Strangers try to kill me in the subway, the hounds of hell chase me in the park, and a winged demon attacks me in the middle of nowhere—I clearly need to find out what exactly is happening.
“Come in,” I utter, “I have some questions.”
Cyrell – The Warrior
I made my home in the underground labyrinth of this megapolis, among pipes, power cables, rats, and cockroaches the size of my palm, down below the surface where people dispose of things they don’t wish to ever be found again.
For each alley above, there is a path below. For each avenue, there is a wide sewer tunnel. For each building, teeming with people, there is a settlement of creatures, born and raised among eternal darkness, blind, elusive, deadly.
It reminds me of my home, of the Lower Lands, as it used to be in the times before my civilization flourished. When the dark elves were nothing but a handful of desperate exiles, cowering in the relentless gloom of the Underworld, surviving on the only nutrient available in that inhospitable environment—the blood of their brethren.
Those times are long gone, and the Lower Lands flourish, the clever creations and engineering achievements of my people turning the damp tunnels into a mechanical garden of Eden. In this clockwork paradise, birds of bronze sing among trees of titanium, and a crystal sun reflects the light from the surface, setting in the evening, giving way to a pale moon of diamonds and neon. Oh, how I miss the opulence of the carefree days before the Siphons’ attack, when my mind was obsessed only with honing my warrior skills to multiply the glory of my people. And I had many chances to do it, to prove myself, establish myself as the best of the best, a chosen one, a knight and superior warlord of the Lower Lands. I survived a thousand skirmishes against the hordes of the Dreadful One. Living at the doorstep of his wretched domain has never been easy. What an honor it is to be chosen by the Elders for this mission; what an opportunity it is to save not only my beloved sister and nephews but our entire realm!
Unlike the other Hunters who become distracted by the wonders and opportunities of the human world, I remain loyal to my mission. I follow trails, dig tunnels, scavenge, scout, and map.
I found the Anchor and hatched a plan. Sabotaging her car was easy—it was parked in front of the old five-storey building, her home. Yet darkness followed me into this world, and the Dreadful One attacked.
I need time. Time to reconsider and recalibrate my plan, so I follow the woman into her home, bemused by her bravado to invite me in. If only she knew how dark elves are—still feasting on the blood of our enemies in the frenzy of battle, remembering those barbaric times that shaped us into who we are. If only she knew my intentions, what I am—a creature of twilight, an alloy of loyalty, discipline, ferocity, and power—she would run.
Yet she doesn’t know, and she invites the monster into her home. I follow her up the stairs, my nostrils flaring as I take in her sweet scent—a fresh spring flower about to be crushed, my eyes scanning the curves of her body. I feel strange hunger rumble low in my gut, a carnal need, an abstinence howling to be satiated. Her long brown hair hangs tousled down her back, the belt of her coat accentuating her minuscule waist. The heat of her fleeting, rushed existence hits my face, and my senses, trained in the eternal darkness and silence of the Lower Lands, perceive the thumping of her heart, the rush of her hot, mortal blood. I feel my fangs extend, my mouth water, and only ages of raw, rigorous training help me restrain myself, to not to leap on her and sink my teeth into the soft, inviting flesh.
She unlocks the door, inviting me in with a gesture. I fill the doorframe, and the scent of damp soil and blooming plants overcome my senses. By the Serpent, her home is a lush garden, a tamed jungle. Plants hang from pots dispensed from the ceiling, orchids bloom on every surface, and magnolias spread their intoxicating scent. When a tiny furball rushes to my feet, I cannot help but chuckle. It seems the beast is wiser than its mistress, as it arches its back and hisses at me before turning and disappearing into the vegetation.
“Catherine, come back!” my host calls, “Catherine Earnshaw, where are your manners!” she chastises the cat while I scan my surroundings.
It is the first time I’ve entered a human dwelling invited; honestly, it’s not as bad as I thought.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks, and I nod, assuming this is expected from me.
She comes back with a glass of fizzy amber liquid, cool on the tongue and soothing on the throat, that makes me forget the eerie hunger I feel when I look at the Anchor and quenches the dangerous thirst inside me.
She kicks off her shoes and settles in a comfortable-looking, plush armchair, motioning for me to do the same. Catherine observes me with suspicion from a dark corner of the room, her tail twitching.
We sit in silence, and I enjoy the dance of the freezing bubbles of the drink in my system, my eyes strangely drawn to her tiny, bare feet—so fragile and tender. I clench my jaw and look away, reminding myself that this human is destined for the extractor and that she is the only chance for my people to survive.
“How do you know my name?”
Our eyes lock, and she shuffles uncomfortably as if finally realizing she has let a monster into her home.
I am a curious male. Centuries of life in the scarce light of the Lower Lands don’t provide much entertainment, so I grasp every chance presented to feel alive. Curiosity makes me answer her question, and that strange warmth gathers in my gut (for that, I blame the drink she served me). So, I tuck away the bracelet spiked with tranquilizing needles under my sleeve and cross my legs, preparing for a long conversation.
“Like I said, you are hunted, Celeste. And I am one of the Hunters.”
Emotions flit over her face as I watch, mesmerized. Humans can feel so intensely!
“Why am I hunted? And who are you?” she finally utters.
I take a sip of my drink, starting to feel slightly light-headed. Is she poisoning me?
“Imagine that you have something very rare, Celeste, something incredibly precious that many desire. A key to surviving our doom.” Her brow furrows, and she shuffles again, her eyes appearing black in the soft light, full of fear and doubt.
“As for who I am,” I carefully put my glass on the tiny table next to my chair and rise to my feet, squaring my shoulders, “I am the Hunter who found you first.”
I stalk toward her, and she squirms in the armchair, trying to pull away, to escape. I imagine I look frightening, with my imposing height, my body clad in black rider leathers.
I look down at her, head cocked. She has removed her coat and wears only a long green dress with deep cleavage. The spheres of her breasts heave as she pants in fear, and that dark thirst possesses me again when I sweep my gaze over her marble flesh.
The dark side of me wishes she were a spoil of war or a maiden of the lowest dark elves´ cast. A concubine, gifted to me by the Elders. My fangs extend at the thought of the delicious opportunities. But the human before me is a powerful, magical anomaly, my kind´s only hope to survive the Siphons.
