Adapt (I)

TJR Garcia © 2020

SCARLET

I draw my dagger in time, but Boe doesn’t. As the creature reaches around to grab Boe’s throat, I swing the blade up and slice through his arm. I push Boe behind me, automatically.

The creature hisses at the pain, then turns to eyeball me. From deep within his eyes, a glow heats up, turning his eyes from a muddy brown to a brilliant gold. His grey t-shirt begins to tear at the back as something sprouts from within.

It occurs to me that I should have figured out what sort of creature he is before I came into his house, because right about now he is looking like some sort of bird. From behind me I hear Boe curse.

Wings unfurl behind the creature, a patchwork of white and brown feathers. They are so large they hit the ceiling.

Deep breathes, Scarlet. This is just another hunt. I close my eyes to centre myself, trying concentrate the bloodlust running through my vein. When I open them, the creature has vanished.

I turn to find Boe in a headlock, the man’s talon fingernails at his throat.

He smiles, wicked intent flashing in his almost canary yellow eyes. “I always knew there was something different about you.” He laughs. “The rumours are tr-”

I throw my dagger so hard and fast that it plunges to the hilt in the creature’s eye socket.

Then my knees are kicked out from underneath me, and I fall, pain jarring up my thighs. I peek behind me just in time to see the girl’s raised talons and gold glowing eyes.

A dagger appears at her throat and swiftly slices. Realization makes it to her molten eyes before they started to fade to brown. She collapses and locks sight with my me, as the life drains from her veins. A heavy hand thumps me on the back. I tense.

“What a hunt!” Boe’s voice was filled with satisfaction. I smile. This was a long hunt for me, and it’s done now. Boe may be a pain in my ass, but he did just save my life.

The chills that coursed through my veins subside. I take a deep breath. The people in this town are safe again.

But the guilt starts to flood my chest, washing away the sense of satisfaction.

I stop smiling immediately and look at the girl. She is fourteen, maybe fifteen. Her sandy blonde hair splayed in a fan, which is slowly submerging in a pool of her own blood.

I want to know her name.

I bend over and shuffle my arms under her. Lifting at the knees, I begin to take her to my car. Boe stands watching me, stunned. I don’t care.

I am half way to my Jeep when I hear him call after me. “What are you doing?” Boe catches up with me.

I shake my head, guilty tears creeping up on me. “I’m cleaning up.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Boe comes to stand in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

The girl’s blood is running down my shirt. “No Boe, I’m not okay. She’s dead.” I say, dead pan.

Boe’s eyebrows pull together, shading his dark eyes from the moonlight. His lips are pursed for a second as he tries to understand what I just said. “Wait... you’re...” he chews on his lip. “I don’t get it. We are hunters. We were supposed to kill her.” It is a statement, but his voice rose at the end as if it is a question.

My anger toward Boe is starting to return. “Boe, I didn’t even know their names.”

His serious expression lightens a bit. He nods and begins to wiggle his arms underneath the girl, to take her from me. “Well, let’s go and find out.” He places her on the grass gently, as if he knows how much it means to me.

We went back into the house. Lying in the middle of the library floor is the man, blood still spilling from his eye. My gaze lingers for a second, but then I look away. I don’t feel as much remorse for the male. He deserved this, but who’s to say that the girl did?

We go upstairs. The house has an open lay out where the kitchen, the living and the dinning are all combined into one space. There are large pieces of art hanging on the wall, and a projector TV dominating the room. A teardrop chandelier features the staircase, and the bench tops are white marble. It is an incredible house.

Boe strides to the kitchen and begins to pull draws out.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, standing in the middle of the room with nothing to do.

“I don’t know, something that will identify it.”

“Her!” I snap.

“Okay!” He slams the draw shut. “Look, I am trying to help. You don’t have to be a bitch.” He spots a bedroom and walks toward it.

“I’m not being-”

He stops. “Yes, you are. This isn’t normal. No hunter does this.”

I cross my arms. “No hunter does what?”

“Feel guilty! We celebrate, enjoy the rush of the kill, and then plot our next hunt. We don’t pine over their name.” He exaggerates the word as if it is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard.

“Maybe you are all psychopaths.” I mutter under my breathe.

Boe stomps off to the bedroom with a roll of his eyes. A moment later he emerges from the bedroom with a picture frame that he is trying to pull apart.

“What are you doing?” I ask curiously, hoping that he wouldn’t revisit what he had said before.

“People write on the back of pictures.” He says, as he pries the back off the frame. Sure enough there is something written on the back.

Mia and Jack savoy 2002.

The picture is of a little girl, maybe four, smelling a frangipani that her father was holding out to her. Even with the age difference in the photo, the resemblance is undisputable.

I sigh. It is a small relief. However, looking at the picture, I realize that just because I didn’t know of her, doesn’t mean that she hasn’t killed anyone. In order for her to be who she is, Mia must have been feeding off humans as well. I have a job, a simple job. As much as it pains me to say, Boe is right. I need to get over it.

I still can’t help the pit in my stomach.

We clean up as much as possible. Blood stains the carpet still, in a wash of faded orange, where Jack laid. We don’t worry about it too much. No one will come into this house looking for him or her.

We load the bodies of Jack and Mia into the back of my Jeep. Boe slams the door shut then turns to me.

“What the hell happened back there?”

I look away.

“No seriously.” Boe widens is stance, showing that he is not going anywhere until I tell him.

“Ugh!” I huff. “Don’t you feel guilty?” I didn’t realize just how much Boe’s disregard for murder bothers me.

His forehead wrinkled. “Not when they’re murderers.” He retorts, as if he read my mind.

“We’re murderers! It’s the reason why so many countries abolished the death penalty. If we murder murderers, then we are just as bad.” I spread my arms, as if it is obvious.

Boe shrugs. “So why not just quit?”

I turn away. “Have you ever tried to quit being a hunter? It’s not possible.”

He doesn’t respond for a second, and when does he is quieter. “I have tried to quit before. You’re right. It isn’t possible.”

I turn back, my face a question mark.

Boe looks down at his feet.

“What, you’re going to say something like that and then not tell me?”

Boe stares at me for a second, the moonlight throwing shadows over his face. I catch a glimpse of something close to sadness flash in his eyes. Then, without a word, he turns and starts to walk up the street.