Late July, 1865, Sierra Nevada mountains, California
Charles examined the end of his saber and was happy to see that all sign of the monster had disappeared, as usual. He calmed his breathing and looked around carefully while listening for any more sign of other creatures. He silently thanked his long-dead father for the skills that allowed him to the kill these creatures that others told him were in his imagination. He could have used his pistol, but he had learned a long time ago that explaining away the discharge of a weapon without a body only led to people questioning his sanity.
The sweat that burst out on his skin during the fight now made him shiver in the autumn air made all the cooler this high up in the mountains. He needed to get back to camp soon as his shift would start; Mr. Collins already thought Charles was a bit odd for working among the many Chinese laborers that had been recruited to build the Central Pacific portion of what was to be a transcontinental railroad. Charles had his own reasons, of course. Living in cities, the monsters were everywhere and he had to be constantly vigilant. Living on his own meant the monsters had no hesitancy to come after him without cessation. The key, he had found, was to live far from cities but among people. For whatever reason, the creatures that haunted him seemed to stay pretty far away from the Chinese camp and that meant he could simply work and sleep and eat without worrying about his life being in danger.
Until this morning, of course. He had wanted to get some air, free of the camp and the constant stink of the blasting powder so he walked out of camp before daybreak after waking and shaving with cold water. Then he had walked out of camp free of anyone asking him what he was doing. That was the beauty of working with the Chinese; none of them asked him any questions. Some of them knew a little English and he had learned a little Chinese in the months they had been working together. He had been with them since June, but for the past month they had been working on the tediously slow task of the railroad tunnels. The slow progress did not seem to trouble the hard-working Chinese and Charles just kept working alongside them and tried to imitate their serene attitude.
As he approached the camp he was surprised when a young man spotted him and ran up to him quickly.
"Mister, you come," he said quickly and repeated himself several times.
"My shift is starting," began Charles, but the young man, who was probably six inches shorter than Charles, continued to insist. Finally, Charles gave in and followed the obviously relieved young man. They wound among the tents and finally came to a larger-than-usual tent, outside of which stood another man who was taller than the normal Chinese man. The man nodded and pulled the tent flap open. Charles did a double-take as he passed; the man looked like an Indian wearing Chinese attire and hairstyle. He ducked carefully, trying to be subtle about keeping his hand near his sword, and entered the tent to see an ancient-looking Chinese man sitting on the ground next to a small bed and a lantern.
"Come, Mister Duclot, come; we must talk," said the man with only a slightly noticeable accent. Than in itself was surprising.
"What might we be talking about?" said Charles as he crouched across from the old man. Close up, he looked every bit his age and yet, extremely fit. He had never seen the old man before, but in a camp of thousands, that was not so surprising.
"Mister Duclot, you stink of demon," began the man, "and that is why we must talk."
"Demon? What do you mean I stink of demon? I don't even know what that means," said Charles.
"You might use a different word," said the man. "Creature, fiend, dragon, beast … monster."
Charles blinked. In all the years since his youth, not one person had acknowledged one of the grim realities of Charles' life—that there were things out there trying to kill him; that killed others; and that preyed on the weak and the innocent.
"You see them too?" asked Charles finally. "The … things."
"Yes, I see them, as does Honu, here, though I have no idea how he does it, since he does not possess any Shadowhunter blood," said the old man. He indicated the man who Charles suspected was an Indian, who had entered after Charles had. "You just killed one outside the camp."
Charles blinked again. How could this little man know any such thing? So he waited.
"Do you remember anything odd about your parents?" asked the old man. Again, Charles was thrown off by the question. His parents? They were his parents. They were who they were. Before he had a chance to go on the man continued. "Did one or both of them train you to fight at a young age? Did they seem overly paranoid about protecting you and your home?" Charles found himself sitting and staring into space, remembering his youth, his early memories, and their family home in Missouri. The old man's questions made him rethink everything he ever remembered about growing up. All of the Chinese man's questions had easy answers. Yes, yes, and yes.
"I see that you remember things in a different light," said the man softly. "How are they now? Your family?" This last was asked so quietly Charles barely heard it.
"Dead," he said without thinking. "All dead."
"How old were you?" said the man.
"Twelve," said Charles.
"Ah, and were you there? Did you see anything?"
"I was out playing in the fields," said Charles. "When I came back, our neighbors were there and I never saw the bodies. I questioned one man who I found years later and he told me the bodies had been mauled, like some wild animal had tried to kill them but not eat them."
"Monsters," said the old man.
Charles did not respond. It had always been a suspicion, but no one had ever confirmed the monsters and for a long time he had wondered if he was more than a little crazy. Knowing he was not felt like letting out a huge sigh after years of holding your breath. He followed the conversation back to a question of his own. "What are Shadowhunters?"
"Descendents of Jonathon Shadowhunter who have the blood of angels?" said the man. "The blood gives them … special abilities. They can see demons and make it their duty to prosecute them all over the world. They run centers called institutes in major cities all over the world to stay aware of trends in demon movement and provide coverage for as many people as possible."
"How do you know all this?" Charles asked suddenly.
"I grew up as a servant in the Shanghai institute, after one of the Shadowhunters rescued me off the street," said the man. "I worked for them for sixty years before I decided to accompany my people here to the United States."
Charles digested this and moved to his next question.
"So you are saying my parents were these Shadowhunters?" he asked.
"Undoubtedly," said the man. "One of them, at least."
"I never heard any of this from them," said Charles.
"There are reasons Shadowhunters leave," said the man. "The main one is that a Shadowhunter decides to marry a mundane."
"I'm sorry," said Charles. "A mundane?"
"Normal person; a non-Shadowhunter without special abilities," said the man. "It happens. When it does the Shadowhunter must leave and never have contact with Shadowhunters again."
"So they are banished," said Charles.
"By their own choice," he said. "There are times a mundane will join the Shadowhunters and take up their fight, but if they do not want to do that, they must leave."
His parents had always sounded different than others when they spoke. And they had taught him French. And his father had insisted on teaching him to use a sword and his hands and feet when he was very young. It was just how it was, but now he rethought a lot of things and pieces of the puzzle snapped into place: a British accent; knowledge of French; use of handheld weapons; no contact with any living relatives; and, of course, the fact that he could see these demons that no one else saw. Charles had felt isolated for much of his life and now he knew why.
"My mother was beautiful," he said. "Kind, intelligent, hard-working … " he trailed off, wondering what he was saying.
"In other words, a very fine woman; a woman for whom a man would give up everything to spend the rest of his life with her," finished the old man.
Charles felt very odd, sitting there talking about his family with a man he had never met. He looked up and saw compassion in the old man's eyes. Understanding.
Charles did not know what else to say. He had come to California for a change from everything he had seen and done while fighting for the Union until he had been severely wounded in Grant's Wilderness Campaign in the late spring of 1864. He had never expected to have a complete stranger rewrite all his family memories and explain why so many odd things had happened to him.
"You should seek them out," said the old man. "I sense you have a warriors hands and a compassionate heart. And you try to help people. My people here have told me you treat them with respect and kindness."
"How would I seek them out?" asked Charles.
"You could start in New York," suggested the man. "That is the largest institute in this country. They are not very well established here in America. Or go to England. Your accent has hints of England on your tongue so it is likely your parents may have come from there. Certainly there are going to be answers to questions."
"England," said Charles. "That is very far away."
"You have come very far already," said the man. "I believe your journey will end further away still."
Charles did nothing out of the ordinary for nearly a week. Or at least, on the surface it appeared ordinary. What actually took place was anything but ordinary. The old man, who never offered his name, felt it was his duty to make sure Charles was well-trained and surprisingly, his tool for this was the Indian Honu, who was surprisingly adept at using a Chinese Dao. The Dao was a broad bladed sword that was effective at slashing and chopping attacks which, explained the old Chinaman, was very effective again many types of demons which often had to be dismembered.
They also tried the longer, spear-like guan dao which was not so different than fighting with a staff, but Honu simply shook his head after less than an hour of practice and went back to the shorter, simpler dao. The old Indian was very quick, stronger than Charles, and extremely crafty. He rarely showed any emotion except to smile slightly when he was able to get inside his opponent's guard; determination when Charles pressed him hard and the occasional nod of respect when the younger man was able to strike him. He never spoke and seemed to have a near-telepathic method of communication with the old Chinese man. The man would nod and Honu would try a different tack or a different style of fighting.
Doing this while working would have been nearly impossible with the backbreaking load and by the third day of hauling rock and clashing swords, Charles was completely exhausted. The next day he went to find the old Chinaman who shook his head and told Charles it would be taken care of. And it was. He did not show up for work, he continued to walk among the tents and no one, including the Irish overseers, did not question him. After two weeks, the old man shifted tactics and had Honu take Charles deeper into the mountains to hunt and work with a bow. It was not that different from a rifle in terms of focus; muscle and breathing control; and the stance one took to fire.
Once they returned, the Chinaman nodded in approval after watching Charles place five of five arrows in a span the width of his hand from twenty-five yards away.
"You will not shoot too many deer from that range, but it gives you stand-off from demons," said the old man. "Killing a demon from far away is better than doing it up close."
"Why not use a pistol or rifle?" asked Charles.
"There are reasons," said the man. "Others can explain it better."
That was how the old man answered many questions. Someone else would answer his question better. Assuming, of course, that he went to England. And found someone to talk to him.
Honu also introduced Charles to the tomahawk as a hand-to-hand and throwing weapon. It was one of the only times he ever heard the man speak.
"Not my tribe; others bring over mountains; works well," he said. Charles interpreted that to mean that his tribe did not use the weapon, but others had brought them into the area and Honu liked it. The Indian could hit running rabbits at least one out of every four throws and could hit stationary targets twenty feet away. He spent a lot of time sharpening the hatchet's edge and was constantly fiddling with it.
"That tomahawk killed his family," said the old man one day when Honu was out. "His tribe is gone, run off by the gold diggers.
"How did he end up with you?" asked Charles.
"He was hungry," said the man and nothing more.
After a month of training, the old man said it was time for Charles to go and suggested he take ship from San Francisco. Charles told him he preferred walking to sitting on a ship and would cross the mountains and winter in Utah before continuing East.
"Do not stay in California," said Charles to the old man the morning he was ready to set out. "You have seen the way they treat you here. Go to Salt Lake City with your people. Those Mormons are odd in some ways, but they are kind to a fault and do not care where you came from or the color of your skin."
"Perhaps," said the old man. "Enough. My people will do what they will do. What are you going to do?"
"I am heading to Missouri," said Charles. "I have a safe-deposit box in St. Louis with papers and other odds and ends from my parents. I have never really been able to face what I might find it in it, but that may be my only clue to where I can start looking in England."
"That is good," said the man. "Begin there, but do not stop. The Shadowhunters need one like you in their fight. You can do much good."
"Perhaps," said Charles. "I will do what I will do." They shared a smile and then Charles bowed deeply to the man. "Thank you, Old One. You have given me much and I have returned you nothing."
"Not so," said the man. "You showed kindness to my people and treated them with respect. You are an exceptional man, Charles Duclot." He returned Charles' bow and then walked slowly back into camp. Charles set out and steadily climbed higher into the mountains, thinking on what the old man had said. After perhaps half a day of hiking, an odd feeling of being followed began, like an itch between his shoulder blades. Several times over the next few days he attempted to trap or set his eyes on whatever it was, fearing that demons might be pursuing him over the mountains. In all cases he failed and simply push on harder towards the summit. At the height of the pass, Charles looked back one more time and was surprised to see Honu standing in plain sight a half mile down the pass. When the man saw he had been sighted, the Indian raised a hand and then turned and began walking back down the pass.
Shaking his head, Charles continued on down the other side of the mountains to begin the long crossing of the high plains of Nevada and then the salty crossings of the flats of western Utah Territory.