Hostilities

My heightened senses picked up her voice before the laughter of four men someway down the street. The quartet were having fun, harassing a young woman who had made three mistakes: She had worn provocative clothing of the overly revealing variety that left nothing to the imagination, walking completely alone, and at four in the morning.

I had an unhealthy rage and anger, and a suitable outlet was the drama unfolding in front of me. Granted, I was outnumbered four to one, but I wasn't about to back down from a fight with what I naively assumed to be snot-nosed teenagers, especially since I knew what hidden advantages I possessed. It is a curious sensation when you can taste and hear every word, threat and suggestive innuendo spouted.

Their efforts to scare her were working. She'd taken two steps back and nearly fallen due to the unfavourable mix of cobblestone streets and high heels. I could smell and almost taste the alcohol that reeked from the foursome and something scented like a wet dog.

She smelt of something else, and that put me on guard. It wasn't fear. Putting a scent into words and trying to describe something so intangible is like describing colours to someone born blind. Something was off about not just the woman but also the four thugs who were seconds from making the kill. She smelled excited and oozed confidence.

I had closed the gap, and everything still smelled wrong. The nearest street light was still three feet behind them, and I could see everything, including the detail in the tattoos that decorated the left arm of the closest of the four heavies, all clad in blue jeans and ragged shirts in need of a wash. It was a sharp contrast to her styled gold, shoulder-length hair, offset by the sheer pink of her top and skirt.

Shrouded in shadows, she turned her turquoise blue eyes in my direction, and I knew, instinctually, that she knew I was there, watching everything unfold.

That instinct made me jump back as one turned and lunged at me with his lips pulled back with a snarl. I blinked as one of them seemed to change in mid-jump going from human to something else in the time it took him to reach me.

The first punch connected solidly, but after all, I had been through recently, I barely felt the blow. His momentary confusion allowed me to grab him by the collar of his t-shirt, drive my forehead into his jaw, and then his long fishing hook-like nose.

That hit should have knocked out a couple of his teeth, but I sidestepped the returning jabbed punch, dropped into a crouch and slammed a fist deep into the solar plexus, followed by another. Crunched over in pain, I punched him again, dropping him to the pavement.

There was something very wrong. They smelled not quite human and more animal - the wet dog smell from before. A part of my brain was registering that they were strong, but I wasn't listening to my brain screaming that the guy getting back to his feet should be unconscious, if not dead.

The throaty hissing snarl was the only audible warning but something else, like an animal's sixth sense, forced me to sidestep. The blow only took a chunk from my shoulder instead of tearing my head off. It was like a massive razor blade that sheered through my flesh; it jarred against bone. Snarling in pain, I somehow grabbed the arm and used his momentum to drive him face-first into the lamppost.

Beneath the artificial white light, I saw the face of something from a bad dream. In those terrifying few seconds, I saw a head devoid of hair and paler than uncooked flour. His mouth distended as if someone had taken a knife to his cheeks to widen his maw. It cocked its head and studied me for an instant before lunging to grab my shoulders. Caught together, we rolled across the ground as the first blow smashed into my face, sending tendrils of pain, and several vital facts dawned.

The first and most important thing was that my alcohol-induced courage had evaporated, with pain and fear replacing it. The second was that every wannabe hero is a drunken fool. The third was that this was some next-level shit to which I was suddenly a party.

We traded punches as we rolled across the ground, and even though I could barely hold my own, it was quickly becoming apparent that my opponent knew a little bit more about street fighting than I did.

I smelt her presence before I heard her feet cracking the ice on the pavement moments before she slammed into my opponent, sending him skidding across the ground. I could only stare.

She had fangs, and her ears were subtly pointed, like a canine. She had a sudden abundance of muscle, and her hands ended in claws. A mane of dark fur covered most of her body. It was strange that the fur was coming through the fabric. She looked like she was wearing clothes made from the skins of some furry animal. I noticed the hair on her chest and neck was striking, dirty gold. Then my eyes seemed to lock with hers, and time stopped for me.

It felt like days, weeks, months; even years had passed until she moved again, reaching down and grabbing the head of the thing still pinned beneath her foot. There was a bone-snapping crunch of finality.

I gasped for breath like I'd been holding my breath underwater for hours.

She seemed to worry about me as she tore the heads from all four bodies in a casual display of terrifying otherworldly strength. I rose to my feet, fear, adrenalin, and terror coursing through me. I felt pain as if something in me, in my soul, just spasmed in delight or fear.

She said something to me.

"What?"

She was quite a sight, and suddenly she was fully human again. Her laughter was a sweet, happy melodic sound, "You're new, aren't you?"

"What?" I said and managed to pull myself into a sitting position as she quickly built up the corpses that I noticed were already starting to show signs of decay. Dead bodies shouldn't do that." I mumbled.

Something that I found incredibly captivating about her had turned me into a classic stumped male, broken record, only capable of uttering a single word because I was blinded not necessarily by her looks but by something else about her.

"My name is Tamara Copeland. You want answers. I can give them to you."

"Uh…. Alexander Whitlock," I replied and hesitated, wondering whether that was a question or a statement, "What's Legion?"

"I'll explain all that," the pile of corpses was already starting to splinter and crack like dried-out bone or paper. I just stared, trying to connect the proverbial dots.

She dropped something on the pile, and moments later, there was a tendril of flame that blossomed into a flame. It flashed bright, almost blinding for an instant, and then there was nothing. The corpses were ash. The wind scattered them, leaving a burn mark on the concrete. I know what I saw but was unable to explain it.

"If you can keep up, you can have your answers!" she said with a smirk as she promptly sprang up the side of the building with feather-light grace.

I followed her up the side of the building, using business signs, ledges and whatever I could find as hand and footholds to catch up to her. She had answers to the questions burning a hole in my brain, and I'll be damned if I was going to let those answers slip away!

She led me on a merry chase, where I was constantly one building and rooftop behind her. When she finally ended the pursuit, we were standing atop a hotel along the lakefront in Ouchy. She kept her word, explaining many things that, if you are reading this, you already know and fight against: An entire world of darkness out there that wants to destroy, dominate and consume everything. "You're something special. You could be part of something to fight against and hold back that darkness. What do you say? You want to make a difference?"

I said sure. It's not like I had anything else going for me at that point. But I only had one matter of concern, "If I live long enough... can I keep my cat?"

She sighed, "If you live long enough? Sure."

I'm still here. And so is Lynx.