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The scream is unmistakable.
Like a flung razor, it slices through the air on the far horizon, whistling until it reaches my trained ears. The vibration seems to arrive earlier, a prelude to the warning that follows. The roar of someone transforming.
Probably a priest. It always them.
I wonder which one it is this time, if I know him. Is it the one who gave the sermons or the one who drank in secret while offering false blessings in the name of blood? What were their names again? Oh, whatever. They all have the same ending.
Well, here I am to put an end to your sufferings. Just like so many others who prepare for the coming night. Don’t you hear the hunt calling?
As I holster the gun, I can't help but feel tired. I have known this same ritual for so long that the repetitions become dull. How many times have I tightened the laces on my boots, adjusted my gloves on my fingers, tightened my white hair in the ribbon? How many times have I buffed my Evelyn to make sure it wouldn't jam, or tested the edge of my loyal Rakuuyo on my own skin? With so many ritualistic repetitions, it's hard not to know the end that precedes them.
Looking into the reflection of the forgotten mirror in the corner of the workshop, I stare at an older woman I never thought I'd meet. That light hair doesn't contrast with my pale skin, in fact it makes me anemic. My pale eyes look opaque demonstrating the sadness behind tears that never flow. And the clothes are here, so pompous and vibrant, in a vain attempt to hide the fragile woman I fear I've become.
In front of the reflection, I don't find that Maria everyone sees when they look at me. In front of the reflection, I see a corpse that should not be disturbed.
Still, I put the noble hat on my hair and leave the workshop, leaving behind a ghost that peers over my shoulder, waiting for me to become its cold, morbid companion. Not today, old man. Not today.
The scent of incense fills my nostrils along the shady alleys. Disguises the scent of carrion and hides the scent of life. In all these years, I think I should be used to it, but the strong smell still makes my nose itch and my eyes sting.
There are no civilians on the street, as expected on such a night. I'm like a lost soul that roams the streets of this doomed city, staining blood with every step I take. Just like some myth children used to tell when terror only existed in songs and tales.
The moon rises bright, imposing and oppressive in the sky. There are no clouds to dispute its grandeur. There is only the moon and the wind. A wind so cold that even breathing hurts. A cold that penetrates my clothes and reaches my bones. It reminds me of home, of its endless blizzards and the fire burning in the halls of the castle. I remember looking at flames and being grateful the fire exists. Back then, fire meant life. Today, it means death.
The church is nothing compared to the Cathedral. It's just a church, built with the ardent sweat of the simple residents to hold a faith that, in places like that, is a source of life. Still, I can see its simple towers a few blocks away. Churches are like lighthouses. They are useless if they cannot guide their people to their refuge.
It is while walking there, guided by the charred cross, that I find the first corpses. Beasts, beasts and more beasts. Nothing new under the moonlight of a hunting night. Carefully, I dodge their dismembered bodies, parading through their innards. Then I find a human body. It's so disfigured that it takes me a while to identify a hunter's clothing. In the midst of the carnage, I watch the artwork beneath my feet. No wonder he died, poor man. But he did the full service.
When I turn around, in some respectful curtsy, I realize I'm wrong, though. That man was not alone in his hunt. Another lay on the stairs of a building, slumped down its steps as bare as any drunk. I take him for dead, until I see him fight for a gulp of air. As I approach, I notice cuts so clean and surgical that no lycan could be able to produce. What do we have here?
He mumbles something.
“Sooner or later…” he mutters through gritted teeth. “A beast like the others…”
With the toe of my boot, I lift his chin so he looks straight into my eyes. And he deeply stares at me, almost as if he could suck the life out of me with one look. And by his pupils it is easy to understand; there is not a shred of sanity left in this condemned being. No matter if it's the blood, the hunt, the adrenaline, there are always those who give in to insanity. And for these, there is a special treatment.
The axe plummets toward me like a guillotine. So noisy, so disastrous, so desperate. Like a horde of horses heading my way, announced three blocks away, it's not hard to dodge. Just a flick of my shoulder is all it takes to dodge the mad hunter. He is not satisfied, however. Without losing his balance, he drags the heavy weapon back, trying to hit me in any way he can. The barrel of the gun prevents it from crashing into my torso and gives me the opening to kick it to the ground. Grunting in anger, he squirms like a worm to his feet, but I already have the gun pointed at his forehead.
One move is enough to blow the corroded brains out. I just need to pull the trigger and it's done.
But there is something in me that prevents me from doing so. My finger doesn't move, like it's out of my control. When I look at the freak, I see a million other faces. Familiar faces, hungry, devout, long dead. I freeze in front of the faces that haunt me as if I’m a prey, not the hunter.
He notices my flaw, my open guard. The kick to my shin isn't meant to hurt, just to mock me. Is there a part of this man that recognizes me as well as all those faces? It can not be. But it's too late to find out. He throws me off balance and comes towards me with his damn loud axe. So predictable. How tired I am of these things.
Then, a shadow moves behind him. One second he spits and foams at me, and the next one, he falls over the axe, drowning in his own blood. It's all so fast and I can barely assimilate. I'm more tired of this life than I could have imagined.
When I look around, there's a crow flying over my shoulder. And an even bigger crow walking in front of me.
“You're a bit far from home, m'lady” the sarcastic tone in the greeting makes me grunt.
I know this dark-feathered cape. And I know this beak-shaped mask. And apparently, I'm also known for the woman who hides behind the elaborate attire.
“Eileen,” I reply, holstering my pistol. "The crow."
She gives a nasal laugh that looks more like a grunt behind the mask. "So you know me."
“Bloody Crow has interesting things to say about you” I shrug, feeling more comfortable. "Too bad you're not willing to share the hunt with the queen."
“There is no glory in using the blood of the insane. Someone needs to take out the trash,” she replies casually.
"It's up to the crows to take care of the rest"
She cleans the weapons but doesn't put them away. They are small, agile and sharp.
"How about you? Are you doing your majesty's dirty work?” she teased, walking around me. “I thought you only took care of important things.”
Like a curse that is uttered, Eileen's words take immediate effect. The church roof shoots up in thousands upon hundreds of splinters, which rain down around both of us like sharp drops. Shading my eyes, I turn my attention to Eileen.
“Well, you can leave it to me,” I say with some provocation. “It seems important enough.”
"I won't be satisfied with the leftovers this time, m'lady."
One of those clerical beasts. Big, imposing, though thin and gangly. The body covered in withered, white hair. Crooked horns leaking from its deformed skull. The mouth full with teeth the size of daggers. So recent is his transformation that he still wore the white robes of the church, now turned into rags attached to the large limbs.
Like the tormented being that it is, holds that big head in lamentation before shouting its displeasure to the world. It's hard not to remember other faces looking at the beast. This time, however, there seems to be nothing stopping my action. This time, my unconscious knows that if I don't act, I can die.
But would it be so bad to die when you're already dead inside?
Eileen doesn't have the same conflicts that plague my soul, apparently. Moving like a shadow, she moves around corners with agile steps until she manages to get closer of the church. I follow after, taking the right side behind her. The Rakuuyo is already in my hands, making me feel the weight of its balance.
As I approach the uncontrolled beast, Eileen is already gliding under its legs, as deft and cunning as the birds she admires. I give her the support she needs, advancing with the bloody attacks, aiming for the long arms armed with long, sharp fangs. This way I stay in its full focus, that eyes staring at my silhouette as the crow makes good use of stealth. Her short and fast weapons do admirable damage.
The beast is confused. It didn't expect so many consecutive attacks from so many different sides. However, it doesn't seem at all willing to fall just yet. Arms wide, tries to clean the area around like an angry person tries to get rid of annoying flies. Infuriated, the beast projects a scream, and from within the scream, reddened veins ripple around us. It is necessary to move away quickly before being caught by the crushing pressure. As I slide away, feeling the friction of earth damp with bestial blood and human sweat, I'm careful to look for Eileen preparing her next attack as she runs with the hands behind her body.
But they're not the only ones who have tricks up their sleeves. As soon as Eileen steps forward, taking the beast's attention, I take advantage for my private, exaggerated act. With my usual sword in hand, I pierce my own torso, bathing the blades in my blood. A small, yet powerful, wave explodes around me. Enough for those burst pupils to focus on my lithe little body. When the claws come towards me, I advance towards them with the help of the Old Hunter Bone. The blood-covered weapon pierces the beast's hand, ripping off two and a half fingers. The pain roars and tumbles onto its skinny knees. An opening.
The injured hand is directly in front of me, bridging the arm to the horned head. I take my action, I can't miss the opportunity. With nimble steps, I climb up to the elbow, not giving my footsteps a chance to wobble over the smooth, slippery fur. With the sword joined, transforming into two blades, I thrust myself into the creature's shoulder to strike it in the center of its forehead.
I can see my reflection in the yellow eyes. My cape flutters in that vicious air of blood and carnage. My hair sticks to my sweaty face. My mouth opened in a shout of encouragement. But there's something in that look that, by the time I notice it, it's too late. The beast's reflex is as potent as the claws in its good hand. When it hits me, still in the air, it catches me off guard. Not only does the pain corrode, but the surprise of a silly mistake made that could be fatal.
Like a doll, I'm hurled against the damaged church wall, collapsing it for good. The shock of pain cuts through my entire body, from my feet to my ears. For a moment, all I can see is a red clump inflicted with panic and pain. The air fails my lungs for a moment. I can hear my blood pumping inside my head.
And I can also hear a shot. Then another. And another one.
“Bloody bastard,” Eileen's bitter voice rings in my ears. "It's time to send you back to the hell you should never have left."
There's a small cracking sound and a gooey smell of oil. Then the sun seems to rise before my eyes. How long have we been in this fight? Is it really dawn?
When my senses return to what they were before, I see a blanket of flame covering the beast's back, consuming its fur and searing its flesh, emanating a grotesque smell that turns my stomach. The monster screams in despair, feeling its soul being doomed by the unstoppable flames. As the pain ripples through the beast, it finally gives way as it bends over, about to fall.
But I'm on the way.
The huge shadow is projected over my body buried in the bricks. It's no use trying to dig up myself, everything feels useless. Besides, I don't try to run away. I don't want to run away. I don't need to despair of the massive body that is about to crush me. There's not a shred of despair in my body. I just need to let it go, after all. Even so, there's a part of my body that acts on its own, so used to nights that are so similar to each other. There's a part of me that will always know what to do on a hunt.
Without much effort to think, I just need to project Rakuuyo forward and sustain the strength in my arms. Gravity will get the job done. The blade passes through the beast's large throat to its skull, being stopped by the thickness of its well-structured bones. Blood bathes me from the neck down with the scent of death. The beast's absurd weight makes my arms tremble, but I manage to support it enough to get both legs under its body and push it to the side. It takes strength, expressed from a violent roar that claws at my throat, then the beast collapses onto the pavement of what was once a street that worshipers walked to pay homage to their priest. There, on that sidewalk, lies the damned priest.
“Not bad, m'lady.”
Eileen appears in my field of vision, kicking the bricks away from me and holding out her gloved hand. “But the credit is still mine.”
I take her firm fingers and push myself to my feet, feeling the pain ricochet through my ribs.
“I thought you only hunted other hunters.”
“Service given is service performed.”
I smirk, pulling the left corner of my mouth. After cleaning myself of all that blood, I take a deep breath and try to be on my way. Eileen is already following hers. There are no cordialities in jobs like ours. We help each other when needed. We kill each other if need be. No greetings and goodbyes, just the hunt completed. However, the pain surprises me once more and I have to anchor myself to a sturdy piece of wall in the poor church.
"Are you okay?" Eileen can hear my ragged, ragged breathing. She returns to me. “That attack was quite a risk.”
With my hands on my left ribs, I feel the cut and bruise. Even so, I make fun of the situation.
“It's no big deal” I look at her. "I was just playing around a little, showing you what I'm capable of."
“Oh, am I supposed be amazed?”
“Are you always this grumpy, crow?”
She has the answer on the tip of her tongue, but I cut her off with a groan of pain.
“Come on, lean on me,” she walks over and holds my arm around her shoulders. “There must be some bank that has survived this hectic cult.”
Amazingly, the church remains well preserved on the inside, if I ignore the altar, the roof and the left side, where the dead head of the beast sprouts. Maybe I'll get a horn when the night is over, I think as I sit on a back bench. Like a souvenir. Perhaps I'll make a necklace out of one of those horns to remind me of the beast that nearly finished off Lady Maria. Or to remind me of Eileen. Still do not know.
Sitting on the bench, I take off my hat and rest it on the backrest. Messy strands of my hair fall over my face and I don't mind brushing them away. Eileen remains close, looking after me.
“Take off your coat,” she says to me, kneeling in front of me. "Let me have a look."
“No reason to worry, it's just a scratch” I reply. “I've had worse things. I will survive."
“I know you will,” she retorts. "People of your kind don't die so easily."
I laugh and the pain makes me cough. Finally, I resolve to obey her.
She helps me out of my overcoat, carefully folding it over the bench. I would never have imagined her so careful and whimsical, well, considering her surgical cuts… Anyway, as soon as the heavy leather is lifted from my shoulders, I feel the cold inflicting me relentlessly. Now that the heat of the battle has passed and the adrenaline has left my body, I feel myself shiver as the cold air invades my button shirt. The blood turned her a sickly pink, soaking her all over her left side. I didn't realize I had bled so much.
Unbuttoning the once white shirt, we found a generous cut, surrounded by a bruise so large and dark that it was difficult to identify the beginning and end of the wound. With gentle hands, Eileen touches around the wound, watching my reactions as she moves closer to the center. I hide it well, with some pain tolerance, but she can read me better. With a simple request for permission, she suspends the bandages around my breasts, which I use to make them compact inside my clothes.
Despite the gloves, I can feel the delicacy of her fingers and the warmth of her hands coursing through my skin that shivers, both from the cold and the touch. She touches the fresh wounds caused by my own sword. Unlike the other one, these are very deep, but they don't affect me that much after so long. Just an old trick. Eileen can see the variety of scars left by the same ritual.
“You shouldn't wear bandages that tight,” she suggests suddenly. "It's destroying your spine."
I don't know how to respond to that. And she doesn't wait for an answer, either.
“You have two broken ribs and a twist,” she continues after removing her hands from my body. "The blood should suffice for now, but you know what to do."
“Are you a doctor too, crow?”
“No,” she replies casually, not caring about the teasing in my voice. “But when you work killing other people, you have to know how the body works so you don't make them suffer more than necessary.”
“Interesting words from a hunter. Our job is to inflict suffering."
“I am not satisfied with the suffering of others. I put an end to it.”
I bite my lip, arching my brows in wonder. "You really are different from the rest, aren't you, Eileen?"
Eileen doesn't respond. She takes advantage of the silence to reach into her bag for a dose of the well-known blood. Under the light of the full moon, the red liquid vibrates with a sickening glow. It is poetic to heal a wound with the blood of an older wound.
“Can you do it yourself?”
I look at Eileen, wanting to see more than the sparkle in her eyes hidden by that damn mask.
"I don't think so."
She knows I'm lying, but takes the cue anyway. With the tip of the syringe, she pierces my thigh. A pain so usual and old that it no longer affects me, totally indifferent to me.
When it's all over, she helps me tie the bandages, which were once over my breasts, to the wound under control. It's when the silence seems inconceivable to me.
“Who are you under all this attire, Eileen?”
The question is both simple and complicated. I can see the conflict without having to look at it. Acts as if she hasn't heard me, keeping her attention on the ordinary things to ignore the important ones. A defense mechanism as well as hiding.
“Why do you hide yourself behind a mask?”
“I'm not hiding,” she replies then. "I'm protecting myself."
This time, my gaze rests on the masked figure. It's hard to fight curiosity. And I've always been a curious woman. This curiosity, however, does not exist only to discover the shape of her face, the color of her eyes and the contour of her lips. Above all, I want to understand why that face needs to be hidden, or rather, protected.
“What are you protecting yourself from? You expose yourself every night on these hunts. People know you anyway.”
Eileen takes a deep breath, as if those questions irritate her deeply. Even so, she does not fail to respond.
“Every night, I participate in the hunts and let people get to know me. There’s a difference. I look at the tragedy, I participate in the tragedy, but I don't allow it to become a part of me.”
The mask is a symbol and a metaphor, I realize. It's part of the identity that woman built for herself. Something I've never been able to build myself. And there's something so enigmatic about her that it seems wrong to insist on finding out her truth, but I can't help it. It's stronger than I am.
With my fingertips over the long beak of the white mask, I say to her:
“I would like to see your face, even for a moment.”
"And why would I show my face to you when I've never shown it to anyone?"
"Because you won't see me again."
And I know very well how the secrets beckon so sweetly.
There's a certainty so cold in my voice it cuts to the bone. As if in this moment I share with Eileen, I still don't know what end I'll meet myself, but I know that the end awaits me, for I am walking towards it.
Eileen sighs. I hope she'll deny it again and leave me behind. There's no reason for her to agree to my unreasonable request. However, the sound of the fabric being opened surprises me. When I look at her, I see her removing her mask little by little, revealing her face to me. And only to me.
It's hard not to create expectations for such revelations. Part of me expected some hideous scar, a misshapen nose or a missing lip. I must admit that I am tremendously disappointed on that matter. On the other hand, however…
Her black skin glows blueish under the moon's silvery glow, like a secret gem. The full lips and rounded nose look perfectly designed on that face. And her eyes, which I can now see their true colors, light up a powerful green, flecked with gold. Powerful eyes that have a relentless effect on me.
The hair, caught in a makeshift net, is then released. Thick curls, a little wrinkled from being held for so long. Falling over her broad shoulders, they are an interesting combination with the feathered cape.
In fact, there are some scars on her face. As I get used to looking at such beauty, I find the small imperfections that only add, nothing diminishes. A small pale scar cuts from her brow to her lower eyelid, on her left eye. Another, rounded like a keloid, smears under her jaw on the right side of her chin.
I have no words to give her. Any attempt to verbalize the face I see escapes my useless mouth. My only instinct is to touch her. Touch her to know she's real. There is an exorbitant need in me to touch her, feel the pores of her skin, caress the lids of her eyes, contour her nose and feel her lips. The impulse is unbearable as well as impeded.
“Careful now, m'lady” she takes my hand. “I am not public property.”
“Apologies”, for some reason, I don't let go of her hand. “I just wanted to feel you, feel what you make me feel, feel anything.”
The urgency in my voice alarms her. It's strangely divine to see that woman's reactions for the first time. I suddenly want to tell her the biggest absurdities just so she can react to it.
Gradually, however, she seems to give in to my touch, as intrigued as she is confused. She allows me to bring my hand up to her warm cheek and, despite a slight hesitation, she leans her face against my palm.
My fingers slide down her cheeks, my thumb stroking down to the corner of her lip. I can feel the pulse of life overtake her skin against my fingerprints. I'm able to close my eyes and feel that wonderful sensation travel through my arm and into the rest of my body. Eileen is alive while I'm just surviving.
"Oh, how I want to feel alive."
I kiss her lips without thinking. An impulsive act of desperation. The despair of someone who has nothing left to lose.
She doesn't push me away, doesn't hit me, doesn't scream at me. Maybe, deep down, she can understand me. After all, she corresponds. I feel her tongue so warm against my mouth and a slight taste of blood. My hands, desperate to feel the heat that runs through her living body, grope around her face, holding her hair. I can also feel her hand exploring me too, looking for me.
Her fingers trace a continuous line across my skin. It starts at my chin, works its way down to my shoulder, starting the temptation little by little, step by step. Now, her fingers touch my left breast, uncovered without the usual bandages. She teases me, with the tip of her glove, brushing against the smooth, white skin to the aureole, just to feel my boob swell against her fingers and know that she has a certain hold on me. I hate her, momentarily, for being right. I sigh against her mouth, asking for more without even having to say it.
Her hand moves back down my torso, ignoring the stinging wound. She caresses my belly and, just barely, drops inches below my belly button. Then she immediately returns and grabs my neck.
My own blood boils and, for a moment, I forget my limitations. I want to feel all of her, to have all of her, but my fragile body doesn't allow me and she prevents me from continuing.
"That's a fight you don't want to have with me right now, m'lady." Her strong hand around my neck is a stern warning as she pulls me away. "You will not survive."
There's an undertone of defiance implicit in her bitter advice, as if she's testing me.
“I’d like to take my risks.”
A contemptuous laugh. A smacking of the lips. She lets go of my neck and I immediately miss her warmth, her strength.
“This unreasonable ambition will be the end of you.”
Eileen is already on her feet, pulling the mask over her face once more. In this moment, I know I will never see her again. Something about this fact makes me sad.
“It doesn't matter,” I say without thinking. “The end is the same for all of us. Ambitious or not.”
The crow says nothing more, there’s nothing else to say. She’s not there to hear me lament the conflicts that gnaw at my soul, I'm sure she has her own. After all, no one hunts other humans as if they were beasts and remains intact. It's time for me to button my blouse and replace my overcoat so that, like a shadow, Eileen fades into thin air.
"Maria"
The voice comes from the dark, where not even my trained eyes can identify a silhouette. But I know she's still there, consuming me with her eyes, waiting for me.
“Your secret will die with me, Eileen,” I reply, standing up again, picking up my sword and holstering the gun. I walk towards the destroyed church door, even though I feel a stinging pain in my body. “Just like so many others.”
“Be careful, Maria. Do not make me hunt you."
Looking over my shoulder, I see the dark-feathered figure. One last glimpse of the crow taking flight against the night.
Sorry to disappoint, I feel like replying, the hunt ended a long time ago for me. And this corpse should be left well alone.