Chương 90: A Success

He walked aimlessly beneath the spires. To him, the people who walked past were like shifting ghosts, their faces blurred like faded memories. He had no particular destination in mind, but simply let his feet move him forward in the hopes that his thoughts would do the same. Slowly, the apathy washed away, replaced by a roil of emotions he couldn't quite describe, or perhaps didn't dare to. As the suns dipped below the horizon, he walked past a sign that said "Inn" and turned to walk inside.

The lobby was clean, with carefully placed furniture and a desk. A woman in formal attire stood behind the counter and peeked up as he entered. He walked up to the counter but did not meet her gaze.

"One room," he said in a monotone voice. The woman–dressed in a linen shirt and black vest–looked him over, raising an eyebrow at his fur-clad hands and formal suit.

"Certainly. How long is Mr. Blessed planning to stay?"

"One night," he answered, moving the muscles of his face as little as possible while still producing words.

"An honor. Room thirty-four on floor three is available. The price will be two pounds and six pence," she said, sliding a key over the counter. Wretch took it and let a dozen coins clatter against the wooden desk.

"Sir, this is too much!" she said, scrambling to stop the rolling coins from falling off the counter. Wretch, already walking up the stairs, answered in a monstrous hiss,"Keep it." In a narrow corridor on the third floor, he unlocked a door and stepped into a small room. He flicked on a switch to turn on a fizzing gas lamp. A bed stood in one corner and a small table in the other. A chair under a window and an open door led into a crammed bathroom.

He walked forward and sat down on the chair, letting his head rest in the palms of his hands. He strained his fingers, letting the claws dig into his short-haired scalp. He breathed in deep, then forced the air through his sharp teeth with a hiss. He looked up through the window. The last rays of the suns were painting the top of Saint's Summit in hues of orange and gold. The peak glowing even through the haze of the Lows. A twitch ran through his features.

He stood up slowly, walking to the bathroom as he dragged his claws along the wall, shredding the wallpaper with a low screech. He turned the handle of the faucet and splashed ice cold water on his face. Slowly, he stood up straight. The mirror hadn't been cleaned properly, but his reflection still glared back at him. A young man with short, dark hair and strange eyes. He was dressed in a suit, pretending to be something he was not.

He stared into the mirror for a while as water ran down his chin to drip against the ceramic bowl below.

"You…" he said to the person in the mirror who mimicked his every move.

"You are the source of all my problems." The reflection did not give him any sympathy, knitting their brow.

"I gave it everything after the cage, suffered and fought. How could that not be enough?" The person in the mirror showed its teeth, sharp fangs meant to rip and tear.

"You have no one to blame but yourself. You know that whatever you touch spoils and withers."

"It was our duty," Wretch answered.

"Our role." The thing in the mirror licked its lips, and a twitch darted up its cheek.

"What is duty but another cage?" Wretch gripped the faucet as a tremor went through his body.

"I am a hunter." The monster in the mirror drew closer to the surface.

"They let him die. Exploited, taxed, and punished us because we were faithful, useful." The figure in the mirror was changing, its skin squirming and twitching. Wretch gasped for air.

"That's what I wanted, to be needed, to be useful." The monster in the mirror gazed straight at him, only centimeters away. Its expression pulled into a snarl.

"Oh, you are more than useful, you are the bait." The reflection cracked with a sharp noise. Wretch's fist having slammed straight through the glass. The split mirror–cracked and broken– now reflected a figure with a dozen dark eyes and mismatched teeth. A being none could call human, one that none could call family. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. With a scream, he tore the mirror to splinters, the glass chiming against the floor.

Next, the faucet was demolished in seconds. Arms burst out of the expensive suit, ripping at the interior with human nails. Pipes were pulled from their sockets. The ceramic tiles of the wall exploded. The door ripped off its hinges. He staggered into the bedroom, skin roiling like waves in a storm. The chair was hurled through the window with a crack, the bed shredded into ribbons between his claws. The wallpaper flayed, all while a scream echoed through the corridor of the hotel.

A while later, the door to room thirty-four swung open with a groan. Wretch was standing there with a blank expression in a ripped suit, and the devastated room behind him. Two other rooms were open, and people were peeking out at him with startled expressions. He walked with steady steps along the corridor, and the onlookers fled in fear. Down the stairs, a panicked receptionist was speaking with a colleague. They froze as he appeared in the stairwell, their eyes growing wide.

Wretch walked past as his tail slithered out, placing a bag of coins on the counter.

"Sir?" said the receptionist as he disappeared out the door. He walked through the dusk as people passed him by, their faces twisted into theatrical masks of laughter, anger, and grief. The sky above grew dark, and a clap of thunder came from far away. His ambitions, his aspirations to ascend and find some mystical figure who had given him an old tome, were pale compared to this pain. And he would never bear it again.

He walked down a road, coming into the gap between two spires as a bolt of thunder soundlessly illuminated the surroundings. A large building stood there, several stories tall, with the windows glowing orange from the light within. Despite the two guards outside, no sign hung over the two doors. The Bureau of the Hunt. Either fate or his subconscious had led him there. The guards noticed him as he approached.

"Who goes there?" one said. Wretch flashed his badge in response, not breaking his stride toward the entrance. He walked inside as the guards shot each other strange looks, deciding finally not to follow. Wretch swung the door open and stepped inside. A man he did not recognize, dressed in a suit, sat on a chair to the side. He lowered his newspaper as Wretch entered. Wretch gave him a look, and the man paled, standing up and putting a hand on his saber.

On the other side of the room, three openings in the wall acted as counters. Behind two of them, clerks were working despite the late hour. The man with the saber took a few steps closer. Wretch slid his badge onto the counter.

"I am Wretch from the Richters." The clerk, a thin middle-aged man with a receding hairline, did not look up from his paperwork, only taking a glance at the badge. If he had, he would no doubt have noticed the shredded suit and the twitches traveling up and down the hunter's skin.

"Oh, the Richters. Are you here for the payment?"

"Payment?" Wretch repeated with a tone as coarse as gravel, his eyes trained on the clerk. The thin man kept scribbling on different documents at a furious pace.

"A payment of seven thousand pounds has already been sent to your associated bank accounts. Even though the target fled beyond the walls and a Fireling was lost…" The man continued, unaware as Wretch's eyes grew wider.

"As the details of the enemy's Blessing were learned and a group of saboteurs was killed, the upper management has deemed the operation a complete success." Success. The word circled in his head as something rose within. The memory of a white cross with a picture placed before it. Success. No, he could not accept that. A Blessed name washed over the room, and the clerks looked up with startled expressions. The killing intent was thick and raw, promising a rain of blood.

Wretch, Collector of Wounds, slammed his fist against the clerk's temple, sending him crashing against the back wall in a cloud of scattered paperwork and broken teeth.

"Stop this! Surrender!" shouted the man with the saber as the other clerks let out a scream. The Blessed had been ready, put on edge by his appearance, and held out his hand as his eyes lit with fire. Wretch froze, an invisible force holding him in place as if he were tightly wrapped in stone. Wretch hunched under the pressure, his skin roiling as he and the man visibly strained against an unseen force.

Wretch's muscles bubbled, joints cracking, and the remaining clothes ripped as his changing flesh pushed against the restraint. The man visibly shook. W ith the sound of cracked glass, he stumbled away. Outside the Hunter's Bureau, the two guards looked at each other. With a thud, the doors broke off their hinges, and the Blessed guard skidded across the stone, coming to a stop with bloodshot eyes and claw marks on his chest. Wretch walked out of the door, his face a mask and clothes torn.

Only the occasional twitch revealed whatever turmoil moved beneath. A window shattered above, and the street was lit with blue light. A lightning bolt struck the space between Wretch and the Blessed lying on the road. Andryi–a member of the Hunter's Corps–walked out of it, clad in a cloak and ill-fitted suit, one arm bandaged and a patch covering one eye. The battle against Grendel had cost him too. The Blaze looked between the guard and Wretch with a frown.

"What are you doing?" he said with a voice that was wet and struggling, as if he were drowning.

"Grendel is alive, my Captain is dead, by your hands as much as any enemy of man," Wretch said with a lethargic expression and a tilt of his head. A thin trickle of rain fell from above, sputtering out on the cobblestone. The man looked at him with wrinkled brows and bared human teeth.

"We are hunters. Every opportunity, every chance. We kill the beasts. No matter what we pay." Andryi took a few steps toward him, and every time his sole hit the ground, an arc of lightning zipped along his form, even as he had a slight limp. A shiver ran up Wretch's body, and he covered his face with both hands. He wanted it. To get pulled along into the warm river of violence and struggle.

"Well, I am right here."