HOBO Kyle - chapter 3

The beast slammed into the wall behind the stranger creating a crater, ringed with jagged tears, blood spatter, and spit. The stranger’s agility was impressive as he rolled under the attack. The beast quickly found its feet and lashed out again with a flurry of swipes from its massive clawed hands.

Still shrunk into the corner, Ilva fought through the physical and emotional turmoil to steady her breathing. The thoughts of her imminent demise gave way to those of hope and preservation, and glancing at the rain soaked darkness beyond the now vacant doorway, potential escape filled her mind.

But, the enigma of the stranger began to creep in and prevail over all other thoughts. Confusion became curiosity.

Ilva planted her feet firmly underneath her and pressing against the wall, began to lift up from the floor. Her eyes shifted from the door to the fight, back to the door, and back to the fight, back to the stranger. She watched as the stranger dodged and blocked a series of savage blows, his cloak and shirt disintegrated into confetti via the beast’s claws, but his skin showed little to no sign of damage from the onslaught. Curiosity became intrigue.

More and more the stranger was revealed, his skin reddened by the beast’s slashing and pummeling, a few small cuts here and there but no other injury. His skin glistened with rain, sweat, and the beast’s blood, and was criss-crossed with large raised scars from some previous trauma. He met the beast’s strikes with several of his own, countering attacks with strategic blows to the head and ribcage, and always with his right hand. Intrigue became inclination.

His round face was crowned in a dirty blond mop and the light played off of his glasses as he fought. A formidable moustache adorned full pink lips and the concentration of battle pushed them further out, in an expression that seemed to mock the beast’s snout. A paint brush of a beard clung to his stout chin. With a deft, simultaneous dodge and attack maneuver, the stranger took the advantage with a mighty blow to the beast’s left temple. Inclination became admiration.

The stranger defied all reason by engaging the beast in combat and similarly defied all logic by appearing to win. Ilva was transfixed by the stranger. His manner was so focused and yet so indifferent. The aura of mystery grew with every passing second, but she knew that her would-be hero was super indeed. “Hobo” was the word that the beast had used. But what did that mean? It had enraged the beast to hear the stranger’s affirmative response. Nothing made sense.

The beast reeled with the stranger’s last hit. Its eyes closed and were slow to reopen. Taking advantage of the pause, the stranger ducked under the bulk of the beast, rolled to the center of the room, then leapt to the doorway, landing next to his bindle and stick. The beast shook and blinked furiously in an attempt to zero in on the stranger, its breathing was quick and shallow. Its shoulders and knees flexed indicating another attack was imminent.

“Whose whore are you?” the stranger asked, his back to the beast.

With an indignant huff, the beast straightened and growled out a response.

“Il Conquistatore.” The name was prideful and reverent to the beast. It vibrated with the last syllable and seemed to purr suddenly. The name gave it pleasure.

The stranger recognized the honorific for Nerio Agliata immediately and flexed his whole body at the sound of it. His neck and back bulged, and his knuckles turned bone white. The knit of his fingerless gloves stretched wide. The swelling of his thighs and calves strained the seams of his pants. He turned to face the beast and his skin began to darken slightly and take on a grainy appearance, almost like leather. The thumping of his heartbeat could now be heard over the storm outside.

“Adristya.” The stranger spoke barely above a whisper through clenched teeth. He had faced off against and destroyed many a foul creature, but this was Nerio’s finest creation, a legendary Vryke with centuries of experience and a body count in the millions. Killing her would not only be an absolute pleasure, but it would certainly draw out the old vampire himself.

Sensing a very slight lapse in focus, Adristya made an opportunistic lunge at the stranger hoping to catch him unaware enough to deliver a killing blow. Zeroing in on the soft tissues of the face, she aimed her claws to pierce his eyes and nostrils first. And when the inevitable screams of pain began, she would snip out the stranger’s tongue, filling his mouth with blood. Splay open the head with a slash through the mouth, snap off the top of the head, crack open the skull and devour the brain. Unlike Nerio, Adristya preferred grey matter over the genitals for snacking.

. . .

Unease and anger washed over Nerio like a bucket of ice water.

Something had changed.

He released the waitress from the yoke of his charm. She spat out his fingers in disgust and ran from the booth with her mouth covered. Nerio just stared into the space she had occupied.

The sweet smell of the Gonimi Mitera was still a tangible odor in the air, but Adristya’s intoxicating musk had diminished. Nerio tilted his head, pointing his nose skyward and slowly rotated back and forth while inhaling very deeply. He tried to lock onto a new and growing pheromone chemical concoction. Sweet and sour notes swirled in the ether, between the flavors of fat-laden fried and grilled foods, poor quality coffee, the nearly insurmountable bouquet of artificially scented hygiene products, a cacophony of human body odors, and through that labyrinth, the new scent peaked and became dominant.

It was neither decidedly human nor something he had smelled from a complement, yet was strangely familiar all the same.

For a brief moment, Nerio considered that it may be one of the other Abiding, one of his amoral, immortal kinsmen trying to break the Covenant of Queue and secure their legacy prematurely. The interactions with other Abiding had been few and far between, and the last one was nearly 500 years ago, and despite an immensely powerful sense memory, Nerio may have misplaced the scent in his remembering.

Then, in a flash, a word appeared in his mind, seemingly innocuous and irrelevant.

Gargoyle.

Nerio blinked and his jaw clenched tight.

Gargoyle.

The word flashed again, but this time it was accompanied by the memory of a face. A jolly yet intense face wearing void black spectacles, ringed with unkempt red hair and a magnificent beard to match. The face seemed to emerge from flames with a knowing smirk. Nerio inhaled sharply and shook with recollection and realization.

Gargoyle.

The ridiculous bastardization of the noble name of the House of Gargiulo, and the equally ridiculous pseudonym of Giovanni Roberto Zenzero Gargiulo, the Unabiding One.

Nerio spat at the recalled memory of a once beloved cousin, now the traitorous turncoat Dr. Gargoyle, who uses his gifts of magic and science to wage a self-righteous war on those of his own kind. He sniffed again and collected more information from the environment.

The flashes of Gargoyle were undeniable but the scent on the air was not a certainty. It had been nearly a century since his last encounter with the man and that had been but a fleeting glimpse at a great distance. But, Gargoyle had placed himself in a position to be seen then, intentionally, and frustratingly achieved his goal at the time: Drawing out Nerio with the lure of the Gonimi Mitera.

His eyes went wide with anger. The thought of being fooled again by Gargoyle’s false pheromone concoction sent fire coursing through Nerio’s veins, and then another word flashed for Nerio.

Hobo.

This one was not accompanied by an image, but the sound of the word itself. A fleeting echo on the breeze, spoken by Adristya. The fire inside him flared. Dr. Gargoyle’s offensive and transgressive human complement experiment was saddled with the antiquated moniker of Hobo.

Among the other Abiding and their collective army of true complements, this Hobo was a fable, a rumor, a boogeyman for vampires, undoubtedly fabricated by the constantly scheming and ever devious Dr. Gargoyle to foment unease. But, Nerio had no hesitation believing that the Hobo was real and that Adristya had encountered it.

He was also confident that whatever Dr. Gargoyle had created could not match even the most inept complement. The rationale was simple: humans are weak, and monsters are strong. There was no amount of improvement or manipulation that could peak a human to match any true complement for strength and ferocity.

Deeply inhaling several more times, Nerio took in the smell of the Gonimi Mitera and despite the doubt raised by the potential presence of Dr. Gargoyle and his Hobo, he was certain that this time the Mother was genuine, in the area, and ready to receive.