Nicholas’ head snapped up instinctively, his breath hissing through his teeth as he fought to hold at bay the vertigo that always accompanied the unexpected clairvoyance. The images were grayed, blurry, the more distinct shapes leaving trails of light on his vision. All was chaos at first, the shapes moving too quickly for Nicholas to make sense of them. He felt as if he were standing neck-deep in whitewater rapids, except what rushed against him wasn’t water.
It was people, he realised.
Were those screams?
He turned to face the current. A terrified stampede surrounded him, but the cries he heard came from none of them. Sweeping his gaze across the phantoms yielded nothing—until it fell upon the far junction. The gray reeled again, wrenching him through the maddened herd and around the corner. More frightened people, but as they fled they were looking upwards.
Something clung to the wall above the concourse.
His vision spun, racing down the rows of shops, and Nicholas caught sight of a second creature, and a third—and then the maelstrom fixed his attention on a single person kneeling in the middle of the floor, clutching their hands to their head as they jerked back and forth.
Here was the source of the screams.
Colors exploded into his mind, the sights and sounds of Hallmark’s returning with staggering abruptness. His breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes, letting the moment pass. His innards roiled in protest at the episode and threatened insurrection; Nicholas focused on breathing, unwilling to make a spectacle of himself in the middle of a gift shop, and sent choice curses at the Messengers for their unwelcome gift. He didn’t have time for this. Not today. Not now.
A hand brushed his left arm and he jerked around, relaxing again when he saw the auburn-haired store employee. She was young, probably in college, and nervous concern lined her face.
“Sir?” she was asking. “Are you all right, sir?”
Nicholas sighed, and tried not to notice how well her figure complemented the store uniform.
“No, no I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head and avoiding her eyes. “Thanks, though.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed, dubious. “You look really pale. Can I get you a bottle of water?”
“I’m sure. It looks worse than it is, trust me.”
“Well . . . can I help you find anything, then, sir?”
“No thanks.” He affected a rueful smile. “I was just leaving.”
He exited the mall quickly, striding towards the most remote end of the parking lot, where he’d been forced to leave his car, while still attempting to shake off the lingering effects of the Sight. The precognitive visions had begun coming to him shortly after his imbuement as a Hunter, and ever since he’d had difficulty coping with the disorientation that always followed them. It was much less pronounced these days, and he had even learned to tap the sense himself to a degree, but the Sight had been given by the Messengers, and their tool was used predominantly at their discretion.
They also tended to delight in subjecting him to occluded riddles. More often than not Nicholas was forced to depend on time and patience, along with the skills he’d acquired as a police detective before becoming a Hunter, to fully comprehend and appropriately deal with those occasions for which he was called to service. It was rare for him to understand a vision as soon as he received it. This one had been one of the clearest so far, and Nicholas understood why.
He had no idea how much time he had before the creatures overran the mall, but he would not fight them unarmed. The push of a button on his keychain popped the trunk of his bronze Chevy compact, where his combat gear could be stored out of sight. He’d worked with a rookie Hunter not too long ago who had insisted on leaving his equipment strewn across the back seat , and when the man had been arrested on suspicion, Nicholas had come close to leaving the fool in jail. Unfortunately he had needed the assistance, so he had left a message on HunterNet and the Watcher—Nicholas frowned at the thought of the man—had resolved the situation in a matter of hours. The rookie had followed Nicholas’ orders obediently for the remainder of the week. Small victories.
Nicholas yanked off his leather jacket and switched it for a worn, dark-gray duster splotched with bloodstains. Despite what was shown in the movies, it was almost impossible to avoid the spray, he mused, and its size and weight sometimes made it more trouble than it was worth. But thick leather was much better at stopping raking talons than polyester, and a questionable and dated taste in coats was preferable to knowing hospital staff by name.
He tossed the coat over the trunk lid, ignoring the heavy thump from the pockets. A quick rummage yielded a long black scabbard, both tip and locket overlaid with steel. A sturdy, royal blue material wrapped the longsword’s grip, its colors slightly dingy from palm sweat. Its pommel was long and slender, capped by a miniature mace, and its guard curved elegantly out and away from the hilt and bore no ornaments, save the simple triangular ram guard which fit seamlessly into the niche of the locket. The hilt of a small hunting knife protruded from a sheath built into the scabbard’s outer face.
A black leather belt dangled from the scabbard. Nicholas whipped off his own and slid the sword belt on in its place. A gun holster hung from the belt on the hip opposite the sword. A second rummage produced the sleek black occupant: a revolver, a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum single-action, for which Nicholas had long since discarded his old police-issue Glock. It was clunkier, admittedly, and boasted a smaller clip and longer reload besides, but the Blackhawk could stop a car in a single shot if you knew how to shoot it.
And it didn’t jam. That was really the important thing.
The hand cannon nestled snugly in its holster, Nicholas donned his duster and slammed the trunk shut. Firing off a last indignant thought at the Messengers, he squared himself and headed back towards the mall.
