Nathan Griffin Glimpses

[Nathan Griffin]

Eons ago it might have been awkward, but by now he had become very good at ignoring his cousin. So he just let Arthur hide behind a newspaper while he... well, he was enjoying a sugary breadstick with some coffee. Arthur's eyes briefly peeked out from above the newspaper for a second there, but a glare and a demanding "What?" had been enough to set things back to equilibrium.

"Hey, Nate!" a young woman with a purple hair had just entered the cafeteria and, after a cursory look, headed straight to their table. She sat down without bothering to ask. "Thought I'd find you here."

The newspaper came down again and the Hunterheart saw himself facing those mismatched eyes again. He swallowed.

"Hey, Liz. I don't think you've met my cousin Arthur?"

"I'm sure I'd remember," she was beaming.

"I'm sure you would. It's a very traumatic experience. I haven't gotten over it yet."

She giggled and leaned towards him, unfazed at Arthur's unhappy expression.

"Your cousin here," she said, "it's a freaking hero. I mean he like, literally saved my life."

The blonde man looked skeptical. Nathan mouthed I found her dog and quickly hid it with a smile and a sip of coffee.

"Unbelievable," was all his cousin said before going back to his newspaper.

"Right? Don't let it go to your head though," she added to Nathan in a playful tone.

Liz was a little closer than he felt comfortable with. Her fingers were brushing his way too leisurely. He would have assumed, for the sake of his sanity, that she was just the very friendly ADHD type. But he could feel his fae senses tingling.

"Actually," he shot up from his seat. "We kind of have somewhere to be. Really nice seeing you, Liz. Uh, take care of Bella. And you. I mean, take care too."

For the first time in forever, he found himself almost dragging a surprised Arthur out of his seat. God, she smells good. He pushed that thought aside and took his backpack from the floor.

"Oh, that's a shame," she sounded disappointed, but not very much. She smiled again. "But hang on a sec," she rummaged through her purse until she found some sort of ticket. "Take this. Please? I'd like to thank you for, you know. Plus you'll see me perform! I promise, it'll be really, really amazing."

It was for some kind of show. A magician's show? The word "amazing" was indeed printed in huge letters right on the forefront. To his credit, it took him almost three whole seconds to accept. Arthur snorted.

[Nathan Griffin]

"Do you have a history of emotional problems, Mr. Griffin?"

He blew out a puff of smoke from his cigarette and watched it dissipate in the air. The police officer was really bad at hiding her weariness. Fingers tapping the desk, brows furrowed, tongue licking her lips... Textbook. Around them it was absolute chaos, with cops running around the street to keep pedestrians away.

"Sure. I get very emotional when people hold me against my will."

"This is not a good time for jokes, sir."

"Good. What I'm doing here? Not joking."

She sighed.

"You do realize you knocked someone's teeth out, right?"

"I don't know my own strength. I'm sure he'll get new ones."

"If this were to happen again..."

"No promises."

She gave him a hard look. For a moment he thought he was getting arrested.

"Fine. You can go."

He pushed himself away from the car and took another smoke. He was picking up some very bad habits. What doesn't kill you... Behind them a man was breathing into a bag while two others had been handcuffed. One of them was holding a handkerchief to his mouth. As he was leaving the officer spoke from behind him.

"Good job on saving that guy from getting beat up, by the way."

"It's what I do."

[Nathan Griffin]

He had almost fallen asleep, lying on a park bench and with Led Zeppelin's voice blaring through his earphones, when he caught it. It was hard to miss for someone like him, but he hadn't expected it, not there at that time of day. It was the taste of fear. He sat up immediately and took the earphones off, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It wasn't far. Just a few feet off the bench a girl — ten or eleven, maybe; he had never been very good at telling age — was staring at something. Her eyes were fixed on it, barely even moving to notice Nathan getting up. And she was shaking, while taking tiny, tentative steps forward.

She was looking at Beethoven. The black labrador was huge and resting on the side of Nathan's bench. His eyes were fixed on the girl but showed nothing but absolute disinterest. Next to him was a soccer ball.

"Hey, Claire!" a boy's voice came from some distance away. "Would you bring it already?"

"I'm coming!" she shouted back, although her voice was as shaky as her body.

Nathan heard the boy laughing, soon followed by others. "That your friend?" he asked.

"My brother," she said, still watching Beethoven. "He dared me to do it. He knows I'm scared of... It's stupid."

"Nah," the Hunterheart answered. "Dogs are scary. Beethoven here could bite your fingers off if he wanted to," the girl became pale. It wasn't the reaction he was looking for. "I mean, he won't. But he could. So you see, it's not stupid."

He leaned and scratched the dog's head. The two beasts looked at each other and there was an understanding.


A moment later, the terrified yells and screams of the boys could be heard easily from the bench.

"Will they be alright?" Claire only seemed slightly worried.

"He's harmless. They'll just get a good scare, maybe learn a thing or two from it."

She looked at Nathan with something resembling... admiration? "How did you do that?"

He considered his answer for a moment. "I speak dog," he answered, deadly serious.

Her eyes went wide as coins. He nodded. Yeah, right?

[Nathan Griffin]

"So what can I get you, sir?" said Nathan, standing in an impeccable military posture, with both arms behind his back.

That seemed to draw the young college student out of his stupor. His eyes wandered away from his phone with some hesitation, over his menu and to the waiter in from of him. Nathan wasn't very tall, but he was muscular enough that it didn't matter. He dwarfed his client in pure body mass.

"Dude, where did you get those?" the young man asked, with a tone somewhere between curiosity and admiration. He was pointing to the scars on the Hunterheart's neck and face.

"Out hunting."

"Hunting?" the other one laughed. "No way. Who does that this days?"

"I have no idea. Wasn't that much fun. Sorry, sir, but unless you're ready to order..."

"No, no, no," Chuckles grabbed his phone again. "Hang on. Let me take a picture. Geez, those are nasty..."

Moron. "Excuse me, sir. The next table is waiting." The boy looked like he wanted to protest, but he left before he had the chance.

Some time later he called again. "Hey, waiter! You there!" He snapped his fingers and whistled like he was calling to a dog. Nathan gritted his teeth, wishing he could take a bite of the little brat. Chuckles wanted him to show the scars to his little band of brothers. The Hunterheart took their order in absolute silence.

---

It was almost morning. His shift was over and he was right outside the diner on his way home when the annoying kid came a knocking again.

"I swear it, man, just one pict..."

It didn't take much. Nathan turned to him without a warning and put a hand on his neck. There was no force, no choking, no scratching. But it was suggestive enough.

"Y'know, kid, I was a soldier. I've killed people."

Those two things weren't exactly related, but it was close enough. He patted Chuckles on the cheek and, without further ado, left him there. Ah, fear. Smells like chicken.

[Nathan Griffin]

The wind swept the rocky sand of the canyon's depths, blowing it in every direction without logic or rhythm. One moment it was so weak it could barely be felt, the next a thousand grains would be pushed upwards, up to the very sky, where they engraved themselves into new constellations. Then it was quiet again.

It was night. It was cold. The Hunterheart shook, just a little, just enough to feel the fragile fragility of his humanity. Then there were stones. A ritual circle, with a strange symbol on its centers. Small stony altars with bowls or bones on top. In the middle...

A scarecrow. But it wasn't a scarecrow. It was Him. Large, cloaked, ominous. On top of His body there was a skull. Not like any beast's the Hunterheart could identify, but familiar nonetheless. Elongated like a horse's, with fangs like a coyote's, horns like a goat's; its eye sockets... The spectral glint wasn't there. Was it gone? Was it dead? Dread took over his whole being and he... approached it. What else was there to do? The path darkened behind and forward. It darkened everywhere. Where were his steps leading him? He couldn't tell. Not for the life of him.

Shaking hands held the mask. The hellish visage. And there, it glinted. A green glow, for the merest second. He recoiled, but the monster stood still and lifeless, the light gone. He grasped it again, more hesitantly. Nothing. He thought he could hear a gurgling sound, like a distant stream or, or... someone drowning. Then he took the mask of and it was gone. Only black blood remained, dripping off a headless body which fell of with a strong thud.

The mask was covered with it on the inside. It dripped from its sockets, like black tears. The Hunter could hear music. He could glimpse shades dancing around the circle, faerie fires burning in their eyes. They were whispering, or was it chanting? He could barely make it out, and they vanished when he tried to fix his attention on them.

The mask went to his face. It was a perfect fit. The last thing the Rider saw was a comet shooting through the sky.

---

"Sir? Sir!"

There was something cold on his face. It got into his throat, and he felt himself choking on it for a moment before he turned on his side and spat the water next to the park bench. The man who had woken him was an old, haggard homeless guy with a bottle of water in one hand and a terrified expression on his face.

"You alright, sir? You were pale and cold as a ghost, I tell you. Couldn't even hear you breathe. I thought maybe..."

"I'm fine. Can I...?" he grabbed the bottle from the old man's hand and took a dip sit from it. "I'm fine. Thank you. Really, I'm... I'm okay."

Just remembering things I'd rather stayed forgotten.

[Nathan Griffin]

It hurt like a bitch. But it wasn't a dealbreaker.

Indeed, before his opponent had had a chance to celebrate landing that punch, Nathan had knocked him off his feet, putting him on level ground. His overconfidence had brought him down, literally. The Hunterheart was up before the other man had even hit the ground face down, and he jumped on his back and locked both hands around the other's neck, pulling back. There were stifled grunts of pain growing increasingly fierce and vain attempts to break from the hold by pulling the 'ling's feet.

"Okay, enough of that!" yelled the self-styled arbiter of the match. "I reckon we can all tell who's won this one, yeah?"

Nathan rose up, kicking the other wrestler in the back to prevent him from retaliating. He grabbed a can of beer someone handed him, popped it open, and drank it thirstily. Much of it ended up dripping all over the floor and on his bare torso. He wiped the remnants of the drink from his mouth and crushed it into a flat, aluminum disk.

"I want my money," he stammered between agitated breaths. The other guy had gotten up slowly, still stinking of the dread that had inundated him when he felt himself about to be strangled.

"All yours," he pointed back to a bottle stuffed with dollar bills that was resting on a rock. All the contestants had been leaving their little contribution before joining in on a fight. Seemed like he was taking it home. That'll be a pain to get out.

"'Less someone wants to step up, right?" the Hunterheart said, examining the small crowd. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

"I'd like to give it a try" someone said, struggling to get to the front.

"Alright," he threw the beercan away and spat. "Let's see what you got."

[Nathan Griffin]

He woke up in the most unlikely of places, just having had a nightmare yet not remembering what it had been about. He blinked a few times, trying to get used to the intense white light coming out of the screen. He had heard a loud thud along with the rattle of popcorn against the floor. He bent down and placed the box back on his lap, grabbing a handful of the stuff while looking around to see how many people were left. Some, apparently.

"Dude, I'm quitting everything..." he heard an anguished voice complain a few seats away. What a weird thing to say. He looked back to the screen, trying to figure out what the movie was about. He didn't as much as remember the title. He had just asked the girl selling the tickets if there were any horror movies playing at the time. She had given him a strange look and directed him towards where he was now, surrounded by a bunch of easily scared little fucks. A new low, for sure.

Watching the movie didn't clarify things. There was a woman and she... was about to get eaten by her refrigerator? Huh? What the hell was that about? Was that one of those artsy pieces of "modern art" that were all the rage these days? Who would have figured: furniture horror! Next up, ladies and gentlemen, Brave Little Toaster: The Revenge.

Still, fear was fear, and glamour was glamour. He picked up his orange soda and enjoyed a long, refreshing sip. Did they put caffeine on that, or was it just coke? He sure hoped they did. No way he was staying awake otherwise.

[Nathan Griffin]

Bars turned out to be perfectly good hunting places, especially when sober. That was the hard part, but having to serve other people's drinks somewhat precluded him from gulping down his own. He was sure to get an earful for it — not that he would care all that much, but appearances were important. That much he had learnt, this side of the curtain as well as in the other.

He was serving a dead man. There was no one else who could possibly have that much fear, not of his type. The man was drinking to gather courage, he could tell. One scotch, and another, and another, and another, until common sense and caution had fled all the way to hell. He might have dismissed it as something far more mundane (he wouldn't be the first one trying to psych himself up to hit on the more feminine part of the serving staff) if the new resident drunkard hadn't been so godawful at hiding his gun. Not the type one carried around for sport or even safety, either. The expensive sort, rather. He'd be terrible at shooting it as well, the Hunterheart had no doubt. And that would be the end of him and his shady back alley deals, which he had had a chance to be witness to more than one night working late.

Yes, the man was dead. As he served another drink and let the nervous little individual serve him a feast of Glamour in return, the changeling marveled at how little he cared.

[Nathan Griffin]

It ain't easy, livin' like a gypsy; tell ya, honey, how I feel. He whispered along the lyrics even though he could barely hear them; he had learned them by heart a long time ago. He gritted his teeth, fighting to untangle the knot of loose cables that had formed at his feet while keeping an eye out on the entrance, a good forty or fifty feet down, and trying to keep the earphones from flying all the way down the proscenium. The place was darker than a strip club, and the last thing he needed was falling off the catwalk and breaking his neck. He let out a low grunt as he managed to untangle the fucking Gordian knot, just in time to hear voices coming from the reception.

"This place looks spooky," it was a girl's voice.

"Yeah... Hey, you think maybe it's haunted?" the changeling moved just off the catwalk and turned off the earphones. Peeking from behind the corner of a stony, decrepit little room, he saw the arcs of two flashlights roaming about the ground floor. "Hello?" the second girl said. "Helloooooo? ANYONE HERE?"

The shout bounced off the walls, producing an eerie echo. There was a moment of tense silence. Then one of the girls said "boo," breaking the suspense and causing a torrent of giggles from the both of them.

"Did you hear that?" the laughter had stopped short. Nathan had heard it: it sounded like something heavy repeatedly hitting metal. He could hear it very well because it had been his feet on the catwalk, as he rushed to recover the cable. "Anyone there?" the question came less confidently this time. They pointed their flashlights to the ceiling, but they couldn't see him. Even if he hadn't gotten out of the way the catwalk could only be seen from the stage.

A low, deep growl now. "Maybe there's..." again, louder this time, "...some kind of animal? A dog or..." a creaking noise cut her short. A bright light that put the girls' flashlights to shame flickered on and off as it swung left and right, up and down the dilapidated remains of the theater.

"Oh, come on," the woman walked to and climbed the stage, ignoring the protests and gasps of the other. She stood in the very middle of it, fuming with anger and her fists to her hips. The stage lights finally rested on her.

"I'm very sorry to be a party killer, but that ends our scheduled haunting for the day," Nathan came out into the catwalk and stood behind the lamp, smiling like a fool. The light from the contraption kept flashing, alternatively obscuring and illuminating his features.

"I thought you said you'd be coming by later," it was an accusation, no doubt about it.

"Yeah, can't believe you fell for that."

"Come the hell down. And fuck you."

He chuckled at that. "Yeah, fuck me."

He could feel their glare all the way down the rusty metal ladders.