101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

2

My eyes snap from the moon to the surrounding buildings, searching for an easy explanation, a trick of light, inexorably pinning on the alley formed by two storefronts with lofts stacked above them.

Staring down the darkness, my gloved hands find the weapons on my back and wield them without thought.

Adrenaline floods my veins, coiling my muscles, readying them to spring into action at a moment's notice. My heartbeat falls into a steady, pounding rhythm as every sense heightens to a state of electrifying awareness; every flicker in light, every whisper of the wind as it meanders through the lanes, is amplified.

A soft clatter echoes from the alley I just passed, and another jolt runs down my spine, giving me pause. I quiet my breath, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.

But is it danger?

The air doesn't have the typical vampire buzz that tingles my senses like a sudden, cold breeze. Nor is the cramp that comes with the slaydar that bad. However, slaying this long will adjust one to its discomforts.

No—the strange sensation under my skin carries an unusual calmness, akin to the subtle static that precedes a mild storm. A sensation that usually coincides with a Slayer in my midst, but it feels... different. Unfinished.

Just as everything in this magickless world feels different. Like the earth itself has been stripped of its pulse.

The cramp twinges again, tugging me toward that sense, and I step closer to the alley, unable to resist it. Despite my slayer instinct whispering promises of battle, it doesn't completely stamp out the primal, human part of me that is ever-wary of what lives in the dark—especially since all those bedtime monsters are as real as I am. I don't describe it as fear, not when slayers like me are the things demons have nightmares about.

My vision quickly adjusts to the darkness; I can easily make out the shadowy, metal masses on the ground as toppled bins, seeing clear to the other side where the moonlight begins again. The alley appears vacant, but my senses beg to differ; they're keenly tuned to the subtle rustle of clothing, the faint chime, the hint of a foreign scent in the air—

They tell me to whip around, prepare for an attack, and with a dancer's precision, I whirl. Sword and axe cross, and a neck is trapped between my lethal blades.

With controlled force, I pin the body against the wall of the alley. A deep, breathy grunt escapes them as their hooded head gently ricochets off the burgundy brick, accompanied by a distinct sound of scraping metal and clinking chains.

"You're lucky I'm not in a 'kill-first-ask-questions-later' kind of mood," I nearly growl, assessing them from head to toe in a heartbeat. They are dressed tactically: black combat boots, black jeans, a utility vest over a black hoodie. Fingerless gloves reveal white skin that hasn't seen the sun, and I spot an ornate cross tattoo on their right middle knuckle.

Not a vampire.

My eyes catch the glint of a rifle barrel, following it to the strap slung across my attacker's chest: Iron shackles are holstered tightly onto it, clinking so surprisingly gently that I had mistook it as metal from one of the surrounding buildings blowing in the wind.

Another tingle shoots down my spine as I register the items, scrambling to put together what isn't matching my senses. Poacher?

"I wouldn't make a habit of following women around at nighttime," I add when they remain silent, fighting the urge to rip their hood off and beat the answers out of them.

Mischievous light-colored eyes glitter above a black mask that covers the bottom half of their face—glittering with amusement, I realize. As if they could see every detail under my hood and scarf.