I don't hunt my neighbors anymore. If they don't
know, they at least sense there's something off, and they don't approach me. Humans, when they don't think about it, are smart animals. At least the poor ones are, here on this desolate, rat infested street.
I don't even remember them all, I don't remember which girl came first in this city, whether it was here in this bar, or maybe down by the docks, I don't remember what they wore, what they said to me. I don't remember what lies I told them to get them alone.
Some of them I don't bother lying to. Some of them, I just take. Why bother? Why care? No cop in New Yorkcould stop me.
When you can't die, it makes it much easier to kill.
I light a cigarette with a flick of my fingers- fire's easy to control now that I'm free, and take a deep drag from it, letting the clove scented smoke curl through what could be lungs.
Daemon physiology is lost even to us daemons. I exhale and watch the girl in the corner give me a dirty look- no smoking here- no smoking ANYWHERE, fucking liberals- and I smile at her, baring perfectly human teeth. She doesn't return the grin. Fuck her.
Maybe, anyway. She's a little tall for my taste, a little too blonde. I don't like them that way. But she's still glaring, and that strengthens my resolve. I slip out of the booth I'm in and saunter over to her, well aware that the bitch is at least six inches taller than me. She's aware of it too, and her expression turns haughty. Why the fuck is she here in this dump?
"Got a problem?" I ask her, voice gruff, not bothering for charming.
"It's no smoking here, asshole. It's no smoking everywhere."
"That so?" I ask, taking another drag and resisting the urge to see what would happen if I put the cigarette out on her left eye. "Fuck me. Who knew?" I make a show of grinding my clove out on the table. "That better?"
"Yeah." Her eyes slide from me to the door. Does she sense danger? Does she realize that no matter what path she takes with this, she's going to die? Probably not. She's probably more offended by the scent of stale alcohol. Or maybe the fact that I've been sleeping with a corpse for a week, and haven't showered in almost as many days. Probably that.
"Who you waitin' on, girlie?" I ask, sliding into the booth across from her, hand snaking out across the table and taking hers. She resists at first, but my grip is like iron, and one look in my eyes lets her know I'm not fucking around. The first hint of fear lifts from her skin.
"I just wanted a drink."
"In this shithole?"
"Whiskey's the same everywhere." She's lying to me. Who would this spoiled brat be meeting in this dive? It's not exactly the safest place for a non-resident woman to be in.
"Ain't that the fucking truth," I remarked. "Well, no, it ain't. It's better at my place."
"I'm not..."
I crush her fingers and smile at her, and my teeth are not human this time. She pisses herself, but her black pants hide it well.
"Get the fuck up, bitch," I tell her, all matter-of-fact, "And don't say no again, because I'll rip your spine out through your throat if you do."
She got up when I got up, holding her hand, wide-eyed behind lightly-tinted glasses, barely holding in tears that I'm sure would spill as soon as we were alone.
"Don't kill me."
I turn to her, her face all washed out in the gleam of the streetlight above the entrance to the bar. "You think that's all I'm gonna do to do? You must be an optimist."
She cries then, and I grab her by her wrist and throw her headfirst into the shallow alley between the bar and the shitty Chinese restaurant next to it. She stumbles and falls, and I pounce, hands wrapping around her throat, slamming her head against the oily, dirty ground. "Shut the fuck up," I tell her, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. "No one's going to hear you, do you understand me? I don't want them to, so they won't. That's how it works. No one will find you until I'm gone. You'll be goddamn lucky if they find enough of you to identify you."
She gives a pathetic moan and I slap her hard enough to break her jaw. "I'm going to eat you, did you know that? You thought I'd fuck you, or cut you up... but I'm going to eat you alive. Does that scare you? I hope it does." I laugh wild and long and crawl off of her, let her scramble stupidly to the back of the alley, keening like an injured puppy. I follow on all fours, body dissolving from this ragged human shell to my natural form, all darkness and gleaming obsidian fangs and talons, and when she reaches the end of the alley and turns movie-slow to me, she screams loud and long.
I tear into her stomach with teeth longer than her hands, swallow flesh down in pieces that would choke even the largest dog. The air fills with wet sounds as I pull out her intestines, heavy and long like bloated string, blood and thicker things spilling out of her like she was a split grocery bag. Her bones pop and break under talons and teeth, her flesh rips with a sound not unlike tearing silk, and it takes her five minutes to die, because I leave her heart, her head, her throat, and let her bleed out, slower than is natural, no shock, just terrible realization that when she dies, her soul stays with me. I eat that too, and it's sweeter than any flesh.
When she is nothing more than a scrap or two of skin and clothing, I leave the bloodstained alley. The darkness that kept any onlookers away, that strangled any sound she made, lifts, and all anyone sees is a scrappy-looking man, smaller than most 14 year old boys. No blood. Nothing.
I smile at an old Russian lady on my way back to the House. She stops in her tracks and narrows her eyes at me, lips forming some old curse. I pause for a moment, hand going half to my face in mock shock. I know there's no blood. I know she can't know what I've done. I don't really care, anyway.
"I know what you are, daemon," she hisses. "You get nothing here!" Her words are like steel and she moves her hand, throwing salt at me- where the fuck did she have that hidden?
It
burns, and I step away from her, eyes not leaving her withered old face. One look at her door, finally, and I see that it's warded. Old magicks. Good for her.
"Your evil goes elsewhere," she tells me, and I loop around her, shaking off the sting of the salt and continuing on my way. I snarl at her and the lights shut out along the street. She slams her door with a final curse, and the words crawl down my spine, annoying like insects, but nothing that would really stop me, if I wanted in.
I really hate old world witches.
"My evil," I tell the darkened street, lighting a cigarette, "Goes
everywhere."
The lights are on in the House, a soft glow from parted, heavy curtains. Ramon is on the porch, sitting on the rail, looking all inhuman and detached, his thoughts most certainly not here in this reality. He doesn't see me, and I don't bother to rouse him from his thoughts. Instead I drop down on the steps and sit, smoking my cigarette and staring out into the street. Anyone passing by will not see us; the House is invisible to anyone who doesn't know it's there, and anyone it doesn't want to enter. More than once I've wandered the street for hours, drunk and tired, unable to find the sidewalk leading to it, hearing a soft chuckle in the back of my brain.
By my third cigarette, Ramon is still off in his own world, eyes idly following the stray person walking down the street, most of them dealers or junkies or homeless. Gunshots flare in the night. I lean back against the steps and close my eyes, catching the smell of food inside. Poor Sabriel, make-believing that the social and supernatural outcasts of the House are some sort of family.
I doubt anyone but her is going to be eating tonight.
indescribable 
