Being Human: In the City of Ghosts and Whispers
Book 1: There Goes the Neighborhood
1
Everybody's got their demons, their skeletons in the closet, the monster that hides under their bed. Everybody does - how we cope with them is largely what makes us who we are. Kinda makes you wonder how the monsters feel - being tolerated - just barely, and never shown to anyone, for fear of embarrassment. Well what happens when the tables are turned? The monster is the one hiding on top of the bed, and now you're the one hiding in the closet. Best of luck to you, the demon says, and proceeds to take over and destroy everything you care about. The worst part is this - he's a part of you - the part you hide away, keep in the dark, and now that he's out, well, can you blame him?
Jerrod wasn't the type of man who frequented the bar scene. In fact he didn't even drink, yet here he was, second night running, visiting the diviest of dive bars in Savannah. At least he had one thing going for him: he didn't look out of place - at six foot two, shaved head, well-kept beard, an earring in his ear, and an affection for Harley Davidsons and the accompanying biker gear, he certainly fit in well enough. The first bar he went to yesterday, he hadn't ordered anything, and earned the suspicions of the bartender, so now he would occasionally sip at a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, gazing blankly across the counter, his eyes trained on a fixed point in the middle of the air in front of him, making use of his razor sharp peripheral vision and his highly enhanced sense of hearing to guide his observations. It was proving to be progressively more difficult to accomplish though, even though his metabolism allowed him to process the beer quickly enough to avoid even the slightest buzz, but the smell and taste of the beer, revoltingly overpowering to his keen nose had begun impairing his focus as the night drew on towards last call.
"So, how's about you and me go somewhere… more comfortable like," the man was completely shitfaced - Jerrod could have smelled the booze on him from across the bar even if he didn't have a bloodhound's nose. "After you close up, o' course." the man chuckled, hefting his half empty glass and proffering it to the bartender, a young lady who the man had mentioned earlier to the nearest half-plastered patron was "a little skinny for my taste, but that don't mean I wouldn't give her a go, if you know what I mean."
The bartender was a tall, pale, raven haired woman apparently in her early twenties. She possessed a late 70's punk rock sense of fashion reminiscent of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Her bearing was confident, her smile seductive, her short hair fell about her deep hazel eyes just so. But Jerrod wasn't here on a social call.
He eyed the clock - 2:09. It was time for Jerrod to make his move. He rose, downed the beer painfully, but careful not to show it, paid his tab, and headed for the bathroom, keeping his ears acutely trained on the conversation.
"Aww, sorry hon," she replied, maintaining a barkeep's heir of ambivalence to the repulsive offer, "last call was ten minutes ago - I filled you up then, remember?"
Jerrod's timing was well executed, for several moments later, he heard the young bartender lean in to whisper in the drunk's ear. "But why don't you come by the back door after I close up shop, and I'll show you the meaning of a good time.."
Sam's nostrils flared in revulsion at the smell of the man - stale beer, staler vomit, the ammonia smell of bathroom trips that had in drunken stupor missed the bowl. But she could hear his heartbeat; the pulsing of his jugular ringing out from his throat like an orchestra approaching crescendo cried out to her. She hadn't fed in what felt like forever, and despite being staunchly determined to not kill again, her thirst might just overtake her self-control. Ten minutes later, as she locked the back door of the bar, and turned to face the drunk, his fly already unzipped at the ready, the determination to remain non-lethal fell by the wayside, as her eyes clouded black, and her fangs revealed themselves. The boozer didn't even have time to scream, and she was upon him – he had drunk his fill – now it was her turn.
She prepared to sink her teeth in, the pounding of his pulse screaming in her ears, so loud she barely heard (and didn't at all sense) the wolf from the bar step from the shadows. Even with the drunk's throat inches away, even with her incredible agility, he had grabbed her, thrown her off the man and across the alleyway without missing a beat.
"Living without a heartbeat can't be much of a life at all, but even then, is this the way you want to do it?" he grabbed her prey, and shoved him out onto the sidewalk, from which he promptly ran screaming into the empty night. "Victim to victim, blood binge, starve yourself, and binge again - giving a damn only as long as your hunger will allow?"
"What do you know, dog breath?!" Sam snarled, baring her fangs. "You get one night a month, which you don't even remember, and the rest of the time, you're right as rain!"
He half smiled, shoulders sunk slightly in sad reflection. "Is that right."
They stood a moment, him in shadow, her half cast in the pale light of the gibbous moon and then she heard them - fast paced footsteps, advancing towards them at a rapid business-like pace.
She turned her head rapidly to glance across the entrance of the alley "Shit - it's the Ordo - I'm sure as hell not gonna be caught dead when they get here, unless you think you can–" by the time she looked back, he was gone. She followed suit, making a mental note to wonder how the hell he could be that strong so far from the full moon.
Sam shivered - it was overcast; a late night in mid-December. Not unbearably cold, as it was Savannah, Georgia, but the emptiness in her stomach, the weakness in her limbs and the less than subtle pounding ache in her head told her otherwise.
"Next comes the DT shakes and the skin crawling… fun" she muttered to herself.
The wind picked up the faint smell of industrial less-than-chic from the westerly part of the Savannah riverfront which was the factory district, adding a mild nausea to the rest of the anything but delightful sensations. She tugged at the collar of her hooded jean jacket, fumbling for the pull strings to tighten the hood.
"You sound as if you speak from experience." it was him again. She'd known he was there since early that afternoon, but there was really no telling how long he had been following her. This was the first thing he'd said all day, though his accusatory voice had been echoing in her head ever since the night before. She sighed, exhausted. She was only going to get weaker, so if there was a time to make a stand, it was now.
"What do you want already?!" she whirled around to face him, fangs bared. "First you scare off my meal at the bar last night, and now you follow me around like some sad werewolf puppy dog! Unless you want your insides to be outsides, I suggest you explain yourself, buddy!"
It was at this point that the aforementioned DT shakes set in, and her legs gave out. She collapsed, but managed to stay vertical by supporting herself against a telephone pole. In an instant, he was upon her.
'So this is how it ends,' she thought, closing her eyes, and collapsing fully into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.
She wasn't sure how long she had been out, but she woke to the feeling of strong arms supporting her upper body, and something lukewarm and metallic tasting trickling past her lips. Instinctively, she reached up and pressed the blood bag to her, drinking with desperation now.
"Sorry, I've heard the bagged stuff tastes terrible to you guys, but I figured you'd appreciate it more than mangy stray cat." He said, as she emptied the bag, and let it fall from her fingers. He helped her to her feet, and she wiped her face on the sleeve of her jacket, and stood, rocking slightly back and forth, waiting for her mind to uncloud.
"Feeling better?" he asked. The genuine tenderness in his voice, matched by the look of concern in his eyes when her eyes met his took her by surprise. She nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say.
His storm gray eyes gazed out into the dark distance, narrowing as he scanned for anyone who might intrude into the silence of their corner of the night. "We should move," he said, "west of MLK Boulevard and south of Anderson is wolf territory, and they won't take kindly to our intrusion."
The mention of werewolves snapped her out of her reverie. "What do you mean our intrusion - what do you have to worry about?"
He smiled, gently - so different from the titanic presence that had thrown her off her prey the night before. "I doubt they'll appreciate me inviting you for a tour." and with that, he took off, running east on 36th street at breakneck speed.
She kept pace with him, though she could easily have outrun him - while a werewolf's power lies in their physical endurance and ability to withstand injury, a vampire's great advantage lies with their speed and strength - though for a werewolf, he moved with considerably more speed and strength than any she had ever encountered. When they crossed Jefferson Street, they slowed up.
"That was fun," he grinned, once they were out of potentially dangerous territory.
"All right, where the hell did you get bagged blood, and why did you save me?"
He shrugged. "A friend who owed me a favor works at Memorial University Hospital - I swung by there this morning and called the favor in just in case. I'm sorry I held out for so long - had I realized how bad off you'd gotten I would've given it to you sooner. As to why I helped you: I've seen a good deal of fighting in my life, and no fight is as dire as the one we face within ourselves. Between the last vestiges of our humanity and the urge to let the monster take control, it's a wonder we have any time for our day jobs."
Sam sighed, leaning against the face of an adjacent building. "You're not kidding Shakespeare… not as if I have a day job anymore anyway - I was due in at work about six hours ago."
"Which brings us to the reason I've been following you around. I'm looking to hire a bartender, and one of the particulars of the job is the capacity to keep secrets. I'm Jerrod, by the way - Jerrod Fenris."
"Samantha Cortez," she said, shaking his hand, "who better to keep a werewolf's secrets than a vampire bartender, huh? You sure you're right in the head?"
