Eventide

[Slate Morrison]

APRIL 20th, 2019, NEAR THE FULL MOON.

Slate languidly glanced out the window of his car and surveyed the passing buildings. Five months had blown by since his return to the Eastern Alliance. Nothing much had changed during his absence, not that he had been expecting it to. New York was still as vibrant as it was dark, and Jersey, well, it was still Jersey. People were more concerned about preserving what they had instead of tearing it down, in all respects. Many just wanted to hold on to past and the world was pretty much still in a state of rebuilding. New construction was rare these days which suited Slate just fine either way. Deep down he’d always been a sucker for drab grey stonework and washed out streetscapes, neither of which visible at the moment.

A bright moon punched through dark clouds, the lavender rift writhing through the dark tendrils of a Spring storm as the classic 68 Dodge Charger cruised down Amsterdam. The electric bright of the city, blue hued headlights, mirrored in the glossy black of the slick wet streets.

Chiseled features illuminated by the red glow of the dashboard scowled at the sparse traffic. Trying to tail someone these days was made all the more difficult by a declined population, that and the full moon was only two days away. After tomorrow they’d be out, the lycanthropes. People didn’t take any chances around this time of the month and lots of businesses tended to close down during the turn. Fewer cars on the normally busy avenue made Slate’s classic ride all the more conspicuous.

The man he’d been tailing was known by authorities as ‘The Midnight Cowboy’. Stupid name, it was leaked out a few months ago and the press ran with it, against the advisement of law enforcement. He knew the man as Jared Grimes. A soon to be deceased serial killer, if Slate had anything to do with it. He’d located the suspect a few weeks ago utilizing unorthodox methods inadmissible in a court of law but Slate didn’t care about bringing the man to justice. There was only one sentence for such heinous crimes to be dealt out by higher court of old testament law. Slate’s law.

Jared would pay but before then, Slate needed to be absolute of the man’s guilt and these things took time and patience. The cop had the latter, but time was not always on his side. It was ever a constant race against his own. Like him, most of the time, they were just doing their jobs. Being impartial. Handing over these scumbags to the bleeding hearts of the court. Slime encrusted lawyers looking for loopholes in a moth ridden system. Pathetic.

Sooner or later they slipped up. They all did, but the trick was to catch them in the act. To bring the monster into the light, exposed and undeniable of it’s own nature. Then would their fate be sealed. Then would their executioner, their deliverer, be revealed. The unacceptable act as grotesque as the crime itself was the undeniable truth of society. One meant to only be carried out by a chosen few, and so the cop, the last of his kind, took up the mantle each and every night to fulfill his duty.

The flash of emerald green lights momentarily pulled the hunter’s attention from his mark. The distinguishing feature of a Vanguard unit. They often worked alongside city law enforcers. The rogue detective respected their brand of justice but also feared it. They weren’t any more forgiving of vigilantes than his own, and swift back street justice often befell people of his kind.

Turning his attention back to the suspect’s car, it suddenly took an abrupt turn westbound on 66th. A bad sign. ‘Had he been made?’ Difficult to tell, so Slate took a chance and eased off the gas.

Another turn, back the way they had come. Then another. He was looping back. ‘A precautionary tactic?’. Slate could only hope. All his instincts screamed of Grimes’ guilt but there wasn’t a shred of evidence to support what in the end could be an erroneous feeling. Something prevented his high powered perception from peering behind those black eyes and he was not permitted to indulge in such a ‘human act’. He needed to know!

The suspect didn’t resume his course northward, instead he kept on heading down 65th, toward Central Park. A prickling sensation creeped up Slate’s spine as the forested ridge came into sight. He was taking the Transverse, cutting through the park.

Slate eased back and relaxed his grip on the wheel, relieved. Grimes’ seemed to be yet unaware of his presence. He checked the time on the car’s clock, 11:35 PM. This was it! All of the killer’s victim’s had been within a short driving distance from the Park. Killed a midnight. He was about to strike but this time he’d be the one lying in a pool of his own blood.

Budding trees flowed past, Spring hues intensified by the metahuman’s ability to see further into the spectrum. He saw everything, a world aglow, soft moon beams gleaming like the rays of the setting sun. It was a beautiful night and the ‘Watcher’ with more important matters at hand, found himself drawn to the unavailing romance and of a winsome smile.

It was the anniversary of her passing, his beloved ‘Kelpie’. The memory of her, forever engrained in his ever slipping mind leapt to the forefront. He could almost see the outline of her, the pale mare, galloping through the woods. Keeping pace.

Since the Resonance, Central Park had changed. It appeared the same but as the years rolled on it became known to the citizens of New York that the Faerie had claimed their place in the woods. Would that they have ever suspected that a Kelpie had taken up residence in Turtle Pond she would have survived. How fortunate for her that her last indiscriminate victim would live and teach her the ways of the modern world. To study her victims and to kill with purpose. She became his partner in every sense of the word, in his work, in life and then one day she simply…

‘Vanished?’

Suddenly Grimes’ car was just… gone!

As he had passed through the tunnel beneath Center Drive the footbridge in the distance loomed dark and foreboding across the road. Rear lights of the car ahead burned as two eyes, the bridge becoming the back of some beast. All at once the ridge of tree’s on either side rose up like great wings and flaming eyes ascended into the night.

Slate slammed on the brakes, tires screeching across the slick pavement as the car slid to a sudden halt. ‘What had just happened?’ Blinking, his stunned stare turned wary, eyes scanning the area for signs of his quarry. Nothing.

Quickly becoming aware of approaching traffic behind, Slate accelerated forward. Enhanced vision probing the underside of the footbridge then staring far beyond the road with sight far beyond that of an eagle. He located his prey far easier than he had expected.

In the lot of the Visitor Centre just on the other side of the footbridge was Grimes’ car. It was properly parked aside another vehicle, empty, not a body in sight. Cautiously the hunter approached, the powerful car rumbling to halt a few stalls away. ‘A mind trick perhaps?’ Slate ventured. Despite all his strengths he was as susceptible as most to the deceit of mental trickery, it however, did not explain how fast he was able to park the car and make his getaway. With that fact, bright violet eyes flashed to the time on the dashboard clock. None was missing, thirty-seven minutes after eleven. He had twenty-three minutes!

Wind whipped through the scant Spring branches as the Charger’s heavy door opened. Slate’s booted foot crunched onto the pavement, grey blue trench coat fluttering in the mild breeze. Drawing his sidearm, he approached the vehicle, nickel plated Beretta gleaming in the moonlight. A quick scan assured that Grimes wasn’t hidden within but he had to make sure. In this new age of magic one could never be too sure what to expect.

He pulled the handle of the driver’s side door. Locked. The window shattered with a seemingly effortless strike of his elbow and a quick check verified that nothing hidden from sight by natural or other means lay hidden in the car.

[slate]Dammit.[/slate] Slate cursed, cracking a hand into the roof of the car, leaving a sizeable dent.

Otherworldly eyes reminiscent of the purple hues of the Nevus itself desperately scanned his surroundings but enclosed by trees and uneven ground the Nephilim could see no further than most. But time was ticking. Gazing as far as he could, Slate peered into the darkness, allowing the resonance to filter in. A symphony of sounds bombarding his hearing, deciphering the most minute sounds with a slow turn of his head. Patrolling beat cops, a cyclist boldly or stupidly navigating the dark trails, a maintenance worker locking up a shed, absolutely nothing of Grimes, and then, he detected the hint of a sound that made him pale. The alluring sounds of a sweet lamenting song.

The familiar feminine timbre took his breath away and all at once Slate pursued. ‘It couldn’t be.’ he told himself. Knowing that the chances of Aislin returning here and now at the time of their first meeting was only the misguidance of romantic notion. Still, what if? He had to know.

Reaching into the car Slate locked a hand around the steering wheel and with one powerful tug tore it from the column. He tossed it aside, then crossed the road and bounded up the rocky ridge to the north with inhuman strength and speed. Slate made it to the top in but a few seconds and from the height focused on the voice. He strode through the woods with the grace and power of a stag, the destruction of Grimes pushed from thought. Justice had become secondary at the mere promise of being reunited with his long lost love and so he ran. He ran to the portend of her until he paused at the edge of a serene grove.

‘Was it her?’

There was only the sound of his own breath, the beat of his heart, echoing in his ears as Slate stood transfixed before the woman’s beautiful form. The curves of her back, the flow of her pale tresses, so reminiscent of the Fay who would forever hold a place in his heart.

[Ishsa Nestra]

Loud and thunderous, the spring storm saturated the Park with heavy, cool rain. Its rhythm beat unceasingly onto every uncovered surface; no other sound was audible in the downpour. The deluge calmed the Fae, and quieted the chaotic violence that had taken hold of her recently. Assailed by water and sound, she found she could breathe simply once more, cleansed like debris from the cobblestone pathways. To be closer to the freeing sky, Ishsa wandered to a grove upon a ridge and settled on the wet grass. Knees bent beneath her and delicate feet to the side, she allowed the rain to wash the world away. Rain-scent filled her nostrils with the sweetness of wet earth. The water fell upon her upturned face, to flow along the curves of her closed eyelids and pinkish cheeks. From her neck it ran downward, but Ishsa cared not about the thin dress, now soaked through. And she cared not for other things. This! This was everything…

Throughout the storm, Ishsa found relief from constant movement and undisciplined action; she held carefully the still and quiet mind. Within serene silence, a Song formed upon her lips, drawn forth from her heart. It was an old melody; she knew not the origins of the sad, lamenting piece, but the Fae made it her own, with lilting notes and whisper sighs she sang of the love of the Moonlight for the little Rain Pool that would soon be eternally gone. The world progressed around her, and the storm subsided and then ceased, but for Ishsa there was only this moment and she continued to sing. The tune was slow and gentle; a profound sadness resided within its notes. The leaves, weighted by moisture, appeared to bow low to hear it closer sung. Tiny droplets added the faintest of harmonies as the Fae sustained the haunting melody.

An odd sound within the Wood below brought the Fae’s brown, liquid eyes to open slowly, waking like a feline. An intruder hurried past beneath the ridge; she knew his face - neither young nor old, with wrinkles just beginning to show on tanned features. But even if she had not seen his face, Ishsa would have recognized the man by the set of his shoulders and the measure of his stride. She had seen him before - he was the one that left the dead to feed the insects and the maggots. His worth was nothing beyond that, and so the Fae dismissed him as he passed. The Song held more meaning in the still wet air, and her voice rose and fell once more, harmonious as ethereal birdsong wrapped in the tranquil and quiet grove. But once again, the Song was interrupted. Quickly someone moved through the brush at a strong and steady pace toward her; it was no animal upon the trail. It was a man. Without turning, Ishsa felt his presence as he stopped at the edge of the grove.

With no wish for company, Ishsa let the Song settle to a gentle humming, but new words, huskily sung were woven within it. As the words crossed her lips, the Fae’s form began to waver gradually, as if coated in dream or foggy night. The transition was subtle and then more pronounced the longer one stared. Where a lovely Fae had just sat, now there rested an old woman. She sat posed the same, though her back bent prominently bowed and her hair appeared as tattered, white straw. Once smooth skin, now thin and wrinkled, was marked with dark spots and blemishes, while blue veins crossed her extremities. Ishsa thought - let him think this her true form!

“Leave be… and let an old woman sing.” Ishsa, aged and worn croaked over her shoulder, as her humming ended. Her eyes full and dark in the night, stole a quick glance at the man. The Fae was certain he would move onward uninterested, for she knew men considered such ancient exteriors as this displeasing. Her hands rose upward and without hurry, began to finger comb her hair, and pull through the once thick strands. A wicked smile stole across Ishsa’s features. Crooked teeth shone in the moonlight. She thought herself clever! Soon she would have solitude once more.
 

[Slate Morrison]

The brume became a drizzle, the drizzle a shower, and last a down pour. Every stride closer to the bewitching tones had brought Slate nearer to the storm. It rolled in from the north, magnificent, billowing blackness of a midsummer’s grandeur, spewing it’s wrath across the city.

Rigid amongst a budding thicket the tall figure of a man stood transfixed. Frozen in memory of her wayward figure, sensual sways of it’s semblance holding his amethyst stare. Wet, darkened locks spilled across soft, youthful features, so like her’s that for a single moment he dared to hope. Lips parted but not a sound was uttered for fear of waking, but awake he would as dream turned to nightmare, as they so often did.

Illusion and his own perpetuated fantasy warped and youthful beauty withered. Where once stood the mirror image of his lost love, crook’d the form of an old hag. Not of his making but of her own and it was not the drastic contrast of appearance but rather the transformation itself that startled, and intrigued the detective.

Slate’s head fell as the tension of the impossible broke and reality returned. ‘She’s never coming back.’ He scolded his sentimental side. Thick black locks dripped across the angular features of his face, flipping to the side as he met her dark glare.

‘Demon?’ He pondered. No, but she was no Human, of that much he was sure if only via simple deduction. The illusion, the song, the storm. Not exactly normal behaviour, nor was the ineffectual rain saturating her clothing. The Nephilim did not feel the cold, nor did she it seemed.

He saw it then, a faint glimmer. An ephemeral flash of radiant eyes beneath that veil of black. An illusion? Perhaps a glamour? The Nephilim couldn’t know for sure. Stripping away the shade of a magical masque was not like turning on a light. It took time to penetrate the illusion, to see past it, but as it was, time was all Slate had left this night. His quarry was lost and with buried thoughts of Aislin stirred, Slate found himself drawn to the distraction of this intriguing being before him.

Slate raised his face to the rain, relishing the cool wet, then attention returning to the ‘old woman’, sauntered toward her. Deliberately sluggish steps squishing into the softened earth as he slowly closed the distance between them.

He defiantly ignored the hag’s deviant grin.

[slate]Pardon me… ‘crone’. Didn’t mean to interrupt your ‘Singing in the Rain’ tribute.[/slate] Slate apologized in a mocking tone, the slight twinge of a smile at his use of the archaic term. It was a purposeful descriptor flirting with the admission of awareness of what she was, or rather what she wasn’t. There was also the hint of anger for making him remember. For daring to look like 'her'. Aggravation he bottled up and decidedly kept to himself.

Opening his drenched trench coat, the gold detective’s badge on the belt of his faded jeans gleamed in the flash of sheet lightning. He didn’t bother announcing his department nor title as this hunt was off the record. Revealing that he was a cop, however, was usually the best way to clear the air... get the ball the rolling, bypass all that speculative crap.

[slate]Looking for someone. About six feet, forty years of age, brown hair, thinning. Possibly wearing a black coat.[/slate] He couldn’t be sure of the attire. It was the last thing he saw Grimes’ wearing. [slate]He’s got a scar on the left side of his face running from his eye to the corner of his mouth.[/slate]

Not expecting her to have seen anything, Slate continued to study her features, vibrant eyes attempting to pry away the layers of the disguise. Curiosity he told himself not willing to admit that a part of him had to know if ‘she’ was behind the facade. Naturally he hadn’t bothered to question the obvious, this was Central Park and the presence of Fay-folk and other worldly beings was a well known fact. The thought had also crossed his mind that she might become aware of ‘what’ he was as well. Aislin had been confused of his origin when they had first met, misinterpreting his Angelic aura for Fay heritage. A mistake that made sense considering the parallels between Angelic and Faerie lore.

[Ishsa Nestra]

Ishsa watched without comment as the dark haired man approached. His movements were slow and caused the Fae neither skittishness nor distress. He named her “Crone” which pleased the Fae greatly; hidden within the Glamour, delicate wings opened and closed rapidly in delight. So satisfied was she, that she missed the inflection of his voice as he said the words. But his Tribute comment left the Fae perplexed, for her Song was not only to Rain, but also to Storm and the bonded balance of earth and sky.

 

“But interrupt you did...” She answered his half smile with a deceitful and cackling one of her own. The man had want of something, Ishsa thought. The Fae could feel it, though she knew not what it was. His face was unreadable, his feelings hidden, none showed prominently upon the surface. It was a challenge to her mischievousness; how much would it take to make an interesting emotion appear? Impish nature began to awaken and stir within the previously tranquil Fae.

 

As she schemed, Ishsa looked upon the gold badge attached to his belt. The shine and pattern of it drew her attention; the sparkle that ran along its edges in the glittering night caused a soft smile to form. The Fae liked it, which made the symbol important even if the meaning was useless to one such as her. “To protect and serve…,” the remembered words were sing-song, teasing. Memory danced and the Fae’s head tilted to the side, clearly thinking. In that quiet moment, droplets of dripping water could be heard as they fell in the stillness of After-Storm. “Those laws mean nothing in this place…” she scolded, eager to see if a fierce emotion would rise up within him.

 

“Moon will set, Sun will rise. Plants grow, others die. Symmetry rules here - not men. Men do not govern this Wood.” For what were laws and rules to a Fae creature? Deftly, what looked to be ancient but nimble fingers began to braid Ishsa’s shedding hair, as if she couldn’t be bothered to care further. But once, when she thought the man not looking, her vibrant eyes stole a glance at him, to see if he might be annoyed by her negations of his badge’s importance.

 

Not enough! He didn’t react enough for her tastes. So Ishsa had to push further and more. A bony finger rose to her face and traced slowly downwards, near the eye to slide over cheek to mouth. The trail she took was the exact replica of the fugitive’s scar. Ishsa knew who the man spoke of, there would be no doubt. “You think him findable? I think him busy… best not disturb his work, Man of the Badge. The Earth must be fed…,” the cryptic words flowed freely, for after all, she was a helpful Fae. Ishsa allowed her false self to be studied. Let him see the old covering, she had nothing to hide. “You are too serious,” she announced, “forget him. He has already passed by. You will not find him.”

 

The breeze shifted then, and the Fae caught his wet scent. It was a challenge to decipher - unalike any she had smelled previously. This caused her to wonder where such a man hailed from. What kind of man was this? Ishsa’s eyes regarded him in turn, and she sat straighter with a slight lean forward to better smell him. He was more than she originally thought! Curiosity flared to war with the unfinished Song. But that singing was hastily pushed aside for the irresistible call of something new, the question of his identity.

[Slate Morrison]

Bright violet eyes narrowed, the tall man unwavering before uncertain magick. Caught in the conundrum of the illusion he pondered what indeed was this creature’s true form. The fleeting image of youth or the hag? Truly the form was of no consequence but curiousity had gotten the better of the man… the Nephilim… it made no never-mind, both shared the same weaknesses before the daughters of Men. A weakness that kept the ‘grey angel’ ever pining for the loss of her.

Slate stretched his consciousness. A sixth sense of a sort radiating from a nimbus unseen by mortal eyes. Subtle streaks of light washing across the hag’s aged features, seeking to unveil the reality touched upon her flesh, only then to be suddenly dispersed. The preternatural radiance scattered by the shrill cackle the glimmering beams fell like the sparkling remnants of the passing rain.

Robbed of his stolen truth, Slate could only draw upon intuition and knowledge. He couldn’t say specifically what this woman was, he only knew that there was power in nature. A strange connection between it and the ‘energy’ of this new world. ‘Whatever’ — Slate wasn’t one to get into all the wishy washy, new age details surrounding it all. Maybe something was messing with his senses, maybe not. Maybe she was just some crazy old lady singing in the Park. Wouldn’t be the first time, definitely wouldn’t be the last. As for the ‘vision’, he chalked it up to the fact that this was the anniversary of he and his lost love’s meeting all those years ago. Not due to the result of sentimentally of course! To be sure it was just his calculating mind being attuned to the event. ‘It was only that, and nothing more’ , he convinced himself.

Pondering her odd defiance of the ‘law’, he was hardly moved to anger, the serenity of his statuesque features remaining void of emotion. It was only then when she differentiated the laws of the ‘Wood’ from the laws of ‘Men’ that his previous suspicions began to reign true. For the briefest moment their eyes locked, a surreptitious glance caught by his intense stare and he knew. Knew that he was wasting his time. Her kind cared nothing of ‘order’ — ‘This creature was not his Aislin!’ Though they did indeed share a common heritage.

Turning away, hastened step was halted by the tracing of the scar. A precise recreation of Grimes’ disfigurement! It was unmistakable. She had seen him! He must have passed by but as she went on, things began to sound much more intimate, so much so, that her crossing his path might have been a purposeful delay!

[slate]What do you know about him?[/slate] The hunter growled, eyes quickly flicking down to the watch on his wrist. Five minutes to midnight, there was no time to stop Grimes but he could still catch him in the act of disposing the body.

Powerful steps thundered toward the crone, hand slipping into the trench coat and gripping the handle of his firearm.

[slate]TALK![/slate] He demanded, voice booming with unnatural clarity and vehemence as the sleek chrome plated weapon fell to the officer’s side. [slate]Talk or I’ll show you just how serious I can be.[/slate]

He had absolutely no compunction of shooting the crone, or even maiming her to get what he wanted. For all he knew they were partners, but he’d give her the benefit of the doubt. A chance to come clean before he started picking off appendages.

[Ishsa Nestra]

Ishsa glowed with self-satisfaction. The man had not remained stoic for long! If he had, it would have been a great disappointment to the spirited Fae; to be denied her fun was not a thing she could abide. Triumph rushed through Ishsa’s veins as he turned back and his eyes darted about! Strong and vibrant emotion sat upon the cusp! He even growled at her!

What do you know about him?

But the question felt more like demand than query. His tone was accusing and superior and Ishsa decided she would tell him nothing. He stomped near and the action threatened the idyll of her choice resting spot. Even as he bore down upon her, the Fae refused to move. Like a cat unfazed by the barking dog, Ishsa simply ignored him and would not glance his way. Nothing would he learn here! Nothing would she tell him! A quick, cutting retort lay upon her tongue. But as her wrinkled lips parted to speak, the words fell away unsaid, as cloudy blue, cataract eyes fell upon the gun held at his side.

Cold and cruel was that implement! Ishsa knew what it was immediately; she knew what foulness was in it. Iron! Iron was a wicked thing! The Fae hissed at the man and the sound whispered off grass and reverberated through puddles. Immediately her form wavered, the Glamour suddenly faulty. Edges between what was an old woman and young Fae blurred and shifted in the moist, night air. Through cloud and mist for but a moment, her white hair was no longer dull but brilliant and silky. But then the image of youth vanished and the hag sat solid before him once more.

Talk or I’ll show you just how serious I can be…

Ishsa didn’t want more seriousness! This was not enjoyable, not any longer! He was not amusing! The gun’s sudden presence meant more to the Fae than the man’s menacing words. Ishsa shifted back and away, fearful of the Iron bite she knew was there. Even hidden within the gun, its odor was unmistakable. Her false form trembled at the edges, threatened to unravel. Slowly the Fae blinked. He wasn’t supposed to hurt her! She had won and made his emotions strong. Wasn’t he better off now? And for appreciation, he had forced her into a box with no exit.

Talk…

He had no right! He didn’t belong near her with a gun! Angry and fearful both, Ishsa knew she could not run. She looked out over the ridge. This was bitter confinement. Uneasy and restless her form wavered again. There was no looking away, not with Iron so close – she had to watch it, know where it was. Like a serpent, evil and twisted that one did not ignore. And in heated turmoil, the Fae was forced to look upon the man as well with his newly strong emotion.

Ishsa’s hand lifted, and appeared to fluctuate between ages as she held it before her, to ward off the weapon from nearing. Ishsa did not cower, but hurt and distrust shown upon her face. To be forced into anything was abhorrent to the Fae and bitterly she spoke, “I know he doesn’t wish to be found. Not by you. Not by any. Though I see… and know. The soft earth draws him, where rock is scarce and leaves are plenty. Only half-buried are his treasures,” she stopped to think upon this. She had seen the bodies, lifeless and immobile. “He is secretive and comes when the Moon shines fullest, though others fear that time. Not him.” She paused then distracted, to study the man before her with the amethyst eyes and whispered with a conspirators tone, “And not you, it seems. You do not fear the night…”

[Slate Morrison]

Truth revealed, taught grasp weakened, finger slipping loosely from the trigger as crude cold steel betrayed the Fae’s illusion. Angelic eyes then further dismantled the glamour, exposing the youthful form beneath the crone but it was hardly the allure of beauty that stayed the man’s hand. No, Slate’s respect for the ‘forest-folk’ flowed deep into the very core of his being. Aislin had taught him much about her kind but it was only after her loss and relentless searching that he had learned so much more. Not that he viewed them through skewed senses, rather he had come to understand their ways, perhaps even admire their incomprehensible perceptions.

There was a resemblance to be sure but the creature was not her. He never deserved such a woman, Slate knew that now. He could see it in her eyes, that same distrust, hatred… disappointment… in the face of Man’s metal. How Aislin had bit back her bile from it, adapted to a foreign world, changed her very being! All for him, and in return he had offered her nothing that she could not have had without him. Turned a pegasus into a plough-horse. Never again.

How he had missed that indignant glare, the distinct innocence, the black and the white of her world. The stark contrast of her expression sharpening the edges of his grey. The muzzle dipped but did not fall. As she spoke it remained fixed for fear that she may cut off her tantalizing revelation. She knew him! He couldn’t believe it.

The detective stood dumbfounded as he listened to her story. It was too good to be true! ‘Perhaps it was?’ She could be lying, reciting what he most desired. ‘Could that not be the Faerie way as much as any other?’ It was something to be considered but he entertained it for only a moment. A heightened sensitivity told him otherwise. That and the oppressive nature of the gun’s iron alloys prevented some of her powers of misguidance.

The gun fell, quickly tucked back into the holster within the greyish blue trench coat, in it’s place emerging a small package. Slate shook a thin cigarillo out of it, igniting the sweet scented tobacco with a zippo lighter decorated with the picture of a casket on it’s side. The bright orange tip trailed through the darkness as he found a large rock to lean against, casually propping up a leg.

[slate]Damn! Son-of-a-bitch does it during the full moon.[/slate] Slate's audible thoughts whispered. Not only that, he had a dumping ground. A consistent disposal site. That’s how he was going to catch him! But to do so he was going to need her help. Would she continue to cooperate without a gun pointed at her? He didn’t want to have to threaten, but he had little choice in the matter if she wouldn’t willingly help him. He could only hope. This serial killer had to be taken out.

[slate]No.[/slate] Slate admitted to her in a matter-of-factly tone preceding a long drag on the sleek, plastic tipped cigar. [slate]No, I don’t fear the night.[/slate] He didn’t fear much of anything, not that he bragged about it. He’d found there was a fine line between fearlessness and foolishness and he often fell victim to the latter. He knew what she meant, though. She could feel it, what he was or rather what he wasn’t. [slate]There’s a little bit more to me than meets the eye.[/slate] he admitted, [slate]Kinda like you. Unless you gotta poison apple you wanna sell me you can drop the smokescreen. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.[/slate]

[Ishsa Nestra]

The gun disquieted her! There was poison within its metallic shape; never would she willingly hold such a risky thing! From the corner of her eye, Ishsa watched the hand that held the weapon and saw the muzzle dip and then lower. She sat straighter, more upright. Her softly exhaled breath sounded like autumn leaves falling in decayed unison. Had holding the gun tired the man? Or was lowering it a terrible trick he played upon her? The Fae trusted no one! But this man with his seriousness did not ring out as someone who would tease, and he looked to be hale enough to hold a weapon for far longer than he had. What Game did the man play?

Even as she pondered the man’s intentions, Ishsa felt immediately safer. The price had been paid with the telling of information, she decided, for the gun returned to its holster. Rigid muscles began to relax, even beneath the Glamour. She was ready to— ready to… what? The Fae wasn’t certain; now that the gun was away, her positioning in the glen was comfortable once again. And after Song and Storm, she was feeling particularly lazy, but a growing curiosity belied this. What was the man really?

The orange glow of lighter spark reflected in Ishsa’s eyes, too primal and untamed for the aged woman she pretended to be; her nostrils flared at the acrid burn upon the sweet, rain-cleared air. “The full moon is almost upon you,” the Fae answered slyly, though he hadn’t addressed her with his comment. “Will you find an answer to his puzzle, I wonder? It is a daunting task.” Those two played their own game, and the Fae was inquisitive as to the nature of it. “Who is the predator? Who is the prey? And this night he prepares,” Ishsa teased, “while you interrupt songs and threaten the aged.”

“You can drop the smokescreen. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

He knew! He saw through the Glamour! Slowly a crooked smile lit the hag’s face, drawing wrinkles tightly against the surface. Another might have worried about being found out; another might have denied knowledge of his accusations. Not Ishsa. That Game was done and finished! There was no need to pretend any longer. All at once the Glamour fell, like a sheet that dropped suddenly from a laundry line. The Fae that sat before him was calm, her face upturned and smooth, unmarred by wrinkles or worry. White hair framed her features and cascaded about her shoulders as if the thick strands formed a mantle. Her limbs were silky and graceful; she fit within the clearing comfortably. She was as much a part of nature as any tree or wild flower.

She would have stood and come closer, but the Iron was at his side, and this knowledge stayed her. “You are no Human,” she proclaimed, though she did not know what he was. The sweet, yet strange smell of the cigarillo clung to the glade and his clothes. It fouled her senses; she could not discern him. “You are not one of the Changers or of Elf blood. The night is alive and you are alive with it. Unafraid.” He had admitted that! Nimble fingers smoothed the hem of her fine, wet dress idly. The Fae was in no mood for lengthy guesses, and her voice chimed like the night-bird. “You have lost my Strom Song; a boon is now owed - what manner of creature are you?”

[Slate Morrison]

Brow furrowed and eyes narrowed at the Fae’s taunts. The suggestions of ‘predator’ and ‘prey’ he dismissed as distracting theatrics for which her kind were noted for but took the accusation of the ‘interruption’ with all due seriousness. The conjurations of these folk were not the simplistic castings of a Magus, they were intertwined with their environment, there life’s blood, an intimacy beyond human understanding… once his own. Slate knew this all too well and it would seem she knew a thing or two about him as well.

It had only been a matter of time. She’d sniffed it out of him quicker than he would have guessed. Whether the understanding was conscious or instinctive the end result remained the same. He had broken a sacred balance, a debt was owed. As she had revealed her nature so must his be told.

As the Fae were bound to their own preternatural rules so too did the Angels obey those higher laws unobserved by mortal-kind. Rules that their ‘half-blood’ kin ignored for a price and Slate for all his lack of better judgement had spent his last his pound of flesh. He was vulnerable now. His most coveted ‘human-life’ was now at risk. Long had he ignored the cries, the distant calls from the ‘Grey World of the Grigori’. Denying the truth of his being. Aislin had found it, had tried to bring him into her world but the New York cop in him would never give in to the chaos. At least that what it felt like. An uncontrolled fall, each day blurring into the next with no sense of time. Lost, like this little one before him. For a moment his lavender gaze lingered, taking in the splendid beauty of her form. Snowy tresses woven with a wreath of stunning foliage spilled across her small, supple, frame. Chromatic eyes, ever changing seasons of her spirit turning with each look of her expressive face. Vibrant greens, frosty blues, sultry ochres, encircling the deep honey brown of her pupils.

Wisps of smoke writhed before his concentrated stare, until the weight of the truth finally forced his eyes down to the forest floor and closed. The revelation or rather the acceptance of it all was like cutting the flesh from his body. Stripping away who he was and awakening the sleeping ‘watcher’ within. It was no small matter.

Slate’s deep voice rose above the gentle cadence of the dripping boughs, steady and calm as he recited words from Genesis. [slate]There were giants in the earth those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. The fathers, Azalea, Sariel, Arakiel, and Gadreel was mine. They were the Grigori. The ‘Watchers’. The ‘Fallen’.[/slate]

Head raised, his bright eyes momentarily black, void of light as two holes. [slate]Those born of their sinful fornication were the Nephilim, creatures possessed of the strength of Angels and the evils of man.[/slate] He paused, taking a drag on his cigar as sparkling eyes stared up towards the black sky as if searching for something.

[slate]Well, that’s the story according to Enoch. I really don’t know what I am, but I’ve always been this. Even long before the ‘nevus’ cracked the sky I’ve been a ‘watcher’. My father, his father before him and so on.[/slate] Only the power to crush a man’s skull with a single strike didn’t come along with the blood. Slate didn’t bother to clarify that as it was pretty much common knowledge that the supernatural didn’t exist at the same level prior to the Resonance. Some beings, however, did continue to linger on through the ages after previous ‘Resonance Events’ of lesser magnitudes.

[slate]I do know that I’m the last of my kind, which is probably a good thing. The blood-line can be traced back to some of the most influential and destructive men in the history of human-kynde.[/slate]

And that was it. A simple description but to Slate it was yet another ‘fall’; the loss of himself. The Fae would no longer see a ‘man’ before her, only a creature of legend. The last of a monstrous race that had been hunted to the brink of extinction, only a small handful able to remain hidden in the blood of men through the centuries. Protected by none other than the church itself.

[Ishsa Nestra]

Ishsa likened it to a ballad song; the old words recited with a deep and profound cadence of sound. She had not heard it’s like in a very, very long time. The girl she had been recognized it as Religious… But no one spoke like that anymore, no one excepting one homeless man who had promised hellfire and damnation, but the Fae had stolen him away to play many moons ago. Intrigued anew, the Fae cocked her head, she wished not to miss any portion of the man’s tale for she was a creature who loved well-said words, though her own were often mischievous and not thoughtfully used. The man looked downward, thoughtful in repose. Was there Magick in the beautifully spoken passage? Ishsa waited and sniffed the lightly smoked air, but no spell lay there that the Fae could discern.

Even so, the recitation held strength and power from his deep-timbered voice. The Fallen. Those names… should she know them? The Fae shifted in place; it was a difficult thing to remember and her brows knit together in earnest. Schooling was too long ago, and religion was something not thought upon ever. A haze of fog swirled in her thoughts, gray and thick and slow. The name Gadreel meant nothing, the other names too stayed lost. What they did they mean? Then - His eyes! His eyes turned black, darker than the city night. This was something unforeseen! Ishsa own eyes opened wider and sparkled brilliantly at this surprise, “Ohhh!” her breath was sweet upon the breeze. And the man said the word that caused her memory to open; the small crack being enough to allow the Fae a sudden insight.

Nephilim.

And Ishsa remembered Angels and Fallen Angels. Yet could it be true? Was the man truly that? Scanning the earthen ground in front of her, Ishsa searched for elusive answers, even as the man looked skyward for his. From opposite ends of the world they met in this clearing. Her fingers dipped reverently into the wet grass. “You are… an Angel? And you Watch.” Ishsa asked gently; fascinated she was afraid to break the spell of his telling. But as the next question came to mind, the Fae lifted herself easily to stand, graceful and elegant, as if she rose from a golden throne instead of the puddled and leaf strewn ground.

“Who do you watch?” She demanded eagerly, her voice rose with inquisitiveness as she tried to put the puzzle together in her mind. It mattered not that the hour was growing later. “I do not imagine that you watch me...” voice lowered, the threat implied. But the man had been surprised when he had come upon her in the clearing, he didn’t want her, he wanted the scarred man! “No,” she said more to herself, “I know who you watch. Or… who you wish to watch. And… and you seek him, because… you are the last of your kind?” But that was not a good reason to watch someone Ishsa decided and with confusion, Ishsa looked up into his face, to read the expression that sat behind the drifting smoke.

“And are you not destructive then, like those men, your ancestors?” Ishsa’s brows rose suggestively, after all, he had resorted to cruelty to question and threaten her with Iron. “If you catch your Digger, will your hand stray from violence?” The answer, she believed was apparent and so she smiled deliberately, “Angel or not, you are the same as them…I think.” But the Fae was greedy; she wanted to hear more, “Tell me, Watcher, what happened to those others of your kind?”
 

[Slate Morrison]

The slight twinge of a grin softened the serious edges of his face as he listened to the ‘girl’s’ overly simplified interpretation of his ‘self-aggrandized’ description. He had to admit, most of the time he didn’t buy it himself. Slate often considered that he could just the same be schizophrenic, if it wasn’t for the irrefutable proof of his ‘unearthly’ encounters. Not that he didn’t think that she believed him, it was the innocence of her rationalization that flipped him back over to his self-doubting side. She nailed the ‘watching’ part though, right up to the point where she got noticeably confused over the ‘last kind’.

[slate]Don’t worry your pretty little head over that part.[/slate] He assured her, stamping out the remains of the cigarillo on the damp rock and respectfully tucking the plastic filter into his pocket.

Slate had no idea if he was the ‘last’. He didn’t even truly know if he was in fact a Nephilim. For all he knew, maybe he was some kind of manifestation of biblical lore brought about by the Resonance. Maybe Angel’s did at one time exist, or some type of beings that people called Angels. Then there were the Nephilim. Their legend was even more convoluted, the great debate of their stature hinged on the Hebrew word for ‘great’, often mistook for ‘giant’. But who knew for sure? He tried not to lose sleep over it, which was difficult when your very state of being was uncontrollably guided by the will of ‘old law’. Make no mistake, though, he was a killer. The Fae had his number on that one. There was often only one sentence for the ancient commandments he upheld.

[slate]Damn right I’m the same as them. I sure as hell ain’t no bloody saint.[/slate] he outrightly admitted, shrugging his shoulders in a blasé manner, [slate]We’re all just shades of hate, some less, some more, ‘course I know where I fit into the gradient.[/slate] The comment was directed at the fickle heart of the Fae just to spur her on a little. He’d purposely ignored the bait, her knowledge of the ’scarred-man’ she so enticingly dangled before him. He was no ‘watch-dog’ begging for scraps. He could tell, though, that she was curious about him now. The Fae were like that, oblivious until something had worth to them and few things did. He had a mind to leave. He’d eventually pick up on Grimes’ scent, but how many more would die before that? Slate had a chance to nail the coffin shut on this asshole and all that stood between that bastard and his casket was one willful little sprite. So, he’d keep his cool and play her game and hopefully she’d come around.

[slate]The others…[/slate] he repeated. This was one of those moments that confirmed what he was, a plethora of unnatural history flooding his mind. [slate]… many used their gifts to their own selfish ends. They sought to conquer, to rule, to oppress. They deserved what they had coming. The Angels saw to it. Some, however, embraced their heritage, became ‘Watchers’ like their fathers. Upheld the law. Unfortunately,[/slate] he paused at the interruption of distant thunder, paying it heed as if it were the grumbling of an eavesdropping giant, [slate]the Angles didn’t care. Couldn’t blame them, they were just the ‘messengers’. Maybe we were never meant to be here. I dunno.[/slate] he shrugged.

The cop seemed indifferent, even ignorant of his own history but in truth, few were as educated as he concerning Angelic lore. Not only did possess the esoteric knowledge of his kind but he’d read countless books and manuals on the subject. Learning that his father had indeed been a ’Nephilim’, albeit latent, Slate had become obsessed with learning all he could about the mythology. To know his Grigori forefathers, to know his enemies. If ever these beings touched upon the world once again they would stop at nothing to destroy him but thus far, he’d never come across anything to suggest their presence upon Earth.

Smiling back at her calculated smirk, Slate did not pretend to be anything other than what she figured he was. Grimes would suffer for his crimes. It was the law. It’d had been a while since he’d killed, savoured the spilling of blood and sin. The ‘calling’ was growing stronger. The corruption of this putrid society pounding in his ears but there, in the presence of the Fae, drops of rain sparkling like stars in the moonlight the Nephilim found a momentary semblance of peace.

[slate]Angels faded into myth and Men took up the mantle.[/slate] Slate soberly answered her final query, his eyes trained on a glimmering droplet clinging to a leaf. [slate]You know the story, human’s have been living it their whole existence. Kill what you can’t control. Kill what’s stronger, what’s more beautiful.[/slate] The drop tumbled to the ground, crushed in mid-fall by the cop’s quick hand.

[slate]They hunted us. Like the Angels before them they didn’t care whether we were good or bad. Our numbers dwindled through the centuries, the blood-line strained to a trickle. It’d have been the end if it weren’t for a few that hid us. Used our kind to help fight against corruption and now, I’m all that’s left.[/slate] There was no remorse, no anger in the words, only a factual statement to anticlimactically end the tale.

[Ishsa Nestra]

“Damn right I’m the same as them. I sure as hell ain’t no bloody saint. We’re all just shades of hate, some less some more, ‘course I know where I fit into the gradient.”

‘I do not hate,” she answered simply. “Only love resides in my heart… all I do is for that.” A hand gently touched upon her chest for emphasis. The Fae believed her own words; others from her past, might not have been so quick to agree. “What is hate, but something outside - to be lost upon the garden pathways or washed away in the rain.” Closely Ishsa studied the Angel, “Perhaps you hold on too tightly.” Already she had seen his seriousness; it was no wonder there were so few of his kind left.

He did not speak of the prey he sought, that man he followed. But Ishsa had not forgotten about him. What had happened to the strong emotions that were present but moments ago? They could not have gone far. The Fae desired to know more of the secrets he kept. What was that man to this Angel? He had to be drawn out! “Why do you hate that man with the scar? The one you were pursuing?” Shifting, Ishsa’s head turned to look over a small shoulder, as if she still might still catch a glimpse of that fleeting dark presence on the trail. But that man was gone to do his deeds in secret. “Is your hate equal to his? Turning back to face the Angel once more, she said bluntly but without aggression, as if explaining to someone that couldn’t see what was right before them, “He hates. You hate. There are equal portions, it is balanced then.” The Fae could not see the issue between the two men.

Far away thunder rumbled and Ishsa’s face lifted towards the sound. The Fae’s face grew animated, the expression akin to one who has heard the sounds of a lover returning after too long distant. Silent and alert she listened intently as if to a secret, if she heard the man’s next words, she gave no indication.

“Maybe we were never meant to be here. I dunno.”

But Ishsa had heard, “If you are here, it is meant to be. But the weave and the seasons ever move… what would it change to have answers?” The Fae heard the questions that lied within his explanations and tellings and she sensed his longing for resolution wrapped about his deeply said words. “Perhaps you think too much, and live too little.” It was a simple thing in her mind, he made too much out of the past. And that past was gone and gone and gone. Her past was gone, her family also, and thoughts of them threatened to surface. It was easy to push them aside for the Fae did not miss those people. She could not - she was no longer theirs. That girl, their daughter was distant memory, that girl had vanished. Ishsa belonged to Endride now and to the Wood. Once she might have been sorrowful to think upon her lost family, but that time was over. Only a blank, empty place was left in her heart where they had been. No longer was there anything to feel there. Why could this Angel not do the same?

Moving around the little clearing, Ishsa stepped thoughtfully from puddle to puddle to wet her feet, “You are all that’s left…” she thought aloud. “I doubt you would let a Human kill you without battle. And… you have your Iron.” Her brow wrinkled at the word, as her head nodded to his side where it lay hidden. “So why must you stay where they will find you? Why must you continue to Watch? Humans do not value your work, you said as much. Turn your back upon them!” It was a challenge, and the Fae held mirth in check, though her eyes sparkled with the reflections of wetness all about them. “Put questions and searches behind you, forget and be free. The boon has been paid. Come play instead!”

Then she whispered, “Unless you cannot forget him…” and she knew the Angel would know who she meant.
 

[Slate Morrison]

Slate stood motionless, amethyst stare following the Fae’s supple movements. He didn’t regret the time spent, the stories shared. In fact he had appreciated the distraction, knowing all too well that the ‘devil’ had taken yet another life on his ‘watch’.

He looked upon her as one might search for ‘humanity’ in artificial life. So human-like, and yet, not. ‘Had he found a soul hidden deep within the cold, black heart of his beloved Kelpie?’ The creature before him made him doubt. There was no empathy, all was weighed and balanced on the scale of her egomaniacal mind, but then… ‘Yes. There it was.’ An infinitesimal feeling. A memory of the past! A human past. She was a Meta-human, once of this Earth, but now, no longer. Some held on to what they were, remembered their lives before. Others succumbed to the nature of their new lives. He did not want to become like her. So much questioning; struggling to understand what she once was. Was there anything left to which he could appeal? As much as he desired Aislin’s heart, he had loved her distance from humanity just the same, and deep down he knew the same potential resided in this Fae as well.

 

[slate]Freedom?[/slate] He questioned, at long last speaking after her diatribe. Was there really such a thing? [slate]Everybody owes. You have your patron,[/slate], he gazed up to the tree tops and around at the vegetation surrounding them, [slate]and I have mine. Your as much an instrument as I am.[/slate]

He turned slightly. It was time to go but not before he gave it one last ditch effort.

[slate]Afraid I’m not gonna forget. Right’s right, kid and that’s all there is to it. Somebody’s gotta make sure this asshole doesn’t end up in a fucking psyche-ward chowin’ down on three squares a day with an antipsychotic chaser, biding his time. Patient predator. People need to be reminded there are consequences to their actions. Goddam wrathful ones. What about you? Ain’t y’got any rage pent up? Life’s all walking barefoot in the park? I don’t think so. Look at you.[/slate] He drew attention to her perfect porcelain countenance reflected in the water at her delicate feet, [slate]Honey sweet but your wise to the street. You know the gutter from a babbling brook and what belongs in them. Ol’ scarface is a trespasser shitting in your garden. You gonna let ‘em get away with that? You wanna play? Take me to where this piece-of-shit buries it’s bones and I’ll show you how to have some real fun. What d’ya say?[/slate]

Slate knew better than to play her game. To let her in, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to locate Grimes and end him. It was a task that went beyond mere duty. The ‘watch’ was a manifestation of his very being. Once he targeted a sinner, he had to destroy them or suffer the very wrath he was tasked to impose.

[Ishsa Nestra]

“Everybody owes. You have your patron, and I have mine. You’re as much an instrument as I am.”

The Fae looked quizzically at the Angel. What he said was false, an untruth; he did not understand the Wood. Not at all! “There is no patron here. The Green and I are not separate, they are this and that is me. We dance in a circle; none are servant, neither are master. There are no rulers here.” Dramatically, Ishsa’s arms lifted wide to encompass each and all their eyes might set upon in the clearing. “I am no instrument, but an extension. Life draws from life… and balance follows.”

In a waltzing step, Ishsa moved closer. Curiosity burned within her thoughts, “Does it sadden you that you must answer to a Master? To be told what to do?” Her pert nose sniffed at him; it was no wonder he was angry and violent - she would be as well in his position.

“Be gone from forceful instruction!” Ishsa urged again, only the man turned away. But he had told her nothing! Just the one story shared between them! Yet his feelings were prominent once more and this made the Fae smile. He could not forget the man with the scar! His words were emotion-filled and Ishsa became excited to hear them again. Intensity fueled delight and she shared of herself with unrestrained glee, “Yes, yes. Ishsa understands consequence and crossed lines. There are those that need be taught lessons…” Her voice lowered upon the last word with stark remembrance of those who had caused her vexation. How many had learned to dread the Wood because of the Fae’s notice? “Wrath? That is a thing I carry not. I help, along the paths and trails, I help the misguided. That is all,” though the help of the Fae could often be construed as a distressing and burdensome thing for those that crossed her path.

“Look at you.”

And she did look to see her reflection. A pleased countenance regarded her from the puddle. For a moment the two Fae’s admired and smiled at one another as if in collaboration. But puddle-Ishsa frowned as well as the real Ishsa; the scarred man did not shit in her Woods. She would have known. Nor did he litter. He only left organic matter to decay and decompose, which in turn fed the earth. The Angel’s argument was lost in Fae translation.

“You wanna play? Take me to where this piece of shit buries it’s bones and I’ll show you how to have some real fun. What’d ya say?”

Attention honed in. The Angel wanted to play! Face bright, Ishsa did not attempt to hide her interest. It was too grand. The Fae danced nearer and around the man. She liked his emotions; almost she could taste them. Let him show his wrath!

“There will be more than bones to see…” the words whispered in the night air. “Follow! Follow me! If you would know! But perhaps you will wish you did not?” And that said, the Fae skipped off into the trees, leaving the Angel to follow or not as he would. But she hoped more that he would show his Wrath.

[Slate Morrison]

The hunter leaned back against a tree, folding his arms with all the judgement of an agitated father while the Faerie decrypted his appeal. Bright eyes, both intrigued and baffled by a reasoning far removed from her world, eagerly, hungrily, savoured his passion and he knew that ‘She’, the daughter born of the time before everything changed, was gone. A chilling preview of the nightmare that would one day consume his own life. Please let someone blow his head off before that ever happened. He simply couldn’t bear it. He’d already lost so many memories, his memoirs read like a book authored by another hand, but who was he, really, to stand in judgement of this metahuman? Maybe her life before all this was a steaming pile of crap, maybe like him, this is what she always was. ‘Could have been worse.’, he guessed, checking out her petite figure.

He was just about to push on when her curiosity was suddenly aroused. Excitedly she beckoned him to follow and Slate readily complied equally exhilarated at the prospect of finding this devil’s cemetery. Now they were getting somewhere! With unnatural strength of stride, Slate propelled his heavy frame with an incongruous grace. One of his weighty foot falls for every two of her ballerina steps. Pale skin gleaming, wings shimmering in the silvery moonlight breaking through the clouds as they traversed the wet woods.

Through the Nephilim’s eyes, pale beams of the moon were as deep amber, the Faerie’s pale tresses a flash of gold as he followed closely behind. The sounds, the scents, the company, all too familiar; too ‘real’ for Slate. It had been so long and the stoic detective was actually beginning to enjoy himself, the subtle curl of smile on his lips.

[slate]So whatta they call ya?[/slate] Slate inquired, making some small talk on the way, warm breath turning misty in the cool air.

He was legitimately interested in learning a little bit about this Central Park Fae. Though he was unable to remember it all clearly, review of his journal had revealed several instances of his interactions with the Fae-folk.

[Ishsa Nestra]

The woods were perfectly wet. Drenched from the storm, twigs and branches sparkled in kaleidoscope droplets that shone in the moonlight. Tonight, the Park was a magical place, it mattered not that the Fae had witnessed such wonders multitudes of times. Never did she tire of the display! With each footfall, Ishsa touched upon damp leaves and moist dirt, but so lightly did she land, her feet did not grow dirty. Not that she would have minded, for rich soil was a natural thing and not to be contemplated or complained of. Her hands grazed the sides of the deer path. Her fingers touched along green saplings and ragged weeds as they passed. Each caress was a small hello and served to build upon the connection she shared with the growing things. After her touches, sprinkling water droplets fell in succession to dot the man that followed behind her. She could not know that such a thing might cause offense.

The Fae felt wonderfully alive within her perfect world. She noted the man’s smile, and it brought a similar one to her own face. “The Wood will cure you; the Wood will help you forget…” She deemed that a beneficial thing, a necessary thing. “Ishsa will help you also. I am Ishsa.” she said turning back with a little bow and curtsy, then she danced ahead, dress lifting and shifting around feminine curves as she moved. He was larger and stronger, but she thought him compromised and in need of her assistance. Indeed she would help him - but only in ways that were best and important to her mind.

The man followed as Ishsa led. The trees distracted her at times and she disappeared to dance among them, only to reappear in another location moments later. There was no logic in her steps, for she was in little hurry to meet their destination. They would arrive when they arrived! Enjoyment of the Wood had taken hold. At times she stopped to touch a flower or to whisper secrets to a fern. Once, the Fae stopped completely, silent as shadow to listen to a faraway sound. But with a mischievous glance back towards the man, she was off again towards his goal. The path seemed to shift, and at times she discarded it altogether; the Fae followed her own way always.

As if he were the one who tarried, she returned back to him after some distance and took his hand in her own smaller one, cool and supple. Urgently, she pulled, though truly she could not move him unless he wished it. With the thrill of adventure, her words rushed and overlapped, “Come now, you are a loud one! You have not told me your name. What shall I call you?” She waited but a second, “Hasten your steps, do you did not wish to see after all? Have you changed your mind?” Her wings fluttered excitedly as the Fae let his hand slip slowly from hers and she whispered, “We are near…”
 

[Slate Morrison]

Slate felt it, ‘the magic’, her words not being received with mocking doubt but instead acknowledged with reverent silence. There was something satisfyingly primal about the woods, a return to a time when the world was familiar and pure. He had felt it even during his relentless pursuit across Europe, a solace in the forest’s embrace, but he did not want to forget. He found her preoccupation with memory disconcerting, ever suspicious of her motives; of her knowledge of his kind. Old memories found a way back in the minds of Metahumans, he knew this as well as any.

[slate]Ishsa.[/slate] He softly repeated, imagining it might, in an ironic twist, bring back a lost memory or two, but there was only ‘the hunt’. His thoughts were consumed by it, and they were getting close. He could taste it. Still, the curvaceous wood nymph offered some distraction. He was not so foregone as to not appreciate the feminine beauty of his guide, the unintentional sway of her supple form. Then as if she suspected the wandering of his eyes dallying his feet she skipped back and took his hand, pulling him along. She was stronger than she looked, but there was simply no way to match her pace, not quietly at least. Squeezing through her rabbit trails was difficult, though one had to admire her tenacity. When the silky tone of her scold snapped him to attention, he had to smile, recalling Atticus saying something similar but he reserved his colourful retort feeling it would most likely get misconstrued.

It probably wasn’t a good idea for either of them if she knew his name, so he offered her another. An appellation spoken in hushed tones within the dark recesses of the criminal underworld. An persona he adopted when the need to protect the identity of Slate Morrison and those associated with him was required.

[slate]Casket.[/slate] He announced, stepping lively at her impatient command right after. [slate]I’m coming, I’m coming. Cool your jets there, ‘Firefly’.[/slate] he impishly argued while struggling to circumvent the small tunnel in the dense bush the Fae had so easily slipped through, [slate]I’m a far cry from a size four.[/slate]

His tone fell in volume with her own, large pupils glistening violet as they probed the area before them, searching…

[Ishsa Nestra]

[ishsa] This is your name? A peculiar name for an Angel… [/ishsa] Ishsa murmured, and with a pretty snort, her words carried loudly in the quiet night. There was no reason to doubt him; why would he lie when he had already told her so much? Casket! The Fae wrinkled her nose; she did not approve. Mayhap she would rename him later, after all, he had named her Firefly and this was a good name! Her wings fluttered grandly in a playful shiver to hear it. Fireflies at dusk were enjoyable companions! A pity it was too late for them to be about; this Angel could have used a romp with those happy fellows.

“I’m coming, I’m coming… I’m a far cry from a size four.”

[ishsa] No, you are big as a house![/ishsa] She teased, as her neck turned over a white shoulder, to settle an impish glance upon him. Then the last of the branches that hid the clearing were pushed aside by small hands. An open space lay before them, and the thick canopy of leaves cast murky shadows upon the ground. Darkened Fae eyes took it all in, every leaf and rock and twig. She saw where a man’s feet had once pressed against the earth, to bend the stray grass into puddles that littered the ground. All was empty now, and silent. That scarred man was gone - there was nothing to see. All appeared normal, but it was not. It was eerily quiet.

[ishsa] He silenced the Wood,[/ishsa] she said solemnly. [ishsa]We have come too soon – too soon! The insects have not even yet arrived.[/ishsa] The silence bothered Ishsa more than anything, he had frightened all the natural sounds away. The Fae was not fearful, only disconcerted and uncomfortable. Never had she come upon the man’s deeds so quickly, always it was after time had passed that she discovered evidence of his dark hobbies. But now the balance was tipped; no longer might the Fae ignore his doings! The Angel had been right; her Wood was fouled. With a saddened cry, Ishsa rushed without thought into the noiseless clearing. Hands barely lifted from her sides, lively fingers implored all to be well and whole. The smell of wet earth filled her nostrils. There were no rocks here, just leaves and soft, slick earth. She looked for the body, that wink of pale flesh she knew would be partially hidden. Already she could smell it; already the workings of decay had begun. Soon all would return to harmony.

[ishsa]Ahhhh…. There you hide! And with the lone birch to keep you company! [/ishsa] Only a hand and beginning of a forearm could be seen, partially buried as the body was with dirt and leaves. The hand was open as if to plead one last time for mercy in the still air. Ishsa’s face was unemotional, almost bored as the Fae settled down next to the dead woman. Done was done. Fingers lightly lifted the lifeless hand and held it clasped within her own, while the rest of the woman remained buried. That ashen skin would turn to other colors given time - the Fae knew this. And Ishsa whispered to the Woman that was Woman no longer.


[ishsa]Bones undone and Body sleep
Secrets made for Some to keep
Silent Trees sway not here
No Wind blows to disappear
Insect feast and Angel Wrath light the Bitter ways.[/ishsa]


With knees drawn up over her bare feet Ishsa looked to the Angel, to study his violet eyes and wonder. [ishsa]Here is your prize. Are you pleased now that it is located?[/ishsa] With her free hand, Ishsa traced the dead woman's limp and dirt-streaked fingers distractedly, but then pointed to the center of the clearing. [ishsa]There, was once a girl, and there, deeper out a man. But their bones are mostly clean now. [/ishsa] Her words retreated as she waited patiently for the insects to arrive.

[ishsa]And there are others… [/ishsa]
 

[Slate Morrison]

[slate]Yeah, well, I’m not that kinda Angel.[/slate] He’d muttered. A blithe remark in response to her disapproval of his nickname. As if her opinion mattered… ‘but it did.’ Even when she ended up mistakingly comparing him to a house, Slate reacted with a bewildered scowl. ‘Was he really so gargantuan?’ Then he caught that impish look over her shoulder and realized, ‘Shit! She's messin’ with me!’

She’d completely taken him off guard and Slate could only shake his head at his own folly and smile. It felt good to laugh, even if the timing was inappropriate, the moment of levity brief. Softened features would turn grim as the detective set foot upon the defiled ground of Grimes’ victims.

Ishsa had revealed the first body, the arm of a woman in the early stages of decomposition. His last victim but dare he say his most recent. That was still to come.

Muddy boots carefully traced their way across the graveyard accompanied by the Fae’s whispering words. A lament? Slate knew better. She felt nothing for the fallen. It was a song for the forest, a tale of things past, and things to come.

In that moment, The ‘Earthly Angel’, the ‘Grey Angel’, felt a kinship with his coldhearted guide and he looked down upon the daughter of the wood with features softened with satisfaction. He had began to doubt he would ever slay this beast but thanks to Ishsa his days were now numbered. The killer would die by his hand.

She pointed out more bodies, the raised contours of their shallow graves long since settled into the earth, indistinguishable. He would need to call in a crime scene investigation team to extract the bodies but not before he captured Grimes. A few more days wasn’t gonna kill them anymore. Two more days and Grimes would be his!

[slate]He’s killed tonight. Next full moon, when he comes to add to his boneyard, we’ll be waiting.[/slate] Slate solemnly swore. [slate]Thank you, Ishsa. I owe you.[/slate]

[Ishsa Nestra]

“Thank you, Ishsa. I owe you.”

Next to the shallow grave, the Fae chirped a high pitched note; the sound was akin to bird song, though her gaze was almost feline in its intensity. Humanity still lurked furtively within, but it was deeply hidden within the changes wrought by the Nevus. He said the words seriously; there was no reason to doubt him. I owe you. It was not an idle statement, but an acknowledgement of debt. It was also a Promise. And Promises had to be kept! It was a Law in Ishsa’s mind, one of the few the Fae strictly followed. I owe you. Solemnly she nodded her acceptance, once and twice, and then a third time in agreement. The debt was recognized – an unbreakable bond now linked them until the time of fulfillment. She searched his face, was the Angel aware of what had transpired between them? That detail was of little concern to the Fae, for he had spoken the words aloud and truly. The Wood had heard! He had indebted himself to her and while remorse later might sneak upon his heart like a thief, the bond would not and could not be severed by such a simple thing as take-backs. Woe always befell Promise-Breakers!

But seriousness could not hold back the enthusiasm of the Fae for long, and the countenance of a girl in repose returned, with a contented turn of her lips she said, [ishsa]Two debts for you upon the ledger. And the first is now due. I have shown you this place and its bones. I have kept my end of your bargain. Now it is time for you to deliver upon yours. A promise was made, a promise for Real Fun. Tell me an Angel has not forgotten so soon.[/ishsa]

He was an Angel… an Angel. Ishsa’s human thoughts worked to dreg memory from time long past, when once she had attended church with hardened pews, when once she had believed in Gods. Now she wondered aloud, [ishsa]Perhaps you wish to recite a prayer?[/ishsa] Churches had Angels. Churches had funerals. There were those that would cry. Someone always cried. But the Angel Casket seemed unlikely to show such emotional displays. [ishsa]Yes! Recite a prayer, you know how it starts… Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to witness… witness… [/ishsa] The wrong words came easily to mind, so often had she heard them, but even the ending of the mistaken verse was forgotten. For a moment the Fae looked perplexed, but it was easily brushed away with a dismissing wave of her hand. [ishsa]Say the prayer and then a song follows. Lift your voice high, they will wish to hear you sing![/ishsa] Unable to contain her sudden mirth, Ishsa gave a conspirator’s happy squeeze to the lifeless hand she held in her own. But it was then that the Angel’s previous words came to mind.

“Next full moon, when he comes to add to his boneyard, we’ll be waiting.”

He did not say, “I will wait,” instead he said, “We.” The one simple word stopped the Fae, sudden and confusing. It was a rare thing to be heard. “We…” Ishsa looked away as if to ponder a strange and rare anomaly. The Angel had included her. It was done without the singing of her hypnotic Song; it was said without the binding of Magicks. He wished her company? The Fae mind spiraled inward, uncertain. For eight years she had been alone. For eight years she had been a solitary thing, but now buried humanity stretched its remembered fingers outward towards the light of the “We.” She looked upon the man that had done this thing and her eyes filled with the hint of tears, though she could not say what exactly he had evoked. With an uncharacteristic reserve, Ishsa patted the hand and let it go, softly it settled back upon the earth. She lifted her gaze and stood with graceful movements, and said softly, [ishsa]Ishsa will join you. Ishsa will be here, as will the man you seek. Do not fret, he will return to bury his treasure. And then you might show Ishsa your Wrath…[/ishsa]

After all, she and the Angel were linked now by debt, the Fae reasoned, she would certainly return for such as that. But now there was something more as well, equally invisible and significant. The weight of its meaning would crush her! She wished to run, to flee from the memories and emotions he had raised from his one word. She needed to be away from him! She needed to be near as well. A terrible pull within the Woodland creature ensued and the Fae trembled from the force of it and her normally fluid movements became scattered. With a rapid flutter, her wings punctuated her uneasiness. [ishsa]Quickly now! Say your prayer and sing your songs! Then you might show me this Real Fun! Quickly![/ishsa]
 

[Slate Morrison]

Wide eyes drank in his vow, savouring every last drop of the oath. It was no small matter, Slate knew this. Owing a Fae was a pact, at least once upon a time. Bound to archaic law and subject to the divine punishment of breaking one’s word he was ever careful with his promises.

‘Two?’ Slate’s narrowing eyes challenged as lightning flashed across the sky and thunder reverberated through the grove. Then recalling his words, acknowledged her interpretation with a nonchalant nod and flip of his thick coal black bangs from his face.

Not exactly a vow but he owed her nonetheless, and she was fast becoming anxious. The Fae were passionate creatures, their state of mind dancing like a leaf in a storm of emotions; tossed and turned by their wants and desires. He remembered well the throws of Aislin’s fervency as intoxicating as it could be ever frustrating.

While he himself often lacked soundness in his reactions, the chaotic nature of the Fae seemed to provide Slate with a clarity. It became all too clear that his initial offer had been grossly exaggerated by the Fae’s fancy and to banter with the girl would be an exercise in futility. Already she was concocting a method of payment, fervently reaching for something, anything, that he could readily perform.

‘A prayer?’ Now he was getting annoyed. Slate didn’t go to church but still possessed a reverent respect for the institution. Her mocking tones, though unintentional, were starting to get under his skin. She had no idea of the personal nature of her request, her demand, or perhaps she did? He had just about had enough, when she suddenly stopped and stood silently before him, staring with large, sparkling eyes.

‘What? Oh?’ As she softly swore to offer him aid in his quest for justice Slate understood. ‘She was alone.’ Even Faerie missed company, especially the kind that ‘wanted’ to have them around. Then it dawned on him, ‘Maybe, revealing the ‘ceremony’ wasn’t the best thing for her to witness.’ Sure, she was an instrument of the woods, cold and calculating, but there was also a ‘Human’ buried deep within that soulless body.

She seemed at ease… tangible. His hand spontaneously motioned every so slightly, rising to touch her cheek, only to abruptly halt. Suddenly a blaze of lightning flickered in those fickle eyes, a harsh flutter of her wings. Ishsa broke the spell with the continuation of her unrealistic and disrespectful demands.

‘Impetuous child!’ That did it. Slate was gonna let her have it with both barrels, grit teeth prying apart only to be interrupted by the radio in his coat from which a muffled voice announced. “Ten thirty-one in progress. 117 East 60th Street.”

‘That was only a few blocks away.’ Slate considered, his anger quickly diffusing from the distraction. He had to take the call.

[slate]Roger that, Detective Morrison, JCPD. ETA in ten.[/slate] Slate replied, then shrugged at Ishsa, [slate]Duty calls. I gotta take this.[/slate] he explained.

[slate]Sorry about the ‘real fun’. See ya on the full moon.[/slate] he bid her, as Slate started to make his way back in the direction of his car.

[Ishsa Nestra]

His hand neared Ishsa’s cheek and the world slowed. No leaf rustled in the clearing where the dead lay, the Wood was silent; the Angel would touch her. Motionless she stood with infinite patience, her breath held to the moment. Suspicion and also wonder captivated the Fae - such a touch was long unknown, contact such as this… Ishsa’s thoughts scattered and her rosy cheek lifted imperceptibly to meet masculine fingers. But his eyes blazed suddenly as if angry, and the Angel’s hand was withdrawn, his energy too. The Fae recoiled from the connection that had almost transpired, though she could not help but to feel that something had been stolen from her.

“Ten thirty-one in progress. 117 East 60th Street.”

“Roger that, Detective Morrison, JCPD, ETA in ten.” And then to her, “Duty calls. I gotta take this. Sorry about the ‘real fun’. See ya on the full moon.”

The voice on the radio was metallic, without emotion. It grated upon sensitive Fae nerves, for no rhythm or harmony flowed through the curt and mechanical words. Casket’s reply was no better. His explanation was not an explanation! Though Ishsa did understand, he would leave her and the others so newly found. He had had want of them and now he did not. He would leave before Fun had transpired. As the man left, the Fae fluttered unsettled among the quiet graves. [ishsa]He did not show us the Real Fun…[/ishsa] she murmured to the lifeless woman. [ishsa]He will become serious once more,[/ishsa] she confided to the others.

Two days felt much like a lifetime! Before the Resonance she might have calculated the hours of the days easily; but now it was too difficult a task to focus upon such tallying. Looking towards the path, Ishsa could no longer see his shadowy form through the trees. He was gone. Her fingers rose to brush the spot upon her cheek that had almost felt the Angel’s touch. Softly her fingers dotted there, as if to know the sensation that had been hindered by his anger and the radio. Two days! It was unfair and unreasonable for him to ask her to wait for such a time. To view an Angel’s Wrath was a novelty not yet experienced. Patience was worth little compared to that! In disappointment, her wings wilted sullenly. The Angel would not return, the Fae decided finally. He was off to the City with its lights and excitements, and he would disappear there while she was left in shadow for two days. Such a slight could not be born! Unless—

Fragile wings straightened then beat a quickening pulse. Unless! Upon this new and unknown task, she might accompany him! Numbers had called him away and other numbers kept him from returning. At the Fae’s waist, her fingers worked furiously upon themselves as she thought. But the thinking only took an instant, for the Fae was driven not by logic, but by emotion. Immediately it was decided, she would go with him! [ishsa]Farewell! Farewell![/ishsa] She called with newly found eagerness to the buried bodies. Light and lithe, Ishsa slipped and darted through the undergrowth and overgrowth as quickly as she was able. A pale hint of shadow, she moved through the darkened evening. It was no puzzle to guess where the man went, for the Fae knew Men were lazy creatures. But an Angel, she did not know their habits. Perhaps he had flow away? Yet Ishsa had spied no wings upon him and if he traveled on foot, Ishsa already knew that he moved at a snail’s pace through the greenery. In this setting, she was the faster and surprise would befall him when he realized she had overtaken him!

In the parking lot two cars were left, no other creatures were visible. The first had a look of violence done upon it and the Fae ignored it; it would not be traveling this night. Ishsa sniffed at the other vehicle and she was rewarded with the Angel’s familiarly odd smell. Happily she trilled her pleasure and waited for him to arrive. How pleased he would be! In the darkened lot, Ishsa’s pale features appeared to glow, as if she were but an apparition that moved with gentle movements between the cars. When a sound caught her ears and she turned quickly and declared with cheerful voice, [ishsa]Fear not, Ishsa will accompany you![/ishsa]

[Slate Morrison]

Powerful strides decelerated to a walk as the detective neared his destination. Inhuman speed and vigour had carried him quickly across the distance, but apparently, not quickly enough. Even as his hard soled steps upon the pavement broke the natural cadence of the night the half-angel could feel the Fae. His feral gaze pounced upon her luminous form jus as her giddy declaration chimed through the cool, crisp air.

Slate wasn’t surprised. Finding her waiting by his car only proved his apprehension, that getting rid of her had been too easy. To be fair he was technically still in her debt and she was a Fae. That about said it all. They weren’t too big on the ‘waiting’ thing, and Slate being somewhat accustomed to their idiosyncrasies took the imposition in stride.

Grabbing the handle of the driver’s side door the biometric sensor within it instantly analyzed Slate’s genetic markers such as his finger prints and unique chemical composition of his skin cells. A small diode flashed green, the door unlocked and there he stood, part way into the modernized classic, debating what to do with the Faerie.

Were she Aislin he wouldn’t have hesitated. The Kelpie could handle herself but he had no idea what the diminutive sprite was capable of. It was dangerous and he was taking her out of her element, she’d be far safer staying in the park. He also knew she’d be too damn stubborn to convince otherwise and he didn’t have time for a long, drawn out debate.

[slate]Fuck it.[/slate]

Slate slid into the car and popped the automatic lock on the passenger side door, leaning over and opening it to prevent any confusion. Time was ticking.

He slipped the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. The Charger rumbled to life, soft violet glow of the custom dash playing off of the half-angel’s similarly coloured eyes.

Soon as the door closed, he aggressively shifted into reverse and gunned the big block engine. The racing tires screeched as they gripped the damp road, the stench of burnt rubber permeating the cab. Red and blue lights flashed in the rear window and in the corners of the deep chromed wells of the headlights as he peeled out eastbound and out of the park.

[slate]Now, before we go another block you gotta do something about all of this.[/slate] He moved his hand in a circular motion about the scant dress and over-all, her ‘otherwordly’ appearance which just wasn’t going to do.

[slate]You're a little heavy on the faerie dust there, Firefly. Less... sparkly. More coverage.[/slate]

[Ishsa Nestra]

The car door swung open and Ishsa bent to peer inside. Casket waited. But how long had it been since she had been in such an enclosed space? Ishsa wavered and fidgeted where she stood. She knew the Angel would leave her soon! Leave-taking reflected in his eyes already. Casting all caution aside and without a semblance of care, the Fae slid gracefully into the passenger seat to settle upon the leather. With a pull the door shut behind her and shut Ishsa from the Wood. The feeling of confinement was weighty upon her and the smell foreign and metallic in her nostrils. This was not her world; her feet were not connected to Earth. The car rumbled, and sensation nestled deep in her bones, like the bowels of Earth far beneath them. Along the dash-board in deliberate wonder, her hands brushed, only to move to press against the window at her side with fingers spread, as if she might still touch the trees that stood beyond the glass.

There was little time for contemplation, too much was happening! In reverse they traveled quickly backwards and Ishsa had to hold herself upon the seat to keep from spilling over onto the floor. Unprepared for the sudden change of direction forward she was pushed back into the softness of the seat. Instinctively she held on where she might. Hands gripped the armrest tightly and Ishsa remembered the whipping of rollercoasters and Coney Island hotdogs. She had been twelve. The trapped feeling flitted away as lights flashed and filled the car’s interior. She knew what they were. Ishsa knew their meaning. But to the Fae they were also a surprise. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. And on they continued like a violent strobe upon a pulsing dance floor. Bright was her smile to be bathed within that ever-changing, ever similar glow. Adventure beckoned!

“Now, before we go another block you gotta do something about all of this.” You’re a little heavy on the faerie dust there, Firefly. Less… sparkly. More coverage.”

He did not like her dress? She looked down upon it appraisingly. At first as she had watched his hand fly about, the Fae briefly assumed that perhaps he would use magic upon her. But it was not true. He owed her a debt. And he had called her Firefly… Ishsa could not help but to trill at the name. But the dress… he did not approve of this choice. The offense was a personal one. What did he wish her to wear instead? The Fae did not know. Neither did she know where they traveled to. What had the metallic voice said upon the radio to make him rush away? Nothing that made sense - only numbers. Numbers again! Ishsa’s brow furrowed. It was a code. A secret code...

[ishsa]“Ahhhh…[/ishsa] Ishsa sighed, finally she understood. Clothing for the keeping of secrets in! Her eyes sparkled with knowing as she watched him and caught his gaze. His clothing was such for secrets, dark and drab as they were. And while he wished her wear something similar, her nose wrinkled at the thought of so plain a garment upon her skin. Lightly her arm lifted, and a hand danced upon the air in fine movement. Ishsa hummed a softening tune and the clothes she wore faded and a soft t-shirt and baggy pants grew by measure in place. Color blossomed in greens of all shades, dark and olive tints, and then deep browns and light - colors of the Wood, of nature. All swirled together in pattern that was not pattern. Camouflage. For good measure, a black woolen hat sat tight upon her blonde-white hair. This was dress up! A Pretending. A good game always!

Politely, as if Ishsa were a lady of fine upbringing sitting at tea, and not a Fae racing wildly in a car upon the streets, Ishsa asked, [ishsa]Shall yours be transformed as well?[/ishsa] Her face held mirth in check, but just barely, though it was difficult to hide the glee that glittered in round eyes. With any other, the Fae would have acted without asking, without thought. But this one instance she asked… though her hand lifted, ready to swirl upon the air with her magicks.
 

[Slate Morrison]

The sorrowful synth intro of Steelheart’s ‘We All Die Young’ ebbed through the car as the Charger tore down Fifth Ave. As the guitar kicked in, Slate glanced over to check out the Fae’s new ensemble, calmly navigating the traffic though his peripheral. Electric signs and street lights flashed behind an ambiguous side-to-side shimmy of the half-angel’s head. Cool expression guarding the approval of his lingering gaze. They both definitely had different ideas of what ‘blending in’ meant but before returning his eyes to the road he couldn’t begrudge the girl the slightest of complimentary nods.

At the Fae’s offer to transform his own clothes a finger shot up between them. [slate]Never mess with the coat.[/slate] a firm warning with a hint of light-heartedness to compensate for the mischief in her tone. The drab, dull blue trench coat had evolved into a symbol of his persona, one might have even considered it a uniform of sorts. No one messed with the uniform.

Hand fell to the stick as Slate took a hard left onto 60th street. Tires squealed, centrifugal force squeezing the Fae against the car door. Madison Street blew by. Past Park and the Charger’s thick tires squealed to a halt in front of a brownstone brick building, the name of the pub engraved into the wall; simply, ‘The Bar Room’.

Slate knew the place well; trendy bistro turned biker bar. A lot things changed after the resonance, some for the better, most for the bad, but in this case swapping vanilla lattes for whiskey had been an improvement. It was an easy enough place for the non-savvy to steer clear of. He’d assumed some hipster poked his well manicured beard into the wrong place and got smacked around, but Slate could not have been more wrong.

First thing that caught his eye was the bouncer and the fact that the guy wasn’t moving. A former wrestler, old ‘Blue’ wasn’t the kinda guy a body messed with, and from the looks of him somebody messed with him pretty bad. He lay slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. A closer look with his angelic gaze would reveal the the man’s bloodied knuckles, magnified and clear. He noted the extensive bruising of his jaw, the finger shaped bruises across his throat. He’d been beaten, violet eyes glinting with excitement at the prospect of the physical challenge.

[slate]This is the real deal.[/slate] He informed Ishsa as he pushed a lever near to the stick shift turning a glowing ’S’ character dark, while an ‘A’ became bright. Dual transmission. Slate was an exceptional mechanic, his talents extending into the realm of robotic engineering and the modifications he’d made to the Charger were extensive. Being able to shift from automatic to full standard was just a fraction of the alterations and modernizations he’d made to the late model vehicle.

He supposed he could’ve gave her the whole ‘cop speech’. About how she shouldn’t leave the vehicle, stay safe, keep out of the way, all that responsible shit, but he didn’t. She wouldn’t listen and he didn’t have the time nor the inclination to argue with the Fae for ‘her own sake’.

Slate drew his nickel plated side arm and inspected it, holstering it again before turning off the engine and exiting the car. Swinging the heavy door shut, the cop eased his way toward the deep alleyway entrance that lead to the bar’s door, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He paid little heed to the unconscious bouncer, continuing on down the shadowy corridor with a casual stroll.

One of the glass doors up ahead was smashed out, the object used to break it lying in a bloody heap on the carpet. Another bouncer, beaten in the same fashion as the first, only he wasn’t so lucky. It was all starting to look like a hit from a rival gang but Slate was jumping to any conclusions.

[slate] Watch yer ass, Firefly.[/slate] Slate warned as he stepped through the busted door, [slate]Wouldn’t want to see that tail get shot off.[/slate]

With the twinge of a boyish grin, the detective made his way across the darkened lobby. Broken glass crunched under boot, drawn to the muffled beat of a hard baseline resonating through two steel doors. Slate had been here before and knew the layout, but had no idea what to expect. Still, he brazenly pushed through the doors, strutting into the bar like he owned the place. Immediately his senses were assaulted by the blaring roar of classic rock. Wisps of smoke writhed in the dull light, curling before the cop’s panning glare. Broken bodies were strewn throughout the establishment while the still as yet living patron’s sat eerily silent. Robotically they went about their business, their slow and subtle motions rigid and awkward, as if they were all literally scared stiff. Then he saw them at the bar, three of them, and they saw him too.

They were kids, or rather young adults. Slate always tried to be politically correct and for those naive enough to believe that he had few Sasquatch stories they’d love. They were probably between eighteen and twenty-one but he reserved the term adult for people who acted like it, not these three losers.

Her back against the bar, the female of the group grinned cockily as Slate slowly wove his way through the beaten bodies and smashed furniture. Revealed by her scant school girl costume a chaotic collage of haphazardly drawn tattoos speckled her pale skin. The girl’s dull pink barbie doll doo bobbling about as exaggeratedly made-up eyes of Asian ancestry traced his every move. Slate noted straight away the cleanliness of her smooth, unmarred knuckles and the spotless hands of the shaggy haired bohemian perched atop the bar. The ‘heavy hitter’ sat between them, his back to the approaching cop, only he didn’t look like much. Hundred and thirty pounds, tops. Yet, by process of elimination he had to be the brawler among them.

[slate]They do all this?[/slate] Slate questioned a big biker sitting a few meters away, but the man wouldn’t answer. He just lowered his head and stared into his half empty glass.

[npc]Good dog.[/npc] Complimented the raspy voice of the kid in the middle, [npc]You a cop?[/npc]

Slate reached into the collar of his coat and pulled out the gold shield hanging around his neck, the visual response relayed by the flicking glance of the girl. Evidently the small fry was the leader, somehow endowed with the ability to take on a whole bar of street savvy bikers.

[npc]I fucking hate cops.[/npc] The kid growled, spinning round in his stool to get a look at his next victim.

Slate just stood in silence, violet glare burning into the kid’s eyes but the punk wasn’t shaken in the least. He just pointed and laughed. [npc]Fuck! Stupid ass. Shoulda pulled your piece.[/npc]

Of course, Slate wasn’t entirely sure bullets would have been effective against these three. The moment he entered the establishment he’d noticed the bullet holes in the walls and floor. The biker’s, like most Humans, were reliant on guns but something had rendered them ineffectual. One of his buddies. Maybe the girl? Slate couldn’t be sure. What he could tell, was that all the patrons in the place were held in place by fear of these three jokers — three ‘Altered’.

They had power. Power squandered and misused for petty gains. Slate had seen it before, recognized the type right away. Could feel the hate brimming within each and he knew that he wouldn’t be taking them in. After he was done, there wouldn’t be enough of any of them left to fill an ashtray.