Miricles and Murder (Kurloz X reader)

Part 13

Kurloz sneaks quietly into the tattered building from the previous night, searching for any clues as to his prey's whereabouts. The area appears deserted, nothing but of paper and dust haunting the rooms. The place is so naturally cluttered it's hard to tell that anything had happened at all, really, and the eerie screaming of the stiff winds outside add a dark quality to the scenery as they sound like women sobbing in pain and distress. Kurloz growls lightly, trying to hear over the noise for any trace of his fellow highblood. His examination of the upstairs provides nothing, yet once he goes back to the basement he spots a small, indigo clown face by the far exit. His hand raises slowly, fingers resting momentarily on the knob before he twists it open. On the other side is another face, halfway up the staircase.

He follows the signs that the highblood has left, uncertain if he is being led into a trap or not, but he has no choice as there is not another trail to follow. At the top of the steps is another door, which leads straight outside. Kurloz closes it behind him, keeping his back to the door as he looks around the alley he has been led into. The wind ruffles his curls, twisting them around his horns and into his face. He squints against the stinging wind, searching, until high above him—near the roof of the shop next door—is another face. Kurloz looks down both directions of the alley, making sure no one is around to see him, and then he crouches. With a running start he leaps up the side of the structure, gripping the edge with his fingers and pulling himself up onto the roof. There he pauses once more, looking for another clue. The area is as dilapidated as the rest of the neighborhood, worn out and dreary looking. The once white paint has been washed out to an old greyish-tan from years of weathering and dust. Cracks run over the corners and reach desperately down toward the weeds and grass growing between the fissures in the walkways below.

Kurloz peeks over the edge and stares two stories below at the people walking down the street. They look just as worn out and melancholy as the city at this hour, heads down in exhaustion, just wanting to get home or work or wherever they are headed at this point in the circle of their day. They all look similar to him, the same kind of faces going nowhere as he's seen night after night for sweeps. The same kind of faces as he's seen countless times bloodied and lifeless because of those of his kind. For a moment he wonders what it would be like to be human, to have nothing much more to worry about than his next paycheck or how the political system is changing, but he knows that such an idealized life is as much a lie as any other prejudice. Humans are just as tortured in this trial called life as any other species is, perhaps even more so considering how weak they are.

And yet, they survive. What is it about the Homo sapiens species that allows them to persevere? When, more often than not, they appeared as no more than a large mass of baitfish in a sea of horrorterrors?

He pulls back, sighing in anxiety and tells himself to focus. There, on the far corner of the neighboring rooftop, is the face he is looking for. Kurloz leaps the distance gracefully, and circles this new area until he can continue the process. The trail leads him in disorganized directions, oftentimes nearly coming full circle before veering off course again. Eventually, however, as midnight draws near and the sounds of society vanish, replaced by more natural rustlings and calls—he finds himself coming upon the saddest, most deserted area of the city. No conscious life stirs these streets at this hour of the darkness, and not much more occurs while the sun still shines on it during the day. The pathways are almost ancient, the architecture crumbling and dilapidated. It resembles the look of many eras, the most prominent attributes the thick walls and immortal loneliness of them all. He is stumped at one point by a library, the trail seeming to just stop. Kurloz drops to the ground, hoping the new point of view might help, and stumbles upon another of the countless emoticons at shoulder-height by the corner of it.

This new trail on the ground takes him on a more direct route, heading straight down the street—risky, Kurloz thinks, as when he had made the trail anyone might have been able to see him do it. Eventually it takes him to an old, abandoned church. Large, circular pillars dominate the building, lining most of the walls both inside and out. The feel of the space is at once spiritual and threatening. Something lurks here, something dark. Kurloz breathes in, scenting the air. The odor of stone, dust, and decay reaches his nostrils. He nearly steps outside again when a dark spot by a door catches his attention, which upon closer inspection is another face. The door, made of a darker color than the walls, has a few more painted with various expressions.