The Faith Eaters, Chapter 1: Dark Alleys

Jargon smiled a cold, tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he stroked a hand slowly across his face, wiped the blood onto his pant leg and placed a foot solidly on the chest of the thing that lay in a crumpled heap on the ground before him.

The rain came harder as Jargon reached down, gripped the hilt of his sword and pulled. The blade came free slowly, as if reluctant to leave its newfound sheath of bone and sinew.

"You okay?"

The smile faded from Jargon's face. "Yah. I'm fine. I'll be fine," he said as he knelt shakily to wipe the gore from his weapon onto the rain soaked trousers of the thing at his feet.

He stared for a moment at his reflection in the glistening silver blade -- his hair was matted against the sides of his face; flashing drops of rain crawled down each strand, ran down his cheeks and into the fresh cuts there, rinsing away dirt and blood before continuing down his neck to further soak his shirt -- then returned the sword to its harness beneath his shredded overcoat. The cuts, three parallel slices running from brow to jaw, continued to bleed freely. Already they had begun to blacken and throb. His only wounds, other than the memories, they would need to be cleansed soon, or the infection would spread and, despite the carcass before him, Darkness would be victor.

"Yes. I'll be fine." He straightened, feeling the stiffness in his joints and the ache of exhausted muscles. "Were you able to follow them?"

"No." Erin crouched in the shadows, back braced against the crumbling brick wall of a bakery. "They ran to the shadows and then... gone. I couldn't follow them there. Not alone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Let's go." Jargon strode away, to the alley's entrance and into the street beyond.

Erin ran slender fingers through her hair, flicked away the rain water with a curse, then followed.

**********

Behind them, in the dark, rain soaked alley, the body of the Glare remained, black blood seeping from the gash in its chest to be washed into the sewers by the growing torrent of rain. Skin from Jargon's cheek hung from beneath the claws of one curled hand, a distorted reminder of life and health, and the lifeless eyes of a seventeen-year-old boy stared blankly into the dark clouds above. They were the terrified, confused eyes of a boy misled, betrayed and, finally, free -- for the Glare had released him in the instant before death and moved on to hunt elsewhere. To breed elsewhere. To shadows elsewhere.

**********

Erin had to run to catch up with Jargon, who was already well down the street, his long strides eating up the distance in ravenous bites. She said nothing as she drew up beside him, concentrating instead on matching his pace as best she could. Despite her long legs, she had never been able to keep up with Jargon when he was in a hurry. Or when he was angry.

She glanced up at him, worried eyes taking in the ragged trio of slices which marred his cheek. Pus and black blood oozed from the cuts, mixed with the rain which dripped from his matted hair, and traced dark rivulets around the hard line of his jaw and down the curve of his neck. Erin bit her lip to suppress a mixture of frustration and fear. Jargon would need help soon.

This meant another visit to Old Man Sam, and an increased risk of being caught by the Brotherhood. For while the Old Man's "truth serum" was the only known way to counter the poisons of a Glare strike, possession of it was also considered heresy by those who chose to ignore the new Darkness that was infiltrating Kinsborough's "Forgotten South" District.

Ironically, the Old Man's elixir, which effectively but painfully purged Glare venom from the body, gained the name "truth serum" in memory of the late Father O'Connor, a devout follower of the Church who had preached that only the Truth and the Light of the Cardinal could stop the new menace.

This had, of course, proved to be a fatal misconception. Erin scowled at the memory.

Father O'Connor died while preaching the Light of the Cardinal, his body torn to ribbons beneath the claws and fangs of a Hoard within his own Parish. His screams and promises of salvation fell on closed ears as the last breath was ripped from his lungs.

Truth and Light?, Erin thought. The truth was, the Hoard had been hungry and the lights flickering in the Parish chandeliers had done no more than guide it to a spiritually rich meal. Although, in all fairness to Father O'Connor, the consumption of his faith laden soul had satisfied the Hoard's hunger for a time, and it had been nearly a month before the Darkness hunted again.

Erin tasted blood and a stab of pain drew her back from her thoughts as her teeth met through the flesh of her lower lip. Next to her, Jargon slowed his pace, then came to a stop in the shadowed recesses of an apartment-tower entryway. He looked slowly, carefully, to his right. His left. To the windows above which lined the buildings on both sides of the street. Then pushed stepped through a doorway and disappeared into a stairwell, the scrape of his footsteps quickly fading into silence.

Left standing alone in the cold rain which still leaked from the sky, Erin too cast a furtive glance around, then ran her tongue across the painful hole in her lip, spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the ground, and followed Jargon into the tower.