URBAN NOSGOTHIC

Chapter 2

Legacy of Kain created by Eidos Interactive, Crystal Dynamics, Silicon Knights.

Thankyou all for the encouragement *bows* I am most definitely not worthy. But I have been inspired to continue. Hope you like. :)

Strange to say, despite the kinship I had always fancied we shared, Raziel's presence is not instantly comforting to me. Okay, my boyfriend, obviously in doubt as to the evidence of his own eyes, has dropped the knife and is making odd little whistling noises in his throat as he breathes, but the sheer sight of Raziel no more than six inches from my face is utterly terrifying.

I never realised how truly frightening he was before. How could I have missed it? The answer, of course, is obvious. When it isn't real, when it isn't crouched protectively in front of you smelling like the inside of a pyramid and scissoring its claws in a threatening manner, it doesn't seem quite so terrible.

Raziel rumbles in his chest, a completely recognisable form of warning, and takes a step forward. The already ruined playstation controller crunches under his pale yellow hoof with an ugly splintering noise. My boyfriend starts to splutter "Wha- what the fu -" but is abruptly curtailed as Raziel pounces, horribly fast, and knocks him flat onto the carpet, straddling his chest. My heart hammers sickeningly against my ribs. Inside my head a little, frightened voice is whimpering, oh my god he's so fast so fast big-cat-like big pawstrike huge claws -

Claws. I moan inwardly, seeing the dull 60-watt light gleaming from their polished surface. Why don't they look this lethal in the game?

I try not to breathe as Raziel lowers his head, glowing eyes fixed on my fallen foe, and seems to be scenting him. "Funny," comes the remark eventually in those instantly recognisable, sardonic tones. "You don't smell very tough to me."

For some reason, unable perhaps to take in the full spectacle of him, I find myself focussing on specifics. The knotted blue sinews in his calves hold my attention for almost three seconds before the heavy cloth weave of his cowl starts to fascinate me, and that soon gives way to an all-consuming interest in the lank strands of his black hair and the way they hang over his sharply pointed ears.

Sharp. Pointed. Teeth. Claws. I snap out of it, as my body tries desperately to remind me that my boyfriend may not be the only one in trouble here. My legs cast the over-riding vote, and stagger me towards the kitchen and the back door.

"You! Stop right there!" I hear Raziel call as I catch my hip a glancing blow on the door-frame. My eyes water in pain, but I keep moving, hearing all the while movement behind me and the man who used to beat me wailing like a baby seal in distress.

My hands scrabble at the back door handle and I throw it open. Night air, warm in the summer evening, rushes in as I rush out.

For some reason I cannot understand myself, I find myself halting half-way to the garden gate, looking back. Nothing. The house seems quiet. The back door swings gently in the breeze, light from the lounge spilling out like a mat onto the concrete. There is no sign of either my boyfriend or a looming gothic horror, and I am gripped by a sudden certainty - that I was dreaming.

Of course I was. I'd been rescued, never mind for the moment by what. I had seen my tormentor terrified beyond measure and in fear of his life. It had to be a dream. Hadn't I had the very same dream the week before? Except that it had been a policeman bearing no small resemblance to Orlando Bloom that had done the rescuing.

I fold to my knees, rubbing at the pain of my bruised hip, and chuckle dryly to myself in the dark of the garden. I would have to get up, go back to bed, where my boyfriend would hopefully not have noticed my new habit of sleepwalking and still be snoring.

There is a clatter from the lounge, as of someone kicking a beer can over, and my hopes evaporate. I tense, automatically, then start the slow hobble back indoors, hoping to be upstairs and in bed before he notices. My knees ache as I start to climb the stairs.

Raziel to my rescue - god, I'm a head case.

It seems odd that someone appears to have shoved a chair under the bathroom door handle, though. And where is all that yelling coming from? Muffled, slurred, but still I think I'd know that voice anywhere…

"Let me out of here, you slut! Let me out! I'll make you regret this little game for weeks, d'you hear me? Weeks!"

I turn on the stairs as my sixth sense, the one that warns me of someone standing too close behind me, shrieks danger at me. My heart leaps up, high enough to choke me and the sensation is so physically real that my hand flies to my throat in reaction. Raziel puts his head on one side, quizzically. I get the impression that, unfamilar though he finds the sensation, he's actually quite confused and starting to get irritated.

He's also holding the box of the Soul Reaver game in one three-clawed hand.

"'Little game'?" he queries, flatly, waving the box at me, and his expression is unreadable behind the cowl. "I think you and I need to have a talk."