had known from his short stint of military service in the motherland. Anton only employed Russians not because he trusted them, but because his countrymen held a mutual distrust of anyone not Russian.
The man nodded and stepped out of the room, past Andrei who waited in the hallway, and made his way downstairs. On the small but perfectly focused CCTV screen built into his desk, Anton watched the man make his way through the kitchen and lounge area where two more of his men idled, chatting about something or other.
Anton was always prepared and usually had a couple of his men on hand, but with the spate of recent attacks, he had brought in a few more; so when Petrov reached the door and stepped out into the night to confront the unwanted caller, he was confident that this little disturbance would be dealt with quickly.
Which was why he cursed loudly when the uninvited visitor stepped forward, throwing a flurry of blows that were so fast even his camera would have had problems tracking them, least of all Petrov.
Acting on instinct, he ripped the sawn-off shotgun free from its position under his desk, where it had been taped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his man knocked back into the stairwell as if a truck had hit him, but Anton concentrated on cracking open the gun to check it was loaded, that everything was working perfectly. A favorite of his, the wooden stock was perfectly designed for his grip. It was a smooth bore and filled with shot cartridges, which gave him the option to wing a target if necessary—any killing he could do himself.
Satisfied, he looked up at the screen in time to see the intruder standing in the lounge, the two men lying on the ground around him in. Anton noted with annoyance that blood had splashed onto the bearskin that hung on the wall, his first hunting trophy. It would take a specialist to clean that…
Calming his mind, he watched the intruder pause for a moment, appearing to sniff the corpses, before carrying on up the stairs to where Anton waited—the man was leaving no potential witnesses. He was efficient, if a little strange.
Anton poured and downed a large shot of vodka, took a bite of caviar and rye bread before standing to face the small man who had appeared in the doorway, holding by the neck the twitching body of Andrei. The Russian managed to emit a strangled grunt before his attacker jerked his arm savagely, snapping his neck with a damp click.
“I came here about a message,” the intruder stated in a rough, barely audible voice, glancing at the shotgun gleaming faintly in the light, “but I see you have made your choice.”
The Russian couldn’t understand what had happened to the man’s features since he’d first seen him in the camera, but wasn’t one to waste time thinking anyway—he could always ask questions later.
The gun roared.
“Ashford, it’s me again. Any luck?” He hadn’t heard from the man since he’d called him earlier in the week.
“Ah, good evening Blake. I have consulted the various enlightened ‘toffs’ as you call us, but have come up empty-handed, I’m afraid. I have pored through more tomes than you can imagine, but have found nothing. I am aware of no special dates or anniversaries and none of our other methods have come up with anything. The mysterious employer of our martial arts enthusiast, and their intentions, remain unknown.”
“Well, you’re a great use, but luckily I have some more information for you.”
“Go on.”
“As you know, each attack has been made by hand, on the target’s known base of operations or hang-out of choice. There are few surviving witnesses, and only from the early hits, but going from Harry’s connections with the Old Bill, we can now guess that it’s the same bloke.
“Okay.”
“But now we know from forensics that the attacker took at least one hit from a shotgun a few nights ago, yet there have been more attacks since—with evidence that it’s the same bloke.”
“Is that so?” The other’s interest was now evident.
“So now we know that either he was wearing a vest,” Blake paused “or is more than he appears. But no normal man could carry on the way our little chap has—it’s been almost a month now, with a target almost every night, so he must be getting his strength from somewhere.” He lit a cigarette, before carrying on.
“Also, in the last few cases there have been signs of animal attacks—that’s what they’ve told the press, anyway.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Ashford asked.
“Possession or a changeling?”
“Precisely—but I doubt it’s a changeling as the eating part is only recent, and since he only operates at night I would hazard a guess that his weakness is…”
“I see where you are heading.” Blake interrupted.
At last, he had reached the final name on the list. One more target and he could fly back to his new home, the place where he belonged. It was something Shaun had increasingly been looking forward to each morning as his wounds, despite the resilience given by his guide, were starting to affect him.
In the back of his mind he also felt a niggling worry that the bond between him and his companion was now almost too strong: it had been forcing its dominance more and more upon his mind. Over the last week he had lost control, done things that he tried not to think about.
The Dancing Dragon was situated near Wardour Street, tucked away in a maze of alleyways that housed restaurants, strip joints and massage parlors, amongst other things. Focusing his mind on the job at hand, he strode through patches of light cast by the Chinese lanterns hanging overhead and the hidden puddles of water between them, approaching the restaurant from the front.
As he neared the entrance he built up his pace, knowing that there would be little point in subtlety; the target would have had time to make ample preparations against any form of stealth, and the crowds that flooded Soho and Chinatown tended to avoid the quiet areas, so he couldn’t have blended in even if he had wanted to.
The trio of men who loitered in the road in front of the restaurant had seen him, but he maintained his speed. Realizing that the little man in the ill-fitting suit intended to enter their restaurant, the nearest man stepped towards him, producing a smile that never reached his dark eyes.
“I’m sorry sir, but the restaurant is fully booked.” He attempted to place a hand on the other’s chest to stop his advance, while the others stepped back to cover the restaurant’s entrance.
Shaun didn’t reply, or stop.
The power of his double punch lifted the man off his feet and sent him flying backwards into the metal r
ailings that lined the alley’s edge, with a metallic clang only slightly louder than the sound of his bones breaking. His colleagues, despite their training, hesitated in shock and it cost them their lives.
He attacked them with the strength and speed given by his guide, but it came with the feeling that something cold and alien had taken a grip on his mind and body. It would have disturbed him if he hadn’t been engrossed with the violence being wrought.
“Give yourself to your chosen creature, and so it shall give to you.” His Master’s words echoed in his mind, as he jumped on the back of the last doorman. Gripping the Asian’s neck and feeling the power he had gained course through him, he knew that his guide merely saw his appendages as larger and more efficient chelicerae.
Either way, they quickly silenced the man’s screams. He battered open the door with the corpse, before stepping into the restaurant with the bloody remains held before him.
Eddie Chueng, the organization’s red pole, or enforcer, was standing behind the bar when the intruder burst in. He judged the situation in an instant: anyone who battered a door down with one of his men was a danger to his boss, so he dived for the private dining area.
The waiting staff, also selected enforcers of the organization, realized that this was going to be no normal night. Dropping their plates and napkins, they pulled free the various blades of their trade.
The restaurant’s patrons, despite being aware of the restaurant’s various backroom dealings, had never experienced anything like this. They either sat stunned and frozen to the spot, or dived to the ground under the tables.
In the background and oblivious to the intrusion, the traditional muzak continued to play. Combined with the pleasant aroma of the restaurant’s speciality dish, a carefully flavored pork Won Ton soup, the delicate medley set the scene perfectly for fine dining.
Shaun judged the situation in an instant: the men running at him were enemies, while the others who sat or ran away could be killed later if he wished. It was the one who dived towards the door behind the bar that was obviously more important.
Wasting no time, he ran forward while casting the body to the ground, before grabbing and flinging a table with enough force to audibly crack one man’s ribs and block another’s progress; using the momentum from his throw Shaun spun and delivered a savage kick to the man on the other side of him, crushing his windpipe.
His guide, taking advantage of his host’s distraction, took full control.
Blake saw Eddie dive through the door and for a fleeting second thought that the man was a snitch, or worse a plant from another organization, but the shouts from the restaurant proper told him otherwise—especially when the thing appeared in the doorway, knocking the Triad to the ground.
It barely resembled the man it once was; instead it had the appearance of something wearing a man.
Pale grey eyes now bulged sickeningly from their sockets, while viscous tusks protruded from his mouth, the lips stretched to accommodate them. The thing’s pallid and waxy skin was pockmarked as if holed by something sharp, the wounds weeping. Its angular head jutted forward, sweaty and free of natural growth, only tufts of thick spiny hair emerged at random from the man’s skin, giving him a mangy appearance. It moved in quick, twitching bursts, and Blake felt, despite all logic, that the man’s possessor had more than one pair of eyes.
Even though he had left the security to his friend Mr. Wong and Eddie to arrange, he had made sure that they followed Ashford’s instructions to the letter by double-checking it. Blake only hoped that the trap he and Ashford had selected would be appropriate.
In fact, he had the switch ready in his hand when their guest arrived.
Halting for a second in the doorway, the spirit-beast sensed with animal cunning and receding human knowledge that it had walked into a trap.
The old man who was sat on the far side of the table was his target, fitting the description given perfectly: hunched over and soft-faced, his eyes were wide and his mouth hung half open in shock. He was dressed in a finely cut overlap jacket, simple dress for a weak man: prey.
It was the heavy set European sat next to the target that drew its attention.
Dangerous looking with chiseled features, the man stood out from the company he kept purely because he didn’t look that surprised at the intrusion. Dressed in a battered leather jacket, he held a crispy duck pancake in one hand and a switch in the other.
If his human side had been dominant, it would have sent alarm bells through Shaun’s mind, but the beast in him was ignorant of such things. Returning its attention to its target it jumped, knowing that it could devour the others at its leisure.
The ranks of work lamps and floodlights lining the rear and one side of the room filled the area with an intense bright white light, picking out the room’s décor and occupants with stark clarity.
Shaun, who suddenly found himself in mid-leap without the chattering thing in his mind and missing the hideous strength and balance that came with it, crashed into the table short of his target. Blake and his friend Mr. Wong pushed themselves away from the thing before them, barely avoiding the shower of hot soup, tea and prawn crackers.
Despite the loss of his supernatural companion, Shaun only remained disoriented for a moment before pulling himself together. Hesitation meant death from his current predicament or from his master—and the second option was by far the worse.
With nothing to lose, he knew that the safest place would be near his target. Scooping up and flinging a teapot at the European, he rose to a crouch and leapt across the table towards the old man.
Mr. Wong, well aware of his fragile body but an avid student of Tai Chi Chaun, maintained a strong and agile mind. He simply turned to one side as the intruder dived at him.
Eddie, now on his feet, had pulled free his prized ivory-handled and perfectly balanced throwing knives, but hadn’t been able to attempt a throw due to the chances of hitting his boss, who had stood on the other side of the intruder—but now he had one clear chance.
The blade wedged itself beneath the collarbone, slicing through flesh and scoring bone, and causing Shaun to cry out in pain. Losing the feeling in his right arm, he hit the ground on the other side of the table in a tangled half roll, before crashing into the ranks of lighting beyond—which promptly blew in a series of plinks and pops, reducing the glare in the room by half.
Realizing what was going to happen, Blake ran forward to put the boot in, but hadn’t anticipated the man’s ability to still put up a fight. His kick was deflected by one skinny leg, before being returned with surprising force to the knot of muscles on the inside of his thigh, bringing him crashing to the ground as his leg went numb.
Now the feared light had been reduced, Shaun’s guide returned with a vengeance—and with the pain in his shoulder receding, he knew that all he had to do was hold out. He grinned savagely while trying to sit up, images of violence and feeding filling his mind and his fangs glistening in the light—until Eddie ran forward and threw his other blade with so much force it embedded itself up to the hilt in his chest.
The Triads approached Shaun slowly, peering down at the body and its twitching limbs, while Blake rubbed his dead leg, trying to get to his feet. Despite the blade buried in the intruder’s chest, and the amount of blood darkening the already crimson carpet and spilling from its lips, the man’s shaking limbs did not slow or become still.
If anything the movements became stronger.
Its eyes snapped open revealing pitch-black orbs, while the teeth that jutted from its mouth were almost growing before their eye, now resembling mandibles. Only a low hissing emerged from the maw that was probably incapable of human speech. To those in the room it resembled a human spider, lying on its back. Blake wondered if killing the thing was even possible, a thought and action mirrored by Eddie, who stood shocked.
The problem was solved by Mr. Wong, who stepped forward and brought down his chopsticks into the creature’s eyes, popping the orbs like moist
lychees, piercing its brain and stopping its movement dead—only one foot thrummed on the floor, the body’s nerves issuing their final commands.
Casting a last glance at the corpse and shaking his head, and with the sound of police sirens in the distance, the old man spoke a few words of Cantonese to Eddie before taking hold of Blake’s arm and gently ushering him towards the rear of the restaurant.
“Those things will kill you, you know.” Mr. Wong advised, as they stepped out into the night and Blake pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.
Lighting his cigarette, he drew in the hot smoke with relish.
“Something’s going to, eventually.” Blake replied.
“Your product failed.” He stated, watching the morning sun reflect off the Thames, and the Houses of Parliament that rose haughtily above the morning rush hour. It was a bastion of civility against a flood of human detritus, but one day the city would be great again, free of the scum that leeched out the honest man’s good, hard work. It only grated on his sense of pride that he had to rely on outsourced tools to do the job.
“I think not. It was suitable for your stated requirements.” The voice at the end of the line was uncompromising and firm. “Do you require another?”
“A better one this time,” he replied stiffly.
“Then it shall be done. You are aware of the costs?”
“Of course,” he replied, hanging up the phone. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he was running late for a debate on the overcrowded prison system. What a waste of time. He donned his coat and made his way to the House of Commons, where his seat awaited him.
Putting down the handset, the other snatched a sliver of meat from the indoor grill next to him, scooping it into his mouth with the aid of a hideously sinuous tongue, savoring the morsel’s juices and considering the man’s petty words. His clients were as bad as the ministry who believed he worked for the People’s Republic: ignorant of the world around them and blinded by obsessions, values and bloated self-worth, they were unaware of the real cost of his services.
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 69