Qebhet (coolwaters) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-07-21 19:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | qebhet |
WHO a motherfuckin’ soul eater, that’s who
WHERE Harlem
WHEN Sunday 19 July, midnight
WHAT Trouble
WARNINGS Mentions of violence, murder
After glutting itself on the mortal man’s flesh and soul, the beast had slept solidly for almost a fortnight. And what a meal it had been! Dense and rich, each bite a revelation; the spirit-stuff had ruminated sweetly in the beast’s gut as it slumbered, wafting intoxicating visions into its dreams. Common meat simply couldn’t compare. Now the beast was awake, and it was hungry. The moon was swaddled in a thick blanket of cloud and the streets were as dark as ever they got in a city that didn’t sleep. The beast stalked noiselessly through the shadows, nose twitching, head low to the ground. It moved unseen, unheard — but not entirely unnoticed. Cutting through a familiar crossroads, it brushed against the invisible threads of a finely-woven spell, Hecate’s handiwork. It was a few blocks gone when the beast became aware of the presence. It loomed large over everything in a way that made the beast flatten its ears against its skull — and yet there was familiarity there, even in the looming of it. Cautiously, the beast sniffed the air. No forms emerged from the shadows, no spectral guardians swooped down from above. Curiosity won out; the beast flicked an ear and pressed on, letting itself be guided by the tug of the presence. The trail led it across roads and down back alleys, through yards and past shops, and ended, finally, at a century-old brick building. The tales say that black dogs are drawn to fatality, and this place hung heavy with it. It smelled of death and of Death. The beast’s sensitive nose detected the odour of corpses, perfumed as they were, the meat and gore politely masked by embalming fluids and disinfectant. Far more overpowering, though, was the foreign-yet-familiar scent of underworld, a hell that was not Hell, more incense than brimstone. There were spirits in this place, too; not flighty and fearful as the beast liked them, but settled, securely protected by rite and ritual. The beast paced before the building, its tail swishing restlessly from side to side, hackles half-raised. It understood now, and understanding brought uncertainty. This was another beast’s territory, a beast bigger and fiercer, and instinct screamed at it to show due deference to the greater power. But a second, competing impulse bucked just as forcefully in the opposite direction. Authority was to be scorned, it hissed, not kowtowed to! The beast was small, yes, but that made it nimble! Quick enough and canny enough to outsmart any other predator, no matter how great. Hunger won out over both instincts, in the end. It gnawed at the beast now, ragged and urgent. Yes, first it would feed, and then… then it would figure out what to do about this unseen monster. The beast returned to the great predator’s den close to an hour later, sated and decided. It cast its gaze up at the building, blood glinting darkly on its maw, and carefully placed an object down before the door. It was an offering. (I honour you, lord of this domain; see this fine gift that I have snared for you; see how well I could serve you.) It was a warning. (You are mighty, lord, but I am clever and my teeth are sharp; don’t get in my way, big man.) Let the lord make of it what he would. The beast padded off into the dark, back to its den to dream. Two hours later and two blocks away, a body was discovered. Laurel Morenco, aged twenty-three, had been killed in an uncommonly violent fashion, her rib cage fairly torn apart. Much was made of the deep hole the killer had gouged in her chest. Nobody noticed what else had been taken from her. Two hours after that, Qebhet arrived at the funeral home. Her sleep had been uneasy the previous night; Hecate had been in touch with an update on her investigations and none of it had been comforting. No traces left behind, and no clear idea of what might have taken Oscar’s soul or why: their monster seemed to defy all categorisation. By four, she’d given up hope of getting back to sleep. A swim, she’d decided; that was what she needed. Slow, rhythmic laps always helped to settle her anxious mind. By the time Qebhet had left the pool, it had been close to five and she’d decided just to head into work and make an early start off it. There was paperwork she’d been neglecting and she might as well make a start on it. So it was that Qebhet was the first to approach the front door that day, and so it was that she was the one to see what lay before it in a puddle of congealing blood and a putrid stench of isfet. The keys dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It was a human heart. |