Lethal

One;

Someone once asked me how I hold my head up so high after all I’ve been through. I said, it’s because no matter what, I am a survivor. Not a victim. -Patricia Buckley.

        I pulled the small black jacket closer to me as the cold night’s wind blew past me. The dimly lit sidewalk of downtown Vancouver casted dark shadows on the walls, making it move whenever I moved.

        Being late for a meeting in Altracia was bad. But being late for a meeting in Altracia because I didn’t complete an assignment, had consequences equivalent to living in hell. Yet, my reasons for doing so weren’t because I was incapable of completing the assignment, it was simply because I didn’t feel bothered to do it.

        Altracia, the third dimension needed me. Hell, the Council needed me. I was, after all, one of their best, but I knew that I too would soon reach the age past my prime- the age where I needed to be in their favor. Once I hit twenty-four, my days of glory would be over, and I only had three years until that happened. Three years to suck up to the Council and get on their good side, so I could get a pretty good pension. Slacking off, or being too arrogant wasn’t going to aid me in the future.

        Turning down Rupert, I immediately took note of the deserted atmosphere- the usual people that littered the streets were no longer there. In the far distance, I could make out the bright light of a traffic signal, a few cars zooming hastily down the concrete roads. 

        Huh, I thought with faint distaste, it must be later than I thought it was.

        My boots clicked loudly against the pavement, and the urge to whistle to a familiar tune became unbearable- but of course, that would give me away. For I wouldn’t blow a tune adjacent to what mere mortals would listen to, but instead a rhythm that I grew up listening to; the only beat that my kind listened to- the only beat that I could whistle. 

        It was at that moment that I felt something shift in the air, the hairs on the back of my neck rising due to the sudden change. The closer I got, the stronger the force of the wind- it was only a matter of seconds before I came across it. My fingers glided over the Daedrick in my coat pocket, the weapon covered in silver and gold etchings, my tongue clicking to the top of my mouth as I heard a sharp intake of breath.

        That’s when I saw it, its large body crumpled in the shadows, its claws swinging frantically through the trashcans, scrounging for leftovers. I scoffed, leaning against the wall, pathetic. The Lycan spun around; its yellow orbs taking me in, before dropping the bones in its hand.

        Dressed in a baggy blue shirt, and ripped black jeans was what looked similar to a human, a man nothing less or more than 28 years. With a pale face, a crooked nose, and lips that appeared in a permanent scowl, he looked similar to an average male. The only thing that gave him away were the golden orbs on his face, a trademark of his species; an indication of him being a 300-year-old wolf with a need to kill.

        I watched as he took my attire in, his face changing into something akin to realization.

        “Y-you’re-”

        I rolled my eyes, “Oh spit it out, Clifford.”

        Immediately, the confusion was gone, my disrespect towards him had clearly tugged something internally. Perfect. He growled loudly, eyes flashing with solemn fury, specks of brown surrounding his pupils.

        “Oh are you offended now? My bad.”

        “Hunter.” He spat with venom.