Called By the Dark

two

Gaderel

There’s nothing like the stench of humans.

It’s pervasive and pungent. An odor one can almost taste. A hint of sickly sweetness, the way they smell when they’re dead. A human is, after all, a living corpse; they’re a hair’s breadth away from death at any given moment, and none of them ever realize it unless they’re ill. I’ve seen humans die in all manner of ways, and in all of those cases, they never saw it coming.

I’ve walked the Earth among them for so many millennia I’ve lost count. I was there for the First Sin; in fact, some like to blame me for it. That used to hurt my feelings.

Now, after everything that’s happened, I wish I would’ve made the bitch choke on that apple myself.

I take a deep breath of the aromatic air as I stroll the damp streets of Draco City. It’s my favorite thing to do at night, the thing I’ve done for so many years, since the emergence of this dark city in a brutal new world. It drew me in instantly when it sprang from the ground. It’s possessed of an energy that captivates me. It’s possessed of a shadowy promise that beckons me. It’s possessed of a fierce joie de vivre I find irresistible. It’s possessed of…well.

It’s possessed.

Sometimes I take my human form and roam, visible, observing. The human form allows me to smell, to see clearly, to feel the acid rain on my skin, to feel the chill in the air. I appear as I used to when I was one of the Grigori, a choir of angels sent to Earth as Watchers to observe and guide humankind, to look but never to touch. My earthly divine form, as that of all Grigori, was huge, frightening to the humans we were to shepherd. We changed our appearances to be more like them, which they accepted.

Then we fell in love with them.

The children we watched over grew, some of them into beautiful young women. We spent so much time caring for these humans, guiding them, observing their interactions with one another. Their fights, their sorrows, their triumphs, their love. What a curious group of creatures—God’s wondrous creation. In time, we Watchers became like them. We taught them forbidden knowledge. And the daughters we helped oversee, helped raise, kept out of harm’s way… How could we help falling in love with them?

So many years later, some like to say that a demon enchanted us with a love spell meant to make us lust for humans. That even though we were helpless to act due to the enchantment, our sin of treachery—going against the will and word of God—was so egregious that it could not be forgiven. And we were banished.

I know the truth, though.

We were not enchanted.

I pause on a sidewalk, listening to the noise of blaring car horns, the echoes of music and revelry, the voices of humans around me. The glow of neon signs lighting up the silvery blackness of the night.

The scent of sin.

I smile. What a wonder.

Something impacts my back, but I don’t stumble. I merely glance over my shoulder, seeing a human man several inches shorter than me frowning up at me. Then his face clears as he meets my gaze, takes in my size and stature. Though the Watchers learned to shift our size to be more humanlike, we’re still a large breed. And there’s no mistaking the pinpoints of fire within my pupils.

Fire, where there once was heavenly white light.

Those days seem so long ago.

“S-sorry,” the young man stutters.

I smile. “You’re forgiven.”

He scurries off, glancing back at me once before disappearing into the night.

* * *

I’m not wandering aimlessly;I do have a destination.

I arrive moments later and pause in front of the unassuming building. This place has minimal signage. Just the word “Shakers” in lilac neon lights.

Not exactly subtle, but of the gentlemen’s lounges in the red-light district, this one is the swankiest.

It’s also where she dances.

I enter the darkened club, lit only with softly glowing lights in shades of aqua and magenta, placed strategically in the floors and under tables and in sconces. Enough light to see by, not so much that the bubble of privacy that envelops patrons as they enter is disturbed.

Trip-hop flows from hidden speakers all around while the clientele relax in easy chairs and observe the dancers on stage. This isn’t one of the rowdier clubs. This is a true lounge, where you won’t find young men like the one that hit me on the street. The patrons here are businessmen, corrupt politicians, the elite who control the city and the outlying areas. These are men with power and money and the means to take whatever they want, whenever they want it.