Ravens, Pt. Three

Tossing his mace to Steven, David hefted his copper-tinged spear I his hands, sweat glistening on his brow despite the chill in the air. Steven, a burly lad with a clean shaven head and a beard down to his mid chest, clenched his fist around the hefty mace with an iron grip, his other hand wielding an equally hefty oak cudgel. Heinrich had no doubt that between the two of them, they would work fine. He was merely worried about being overwhelmed by the Crawlers.

Peeking over the counter, he could just make them out in the dim lighting of the old pharmacy. A total of five clamored above the shelves, moving like spiders on stolen limbs stitched to grey swollen bodies. The heads, hanging limply from the shoulders, were split down the middle and bald, opening and closing in a demented parody of a mouth as tendrils of sewed tongues slithered out, black ichor dripping from the pale pink extremities. Moving on four or five arms a piece, this left each of them with four arms held high in the air, rusty knives and trowels held in dirtied hands, with an array of other sharpened bits of metal jammed into the back of the creature, easily within reach of the arms should they have need of them.

Ravens Pt. Two

Previously

It was an all too common problem that Heinrich and other raiders faced; finding survivors tucked away in some remote store or home. Most of the time they were half-starved and crazed, but sometimes they could be reasoned with, brought back to the village to rejoin humanity. The rest of the time they were the occultists that paid homage to dark gods and spirits, relying on their arcane abilities to carve out a niche for themselves in this new, horrifying world. Heinrich’s sickles were each coated with silver, hammered onto the curved blades over the cold iron they were cast from.

The perfect weapon against anything supernatural.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, Finale

Shylock sighed as he slowly pried the final diamond from the intricate wedding band he’d liberated from his latest kill, a jewelers monocle clenched by his eyebrow over his left eye. He’d spent the better part of two hours slowly dismantling the fantastic piece, careful not to scratch the gold as he peeled it of its precious stones.

Why he cared about the state of the old yellow gold, he couldn’t say. After years of endless nights and tedious boredom, he found that he liked to challenge himself with puzzles or games, or as he had done in the last twenty years, metallurgy. Lifting his tweezers up in front of the bare bulb that lit his small workshop, he examined the fine diamond carefully, before opening his four tiered pillbox and depositing it with the rest of the point three carat princess cut colorless diamonds.

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors

Previously

Research was slow going that night. But, Reginald mused, research was rarely wont to be done in haste. For Master Mystery, the act of researching was rarely each sure but more of the cleansing ritual that he happily partook in whenever he got the chance. Now that there were actual lives on the line, he could enjoy his research all the more, as the fax that he would discover could be used to help others, while also earning him a hefty profit.

Having retired to the Pink Swan just as the sun set, Reginald had ordered room service to his private suite and unloaded is a briefcase of books and scrolls, intent on discovering what exactly could be attacking these people in such a horrible manner. After all not many creatures of the night still roamed the streets of England in this day and age. 

Well… Not many creatures of supernatural means perhaps.

Fighting a Losing War

Pain…

Agony…

And then… nothingness. No bright light or eternal flames, no smiling faces of long-forgotten loved ones or weighing of my heart against my sins. Merely… nothing.

And not nothing like any other nothing I had ever encountered before in recent memory either, but a true and utter lack of anything. Including time, it would seem.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, part Five

Jack groans as he slowly rouses back into consciousness, glaring about the darkened room in search of something new to focus on. The room is fairly devoid of anything worth studying, save for a long table of instruments obviously designed for torture, as well as another prisoner hanging from the rafters by a set of verdigris ridden chains. The man, if you could even call him that even more, seems devoid of intellect, with glazed over eyes and no visible reactions to Jack’s questions throughout the day.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, part Four

Previously...

Slipping down the fire escape as quickly as possible, Jack dropped to the uneven pavement of the alleyway with a slight stumble, quickly trying to make it to the body of the werewolf before it could regenerate. He’d never hunted one before, but he’d heard the stories of how even the most horrendous of wounds would have little effect on one when in the light of the full moon.

Pushing through the few remaining onlookers, Jack made his way to the middle of the street towards the gory mess, pulling a silver stiletto blade from his belt as he ran. One quick thrust from this into the creatures chest and it would all be over. How such a mindless monster had made it’s killings seem like those of a Vampire, he had no clue. But he was determined to find out.

Son of a Preacher Man: Hunter, Part Three

Dreary could only describe the cold southwestern night as Jack slowly made his way up to the top of one of the many stores lining 6^th street. The emergency ladders alongside the buildings were old and rusted, their bolts loose, grinding against the roughly hewn bricks they were set into. Groaning beneath Jack’s weight, the ladders still bore him up to his destination with little trouble.

The gigantic neon sign of the bar flickered rhythmically as the letters flashed across the car-lined street below, deep shadows springing to life with every shade of brilliance that lit up the empty space in front of the packed bar. Standing on the roof, Jack could feel the heavy bass of the music reverberating through the cement as he moved to the edge of the roof, dropping his pack to the ground unceremoniously.

Son of A Preacher Man: Hunter, Part Two

Previously

The Fortune of War is perhaps the closest thing to a gathering place for supernatural creatures in all of New York. An old style English pub, the small tavern is located in the Bronx, a place not exactly known for seedy taverns. But some way or another, it always seems to make enough money to linger on. I push my way in through the front door, a small set of chimes ringing above head allowing the barkeep to know of his new customer. An obese man by the name of Charlie, I’ve never been able to quite place where he fits into this world.

He knows damn well I’m a Vampire, but doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s offered me on three separate occasions hints and tips that have saved me a good deal of time as well as money, all thing considered. I know he deals heavily with the occult, not as heavily as the man I’d originally meant to visit tonight, but enough to know a thing or two about the dealings going on throughout the city.

Son of A Preacher Man: Hunter

          Previously

Sitting in my armchair, I errantly flip through the pages as I notice with a sense of grim satisfaction that, according to the headline, a horribly mutilated girl was found and able to be saved sometime a few evenings ago.

“Good for you Angelina…” I mutter to myself as I skim over the article. It would seem that she hadn’t been able to properly identify me during my night time assault. All the better, I suppose. I merely shake my head as I finish the article, the typical plea from local authorities asking anyone for information on the attacker.

A small editorial piece next to the main article debates over whether this attack is in any way related to the Organ Snatcher, the killer that has been plaguing the Big Apple for nearly a year now. I smile to myself as I flip the page over to the business section, my eagle eyes seeking the stock reports for my numerous holdings and bonds. They seem to be stable, which is really all one can ask for in this economy. I lean over to the side table next to my high backed chair and make a note to sell some of my stock in the newer computer gaming country that I’d invested in a few years ago. I’d been slowly watching it decline in value over the course of three years, small spurts of activity aside, and was having serious doubts over the continued value I could derive from the dividends the company paid me on a regular basis.