3

There is no rest; his work takes him to a different city, unthreatened, ancient. Beneath its wide streets lies the undercity where the desperate seek refuge. He stalks beneath the frantic lights city lights of the undercity, searching the dank tunnels, following trails through moldy alleys. He is not distracted the rustle in the piles of forgotten newspapers, he is not scared by the laughter in the darkness, the beat of footsteps on the alley walls. Phantoms do not scare him, he sees far worse in the mirror.

We have few friends, creatures like me. Few allies. We resort to other means of survival. The beast I’m seeking knows the hidden ways across the world, every quiet oasis in this bustling city, every easy meal. It is a cunning beast.

The undercity hides a fugitive population that has no place in the light. They scuttle, they snicker, they boast of their improbable pasts. A few of the greatest challenge him. He kicks them aside softly, their bodies landing in the dirt of discarded lives.

I was promised time, stone, solitude. The Company lied. I think of the man bound to darkness; I wonder what he was promised?

He tracks his track my prey unique smell, a bitter scent that hangs in the air like the memory of a fever dream. His prey doubles back, crosses its own path, climbs, swims through sewers, obscures itself with smokes. It is not enough.

What great sin has my quarry committed? None. Its smell does not belong in this time, in this world, in this place. It cannot hide from me.

The track leads deeper into the undercity where goblins ferment their vile wines, deeper into the catacombs where ghosts make their home, where giants still slumber. There is nowhere left to run.

My prey is well versed in the politics of survival. It cannot hide, so it must bargain. We have a monsters accord, it being the last of its kind, I being unique in the world.

A creature steps out of the deepest shadows, slinks into flicking circle made by a flaming torch. It hides itself in a cloak of grime that traces its origin back to Atlantis, layers of rotting newspaper, city mud, human filth. Even that is not enough to hide its smell.

I think it beautiful. Perhaps I shall immortalize its malformed body in stone so that the very sight would cause children to scream, the old to faint, brave souls to tremble. Perhaps that would remind humans of the old ways they pretend to have left behind.

The creature spits out a cautious welcome. He does not answer. The creature offers diamonds, forgotten secrets, anything for its freedom. He shrugs. The creature only carries one possession worth caring about. It scratches itself with one of its many arms, pulls a grubby box from its fur. Inside the box is the prize, a fragment of crystal that is powerful, deadly part, of a larger puzzle.

I want to know who gave it this thing. This creature only knows how to hide, can only be trusted to run. Who would want such a guardian?

The best looks beaten, defeated. It had failed in its duty, another failure in an immortal lifetime of failures.

It is not I who want this thing, it is my employers. They are desperate to find it. It holds enough power to envy, to corrupt, to end a war.

He puts the crystal back in the box. The box’s guardian, the Grendel, the monster-beneath-the-stairs, smiles sadly.

I can tell that it was recently owned by a man. Who?

The monster cannot prevent itself answering him. It pulls a small photo from a ragged sleeve. The man in the photo is smiling, handsome, lying. He does not recognize the face, wonders if he should. There are sounds in the labyrinth, growls, screams, drums that are growing closer. It is time for the Grendel to move on. He pockets the photo for later. “I give, you give,” the creature begs. It does not sound hopeful of a bargain.

The weak creature only offers me the choices of helping it, ignoring it, killing it. The Company wants it dead, forgotten. No.

The monster has no reason to expect kindness, for it has no place in the world, no people, no future. He pulls a tiny stone sculpture out of a pocket. It is a vampire bat, elegant, fierce, tiny. Full of secrets, full of second chances. He throws it to the creature. Both disappear into the shadows. He is left to consider his treasure. It is a wicked tool. He swallows it whole, feeling the warmth its evil settle uneasily in his belly.

His employers are waiting for him to return. They are impatient for news, their greed a tangible buzzing in the air. He lies, tells them the object was destroyed in the hunt. The Company’s senior partners are furious. They scream, curse. One even threatens his family. This is unacceptable.

I show them the line, mark it with blood, turn my back on my duty. In the end we must answer the judgment of our own souls. I am more than death on a leash, more than ragged pain.