Behind the club, the inky black of the San Francisco bay stretched for miles. City lights sparkled and danced over the obsidian water like will ‘o wisps.
He waited, scanning the milling faces. An electrical shiver of heat sizzled down his spine; his transformation had begun. He despised this part most, seeing the victims alive, happy and smiling. Centuries of watching death was like a poisonous cancer spreading through his soul, devouring him whole. He was tired, but still he trudged on. What else was there for someone like him? He existed in darkness, a creature born to night and madness.
Sounds of honking cabs, cable cars, and trotting horse drawn carriages warred with the knowledge that out there now lurked monsters of the worst sort. They were coming out to play, to feed, and to kill. The latter a trait he knew by heart.
The tenuous peace between the races today a far cry from the cold reality of earlier centuries. Then, there had been war. Any person thought to be outside the norm was either killed, maimed, or tortured. No questions asked. Ever.
But the veneer of civility between the groups was fragile at best. Infighting between the clan, coven, and pack continued to this day. Partially over turf wars, but mainly over a past so dark many feared history would repeat itself.
He lifted his hand, staring at the glove inscribed with runes of death and instantly he was transported to another time. A different era. Screaming horses, the sharp smell of crushed grass, and battle cries consumed him. It had been a massacre and all caused by the deception of the fae.
The super’s might not want to admit it, but once they’d revered the beauty of the fairy folk, admired their skill of magick and knowledge of the arcane. But now the fae were outcasts in a society full of them. The irony was not lost on him.
The musty odor of old blood and fur snapped him back to reality. A pack of Were’s threaded their way through the alleyway. Eyes roving the dark shadows. Top lips pulled back to reveal large incisors, gums exposed. Nostrils flaring as they tasted the scent of night, ever vigilant, aware, and wary.
More followed. The soft strike of shoes on wet pavement. Rustle and sweep of leather trench coats. The lethal, rapacious glide of vampires. Postures screaming of confidence and deadly grace.
Humans came too, at least those bold enough to brave the club’s nefarious clientele. Women mostly. Dressed to the nines in their short black dresses, long hair down, and garish screw me red lipstick standing out brighter than any neon sign.
Thick smog slithered through the night like a python on the prowl.
Then the sharp clack of stilettos striking concrete drew his attention. He glanced at the source and instantly knew many things. The raven-haired woman was coven. Her power rippled like waves beneath the pale flesh of her skin.
She was not alone. Two other females--one blonde, one redhead—walked beside her. Their striking features—high cheekbones, strong round jaws, and full red lips—proclaimed them sisters. Walking beside them was a man. He towered the sisters by a good foot. Cian waited for the tell-tell pulse of magick that covered an supernatural like second skin, but it never came. The man was human. He moved with an easy, uncaring stride, every once in a while brushing his thigh or hand against the raven-haired witch.
A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning him from man to monster. Fire traveled his veins, scorching him and making him grunt with the momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his glove. The transformation of smooth, tanned flesh turning to a skeletal hand of ivory would have frightened many.
He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider to look at the transformation would almost seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man. Flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him--and it was time to harvest--the hand turned to a design of the macabre. The flesh, muscle, and tendon literally faded from sight.
Human depictions always had the Grim Reapers wearing the traditional black cowl with a sickle in their skeletal grip. In truth, Reapers were as normal as man. You could pass them on the street, commenting on their remarkable beauty, little knowing that beneath the white smile and ever-present glove lurked the killer of legend.
Cian tucked his hand into his pocket and glanced up. The human male walking alongside the sisters smiled and grabbed the raven-haired witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.
Blood pounded through Cian’s veins. Quickened his pulse. He moved deeper into shadow the closer the group came to him. But his eyes remained riveted to the woman.
She laughed. A rich, lilting sound. Deep and throaty. Hot and sexy. Bewitching.