They left. Fingernails broken and dark as night scraped pale bluish lines through the makeup the strigoi wore, stripping it away as he dragged fingers down his face. A look of pure anguish contorted broken human features.
They left. You’re alone. He rolled weight forward, shifting from seated with knees pulled close to crouching, palms pressed to hardwood floors. It had been far, far too long since Thomas’ own voice was the only that echoed in his head. For the first time in over seven decades, the voice of The Master had fallen silent. Sariel had not died, but still a sickening hollowness in his chest brought upon a sorrow so deep Thomas - even in his century of living - had not yet experienced anything close.
They left. You’re alone. They left. They always do. In a fraction of a second, the voice that spoke to Eichhorst - his own - became unrecognizable. Filters that capped senses from years and years of work fell away in an instant, upending an entire world of previously organized scents and sounds over the strigoi. He could smell everyone who resided in the complex, who had visited even months before. He could hear the quiet beating of the head of security’s heart as he sat, floors away, watching the property’s multitude of cameras.
Everything melted into a horrible blur that flooded his senses as sentience broke. But, even in this raging sea, something stood out. Ever so slightly pointed ears pulled back and Thomas carefully lifted his head as if afraid to plunge himself into the riptide of information that suddenly filled the very air around him.
He knew that scent.
The strigoi loped, still crouched, through winding streets that brushed dust across his perfectly tailored suit. The makeup on his hands wore away with each contact with the ground. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care. The smell that guided him was his sole focus. He knew it and yet...lacking even a hint of humanity, he couldn’t hope to place a face or name to it. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.
Long before he reached the shopping district, the scent hanging in the air pulled Thomas off course. Fainter tendrils beckoned from further in town, but the heavier concentration turned his route towards a small neighborhood on the outskirts of downtown. If he’d kept any ability to differentiate familiar smells, he might not have strayed from his original path.
Clouds drifted over the thin crescent of a moon, dropping the town into harsher darkness. From the front lawn of a rather unassuming home, eyes fiery as stoked coals settled on partially opened windows high above. With a running start, the strigoi leapt to the windowsill of the ground floor, pushing off to lunge upwards. Fingers caught minuscule holds between bricks and, mere seconds after he stood on the grass below, Thomas’ right arm swung above his head and made contact with the sill of the cracked window. Another second and he was inside the house.
He landed silently on the carpeted floor of the bedroom he’d pulled himself into. The scent, though the most comforting of any other he smelled that evening, was overpowering now that he neared its source. He crept into the hall, staying low to the ground.
The strigoi momentarily froze when someone reached the top step of the stairs several feet ahead. He didn’t rise from his spot inches from the ground where he’d, catlike, explored the home. Only his gaze, glassy and unfocused, traveled up to meet that of the one Eichhorst had sought out. Even as he stared directly into the eyes of the other, not an ounce of recognition crossed features or brightened a weary expression.
And, as he looked upon familiarity, an inhuman noise bubbled up from within Eichhorst’s chest, spilling from his lips. He saw Abraham Setrakian -- and he purred.
|| @intrepidity ||