Excerpt: The Ferral

Mikhail flitted quickly from one shadow to the next, his sharp eyes scanning the foggy London streets for any sign of his quarry. “Where did he go?” he whispered softly to himself, as he glanced back the way he had come, fearing that he may go from the hunter to the hunted at any moment. He moved forward again, pausing at the entrance to a small alley, his ears listening intently for any sound, yet all he could hear was the sound of cars on nearby streets, as people moved about their own late night business, unaware, and unconcerned of the struggle that went on in the midst of their city.
A movement caught the corner of Mikhail's eye suddenly, and turning he saw the shadowed form of a man moving slowly out of the deeper shadows of the alley. In a fluid motion he drew a pistol in his left hand, a long knife in his right, the blade glinting slightly as it caught the light of a nearby street lamp. At that moment the figure stumbled towards Mikhail, the pungent smell of old sweat, urine, and whiskey flooding his senses, as the wino paused to look at him. He seemed to think Mikhail was a hallucination, so he began to stagger on past him, heading for the open street.
Mikhail let out a soft sigh, holstering his pistol, yet the long knife he kept ready. He made his way quickly back out of the alley, and scanned the open street with it's many other small lanes which went off in different directions. It was an older section of town, and over the years had become rather maze like, a perfect place to hide if you did not want to be found. He glanced towards the wino again, watching as the man staggered over towards another alleyway, the remnants of a nearly empty bottle in his hand, apparently looking for some place to sleep it off.
“The things these people do to their bodies,” came a deep voice with an eastern accent floating through the air from above.
“Good evening Larson,” said Mikhail as he glanced up, his eyes settling upon the dark clad figure of a man, which stood atop a two story building across the street from where he stood. “For a moment I was afraid he had given me the slip, not wanting to play anymore tonight,” his own German accent tinging his words only slightly.
“Oh no Mikhail,” said the man that called himself Larson. “I have been enjoying our little game of cat and mouse, though I am afraid I can not let it go on too much longer. You see, I have pressing business to attend to out of country, and I can not have you following me.”
“What business is that?” asked Mikhail, trying to make his voice light and conversational, as he slowly removed his pistol from it's holster again, yet keeping it beneath the folds of his dark over coat.
Larson laughed softly. “Wouldn't you like to know. I suppose that is the way of your kind, always meddling in the affairs of others, not willing to leave anyone be that is different from you.”
“Oh, I would not say that Larson,” responded Mikhail. “Just those that seem to think they have a right to kill where and when they wish, those that feed off the lives and others, like yourself.”
“So says the cattle,” came Larson's voice darkly. “And now I am afraid I must end this little game, though it has kept me entertained for the last several days.”
“Yes, it is time that it was ended,” said Mikhail, and with that his hand came up in a flash of speed, his finger squeezing the trigger to send a bullet through the dark night, striking the stone of the roof edge where Larson had stood. Yet Mikhail had figured that his prey would not be so easily dealt with. He spun around, scanning the edges of nearby roofs for sign of Larson, then placed his back against the wall of the building beside him. “I thought you were tired of hide and seek games Larson,” he called out to the night air.
A scurry of movement caught Mikhail's attention, and he glanced up just in time to dodge out of the way of the long clawed fingers that reach downward to strike at him. Turning he fired three shots at the dark clad form, as it scurried straight up the brick wall, vanishing over the edge of the roof in an instant. He ran around the corner of the building, and leaped, grabbing hold of the bottom rung of the fire escape in the alleyway he had been in a moment early. Quickly Mikhail scrambled up the ladder to the first landing, and then began to hurry up the stairs, his eyes glancing upward to watch for sign of Larson above. He knew that if he stayed on the street level there were too many ways for Larson to hide from him, too many ways for Larson to take him unawares.
“Ah, I thought you might want to join me,” came Larson's deep voice even as Mikhail reached the top of the fire escape. Looking up he saw Larson leaning of the edge of the roof, now maybe three feet above his head. “Be careful, it's a long way down.” Larson vanished of the the side again before Mikhail could react.
For a moment Mikhail paused, wondering if perhaps he were walking into a trap by following Larson to the roof of this building. “Perhaps another way,” he said to himself as he flattened his back against the wall beside one of the top floor windows. He sheathed the long knife, and trying to keep his eyes focused on the spot where Larson had been above him a moment before, he felt along the window edge, trying to find someway to open it from the outside. After a moment he pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around his hand, and then smashed the lower pane of glass with his fist, hoping that the room inside was empty. He kicked out the rest of the glass quickly, and then leaped inside, his thick jacket protecting him from any last shard of glass that he had missed.
Mikhail rolled once he had hit the floor, and was quickly on his feet. A quick scan of the room showed it to be part of an empty apartment, though even then he could hear shouts floating up from lower floors, tenants of the building awakened by the sound of the shattering glass. He moved quickly through the empty apartment, then through the door and into the main stairway. Ignoring the voices of people down below checking on their neighbors to make sure they were all right, he leaped up the stairs to his right, which led to a door to the roof, as he had hoped to find.
Kicking open the door at the top of the stairs, Mikhail rushed out onto the open roof, his pistol in one hand, the long bladed silver knife again in his other, his coat whipping about him in the night air. He scanned about for any sign of Larson, yet there was nothing, no sign of the man that had been up here just a few moments before. Perhaps he had guessed Mikhail's new strategy, and had countered by moving to another roof, or perhaps he was even now racing down the fire escape to gound level, to try and melt away into the night again. “No,” he thought to himself. “He is here somewhere.”
A sudden snarl cut through the night air, causing Mikhail to whirl about just in time to dodge the full impact of the body that hurled at him. Larson tumbled aside, a slashed sleeve, and a long cut along his arm from the silver knife being the only thing he gained from this tactic. Mikhail turned to face him even as Larson spun about, and glared at him. “You damaged my clothing, for that you will pay even more,” he said darkly as his inhumane eyes stared at Mikhail.
“Oh, so sorry, I was trying for your neck,” said Mikhail as he crouched before the other, waiting to see what the creature would do next.
With a speed beyond any mortal, Larson was on Mikhail, one hand gripping like iron at the wrist which held the long knife, forcing it's edge and point away from himself, while his other hand clawed at Mikhail's pistol, trying to rip it from his grasp. Mikhail gritted his teeth as he fought against the inhuman strength of Larson, then pulled the trigger on his pistol, knowing that the silver bullets would do no good other than a distraction unless they went through the other's heart.
Larson winced at the shots which pierced his abdomen, though he maintained his grip upon Mikhail's wrist and the gun. “You will pay for those also,” he hissed, bearing sharp fangs as he slowly began to force Mikhail to his knees with his greater strength.
Mikhail leaned back, trying to avoid the fangs, which were now only inches from his face. In a desperate gamble, he let Larson wrench the pistol from his grasp, then leaned his weight back, letting Larson's own strength push him to the ground. At the same time he kicked as hard as he could at the other man's legs. Mikhail felt a pain in his wrist, almost as if it were being wrenched from his arm, as Larson, surprised by Mikhail's move, tumbled over him to sprawl on the roof, loosing his hold on him.
Quickly Mikhail rolled to his side and gained his feet. His right wrist felt sprained, and weak, so he switched the long knife to his left hand, even as Larson returned to his feet.
“You are trickier than I supposed Mikhail,” said Larson as he faced him. Suddenly he lunged forward again, yet this time Mikhail brought the long knife forward at the instant that their forms made contact with one another.
The two tumbled across the roof, looked in a desperate struggle. After a few moments though, it was over. Mikhail pushed the still form of Larson off of himself, catching his breath a little before double checking that the creature was dead. His long knife was buried to the hilt in Larson's chest, and had apparently pierced his heart. Mikhail nodded to himself as he stood, leaving the knife where it was. Just then, even as the body of Larson began to crumble into dust amid the block clothing, Mikhail caught the sound of men running up the stairs, and had only to drop over the edge of the roof to the fire escape, before two Police Officers came out onto the roof through the still open doorway. He heard their voices above, and guessed from what he heard that more were already on their way. Silently he made his way down the fire escape, and melted into the shadows of the alley below, even as more Police cars began to arrive in the street before the building.
As he made his way carefully through the night time streets of London, Mikhail flexed the fingers of his right hand, testing to see how badly hurt his wrist was. “Only a sprain,” he muttered to himself as he hurried onward. He needed to check in with his superiors to inform them that the man, the creature, the Vampire who called himself Larson, was finally destroyed. “I wonder what they will find for me to tackle next,” he wondered as he slipped silently through the door to his small rented room, locking it behind himself. He hoped it would be closer to home, he missed Germany. Little did he know, that his next mission would take him further from home than he had yet been, even across the wide ocean to America.