Shadow Guardians: The Beast

“Man, you gotta be kidding me.” Harry scrubbed his untidy brown beard as he watched the beast of a guy in black clean the pool table. When the last cue ball ran into the pocket, his gang of bikers whooped and cheered from the bar behind him, not because he won but because he lost. And they were never going to let him live it down. He just lost $1000 to a stranger who sported more leather than him.

It was one too many beers that made him challenge a guy who stood 6 feet and 7 inches tall, had about as much muscle as a WWE star, and looked like he just climbed right out of The Matrix in the black trench coat and shiny leathers. He rose to his full height and removed the sunshades he wore—and who the hell wore sunshades at night anyway?—to reveal two teal eyes. Those had to be contacts.

The hair was onyx, lengthier on top, slicked over to the side, and short at the back. He had the face of a celebrity who might have had a secret life as a serial killer, and the golden skin that would turn a lady to liquid.

“Cough up, Harry.” He spoke in a low, powerful voice. He circled the table, heavy boots vibrating into the wood floors of the bar even through the loud bass of rock music. The guy must be at least 260 pounds of muscle.

“Man, the guys will never let me live this down.” Harry reached into his back jean pocket and pulled out a roll of notes. He started counting out a thousand, handed it over.

The winner took the notes and smirked. “You shouldn’t accept dares from your friends, Harry.”

“What you say your name was?” Harry asked with a frown.

“Magnus.”

“Yeah? Magnus who?”

Magnus’ eyes darted up to the TV screen against the wall that had the evening news going. It fit right in with the wood panelling of The Republic. No one knew why the hell the bar had that name, being a biker gang’s paradise with all the number plates and brand logos of fancy cars against the walls. They were covering some story about a helicopter that got blown up and a guy named Steve who died.

“Magnus Steve.”

Harry’s beard moved. “Your parents must have had a sense of humour.”

Magnus flashed Harry the most perfect set of pearly white teeth he’d ever seen. It was almost a sneer. Man, the guy looked ominous. “You shouldn’t let your biker friends dare you to play with strangers, Harry. Could be dangerous.”

“Yeah well. Thanks for not punching me in the face when I was being an arrogant, challenging ass.”

“No prob.”

A fair-haired waitress came over, hips swaying, red lips glinting in the dim lighting of the joint, holding a tray of foamy beers. “Hello, handsome. Can I get you something to drink?”

Magnus tilted his head and let his eyes roll over her. She smelled of sickly sweet strawberries. “Sorry, honey, you ain’t my… type.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.” She pouted, undressing him with her eyes, licking her lips, clearly undeterred. “Thought you were checking out the ladies. A guy like you must get plenty of… mm… attention.”

“Nah, I’m workin’ tonight.” And just as he said it, a fiery, smoky smell tickled his nose. Brimstone. His scanned the bar. The scent trailed out through the doors. “I’ll buy Harry here a beer; see you guys later. I gotta roll.”

Magnus left the bar and followed the smell into a nearby alley. Jeez, could they be more stereotypical? Probably better that way. No civilians in the way.

His skin tingled the closer he got, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up in warning. He unsheathed the two daggers from the hidden harness beneath his trench coat. Blessed, magical daggers. The blades were bloodstone—real bloodstone, not the fake stuff new-agers bought in spiritual shops—and were long and narrow.

When he rounded the corner, he saw the back of a man wearing a pelt jacket running into the alley. He trailed him, thought of just dematerializing, but then spotted a group of humans talking not too far away.

Damn it. Alright, this better go down quick.

He turned the corner, and right in the middle of the alley in front of him, there stood a little old lady with a cane, a perm of grey hair, and lilac clothing.

“Oh goodness! You scared me, deary,” she wobbled out.

Magnus burst out in laughter.

“You gotta be kidding me. Shapeshifting? Seriously? What are you? New on the job?” In his mind’s eye, he saw its intention. To lure the group of humans across the street to rape and murder. Virgins. It hankered for the blood of virgin women.

“Why aren’t you a bright-looking young man? Could you help me find my home? I do believe I’m lost.”

“Yeah, no kidding, you fucking bastard. I’ll send you home alright.” The blades of his daggers glowed. The angels were near.

With a growl in the darkness, the old lady’s eyes suddenly turned to smouldering flame. Her concaved mouth flickered with tremendous heat. The fingers on the hands extended out to sinewy claws. The demon shrieked, then jumped right at Magnus.

“Man, you’ve got some nerve,” he retorted, lunging. They bounced off walls, hitting and evading at tremendous speed. They were flying more than they were on the ground.

The demon scratched through Magnus’ forearm with its claws, a scorching burn taking root inside the wounds, making them glow.

He growled in annoyance. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed hold of the thing by the neck with fearsome strength of grip. It thrashed, shrieked, and clawed. He slammed it to the ground and pinned it, claws scratching into his flesh through his leathers, then speared the dagger into its chest. Light burst up in a beam, shrieking and howling echoed before it dissolved into ashes, leaving the smell of brimstone in his nostrils.

He inspected his arms and thighs; the wounds were already knitting closed. He gritted his teeth at the agony. Why the heck did the healing have to hurt more than the wound itself? He stood, turned, and then saw the group of humans staring at him with terrified eyes.

“He’s…he’s got fangs,” one of them said, pointing a shaky finger.

“Holy shit, his eyes are glowing…”

Magnus ran his tongue over his teeth absent-mindedly, but he didn’t have to check to know they extended in the midst of the fight. He could feel them itch.

He waved a hand, and as soon as their expressions changed from terror to confusion, he dissolved into a cloud of purple into thin air. By the time the cloud vanished seconds later, Juan with the baseball cap frowned and couldn’t remember how the hell he or his friends had gotten to the alley. The last thing he remembered, they were making their way to the Erotic Cherry Club in the opposite direction.

“Hey, what just happened?” Caleb with the glasses asked.

“Shut up and quit wasting time! The hot ones dance before eleven. Come’on you dopes!”

Juan stomped toward the opposite side of the street with his four friends following, shrugging shoulders.