Albus didn't feel like going any further. Instead, he sat against the wall in a position that would cause any human serious spinal injury and a number of other organs, and began carefully tending the equipment that would one day allow (if not already) the continuation of his species.
"Fucking cat!" Krystian Villon cursed. He hated it when Albus did that. "Come on, flea man!" he hissed, nudging the cat with the arm of his crossbow.
Albus glared at him reproachfully, but stood up and walked along sewer number 57/06, which ran beneath Warsaw's Dolna Street. The ginger tom skillfully avoided the larger piles of various filth in his path. Krystian checked the map again. They should soon reach a fork.
The Warsaw Water Management Department had ensured that the sewer system at this point had adequate capacity, so Krystian could move in, let's say, an upright position. The tunnels were very old, possibly built in the late 19th or early 20th century. The solid, massive walls and ceiling reminded Krystian of the dungeons of medieval strongholds. The deeper he sank into the darkness of the fetid labyrinth, the more he sensed a presence somewhere nearby.
The redhead stopped suddenly, sniffed for a moment, flattened his ears
(or rather, one. His left one had been bitten off when he was a kitten)
, and hissed in a long, drawn-out hiss. Villon froze in an instant. He stared into the darkness and held it for a moment. Albus was still hissing, fur bristling.
The hunter finally saw the eyes of the man who had forced him to wade ankle-deep in the filth of half Mokotów half the night before.
"Tell this scum to be quiet, or I'll deal with him," the man hidden in the darkness rasped with a thick Russian accent.
"Albus, be quiet!" – Krystian whispered nervously.
The cat fell silent after a moment. “
Damn it, how does he know my name?!,” the newly minted Guild agent wondered. “By the way, I have to change it. Why did my mother have to marry a frog?”
“You’re coming with me, Rubov. The Guild office issued a warrant for you,” Villon growled, putting as much confidence into each word as he could muster.
“What?” the hunted man rumbled.
“18 corpses, all torn to pieces. That’s enough for the Guild.
” “Why would I go with you, rookie?
Damn Russian,” Krystian cursed silently. It infuriated him when someone pointed out his lack of experience.
“They pay well for you, both alive and dead,” the hunter hissed, gripping his crossbow tighter.
"Chardyś," the Russian cackled. "You say the Guild sends you... alone... for me... You're already dead." The calm, or rather amusement, with which Rubov uttered his last words terrified the hunter even more than the scream that followed, quickly turning into the roar of a wild animal, than the sickening squelch of tearing skin, than the droplets of blood falling on his face, than the sight of Rubov's eyes widening, filling with blood, changing color—wolf eyes. The
next second, a hairy, two-hundred-kilo projectile, bristling with claws and fangs, plunged at Krystian with tremendous speed. Villon raised his crossbow, already pulling the trigger, almost hearing the snap of the bowstring... Or was it the sound of the hunter's ribs breaking? Too slow. He wouldn't make it. He fell against the wall under the blow, momentarily dazed. The werewolf roared and charged at Krystian, whose entire life was flashing before his eyes…
•
“Damn boring,” muttered Krystian Villon, a twenty-year-old medical student at the Medical University of Warsaw. A bachelor.
The girl across from him looked at him searchingly.
“Really, nothing interesting has happened in your life?” asked Ewa Majewska, a twenty-one-year-old law student at the University of Warsaw. A single woman.
“Seriously, nothing comes to mind. Just some nonsense, nothing special.”
They were both sitting in the corner of Ewa’s favorite café, Zielona Filiżanka. The subdued colors, soft lighting, and soft music playing gave the place a unique character. It was even romantic.
“If you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself, fine. I’ll leave it at that.”
Krystian smiled slightly.
“I wish I could tell you something, but unfortunately… You know, I haven’t thought about it until now, but now I’m starting to wonder… I don’t have any interesting memories. I must have been terribly wronged by life.” Or retarded," he added.
They both started laughing. It was nice. They'd been sipping coffee and chatting for quite a while, and more importantly, they weren't bored—their first date was going perfectly. Krystian glanced around the room. At the next table, a gray-haired man sat with a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading a newspaper, and in front of him, on the table, was a makeshift ashtray made from a saucer with a rather large pile of cigarette butts.
"Excuse me," the student said. "Could you put out your cigarette? This is a non-smoking establishment?"
The stranger looked at him strangely but removed the cigarette from his mouth. He stubbed it out
and said in a low voice,
"Sorry, I didn't notice."
The meeting dragged on until late at night. Then, as planned, he walked Ewa home, kissed her, promised to meet her soon, and headed for the dorm. He was excited. As always, he intended to get to his apartment through the park. The problem with the park was that lately all sorts of shady characters had taken a liking to it. After dark, it was rather dangerous there. Walking along the main path, Villon wished he had eyes in the back of his head. Then he wouldn't have to wave his head so often to see what was happening around him. Despite the lit streetlights, the park was very dark, difficult to navigate, and various thugs had gained plenty of hiding places where they could ambush a potential victim—him, or so Villon reasoned. As he walked, he drew closer and closer to a well-lit bench where, Krystian thought, some guy was dozing.
"Give me your cell phone," hissed a ragged man sitting on the bench directly in front of him.
Krystian froze. The man had the hood of a worn sweatshirt pulled up over his head. His attire suggested he was homeless. The thief stood up and approached Villon. Seeing the fear in the student's eyes, the tramp smiled devilishly and pulled down his hood.
He looked like a desiccated corpse. He also had completely red pupils and bloodshot whites of his eyes. In his mouth, however, were unnaturally long fangs.
"I was joking," he hissed again, "I think I'll settle for a little of your vitae."
Krystian didn't know what he meant, but decided not to wait for an explanation and ran. He heard wild, manic laughter behind him. He turned to assess the distance between them, but there was no one behind him. He didn't like it at all. When he looked ahead, he almost collided with a fanged beggar standing in front of him. The man instantly grabbed his arm. Then it turned out that his fingers were tipped with razor-sharp claws that easily pierced clothing, skin, and muscle, reaching bone.
"AAAAARRRGHHH!!!" Villon roared like a slaughtered animal.
He backhanded the monster, hitting it square in the face, and it let go. Adrenaline took over. Despite the pain, Krystian jumped to his feet and ran faster
than ever. Farther. He had already run about 25 meters when he heard the monster burst into laughter again and jump.
THUD!
With the force of a locomotive, something knocked him off his feet and pinned him to the ground. It was the beggar sitting on his back, about to bite into his neck.
At that moment, somewhere near the macabre scene, a gunshot rang out.
The snow around the unfortunate student turned completely red. Villon lay in a pool of blood and entrails. He was panting and vomiting alternately. His savior approached a little. Krystian recognized his weapon—a Colt 1911. He also recognized the savior himself. It was the smoker from the café. The gray-haired man stepped closer, examined Krystian, and finally spoke.
"You'll get over it, son. Now listen, I have an offer you can't refuse.
"
Villon tore off a page from the calendar in his current apartment—room 19 in the west wing of the Hunters' Guild Hall. It was March 23rd.
"How time flies," he muttered.
"Yeah."
The one who nodded was Damian Kożycki, Villon's roommate and also a fellow student from training and lectures at the elite monster hunters' association. They were the same age.
"Did the Smoking Man drag you into this too?" asked the usually uncommunicative Damian.
"What?
" "Nothing. I was wondering if he was their only scout.
" "Hehe... Damian?
" "Well?
" "How did he recruit you?
" "I saw him take down a ghoul at Powązki Cemetery, so he gave me a choice: Either I'll be useful, or the best specialists straight from the Soviet KGB will brainwash me.
" "Hmm... it's like with me..."
Krystian glanced at his watch. 21 - it's time...
" "Time to go, partner, wish me luck.
" "Hazing, huh?... Break a leg," Damian smiled.
Viollon smiled back.
"I hope not," he thought, "I like my legs."
•
The newly minted Guild hunter walked down a wide, dark corridor in full gear. He was wearing Kevlar, light version. The long, thick leather coat on top was full of nooks, crannies, and hidden pockets. It was perfect for concealing and carrying a variety of equipment whose sole, or primary, purpose was to inflict harm on others (and a whole host of other beings).
He carried all manner of shurikens, spiked balls, smoke bombs, a crossbow, offensive and defensive grenades, silver and aspen stakes, a crucifix. Conventional bullets, piercing, incendiary, blessed, and silver. A Bowie knife, and the latest toy in his collection, the symbol of the hunter, a shiny, chrome Colt 1911 with the guild symbol engraved on the handle.
"Fuck, this is all heavy!" Villon groaned. "I have to leave this in the briefing room later."
He wore sturdy military boots, but despite this, he moved silently. Perhaps it was due to Villon's superior skills, or perhaps to the soft, ancient carpet beneath his feet. As old as the carpet but slightly less worn, portraits of the Guild leaders who had guided this secret and powerful organization for centuries glared at Krystian with critical eyes from portraits on both sides of the corridor. The hunter didn't reciprocate. He was too focused on the door marked "Briefing Room" at the end of the path and... on maintaining his balance. Entering the room at the end of the corridor
,
he took the designated seat in front of the projector screen. Villon was now sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The seat creaked loudly with every movement of the man it carried, so Krystian tried not to shift too much, which is why he didn't take a close look at the place he was in. It was a rather spacious, dark, oval room. The old paneling had clearly worn thin, warping and peeling here and there. On the walls hung maps of the Guild's operational areas and a substantial collection of all sorts of weapons, from ancient bladed weapons to state-of-the-art toys so technologically advanced that a soldier's only task was to pull the trigger; everything else was handled by the weapon itself. In the center stood a long oak table. Behind one end stood a desk with a projector, and further on, a screen for showing slides or films was mounted on the wall. The table itself was surrounded by a number of chairs, one of which Krystian was currently sitting.
Out of nowhere, his "partner" appeared – a ginger tomcat missing one ear – Albus.
What a ridiculous name for a cat, Krystian thought.
Albus was the guide – a specially selected and trained cat from the Guild's in-house breeding facility. A rather unusual animal. Well, a guide, as Villon learned during lectures at the Hunters' Guild academy, is a cat that accompanies the hunter on every mission. It has a natural ability to perceive or detect supernatural phenomena. That's why Krystian also needed a guide – he was given Albus, and the fact that neither side liked the other didn't matter.
The redhead took a seat next to Villon, curled up, and took a nap, deeply disregarding what the operations commander had to say. The latter, in turn, spoke volumes.
"Alexei Rubov," began Michał Borowski, the operations commander, while slides were projected on the projector screen set against the wall behind him. "Aka the Saint, or the Saint of the Homeless." That's ironic, of course, do you understand, Krystian?"
Villon nodded. Borowski continued.
"Rubov is a lycanthrope, a renegade, and a multiple murderer. As a werewolf, he has to kill to obtain food, but Rubov turned every kill into a slaughterhouse, a bloodbath… Not that I'm justifying other murders, but Rubov is a true beast."
Images of the mutilated bodies of Alexei's victims flashed on the screen.
"The Guild decided to capture him and attempt to 'rehabilitate' him," the operations commander smiled knowingly. "Of course, in the event of determined resistance, they allowed him to be disposed of once and for all. The price on his head is €200,000 – difficulty category II, but I think you can handle him, Krystian."
Villon frowned, not liking being criticized for his inexperience.
"Where did I end up?" Aha. Rubov was recently hanging around the sewer system in Mokotów. Good. Briefing over, good luck, Krystian, break a leg.
I hope not, the hunter thought, I like my legs. The
monster
lunged at Villon, but halfway there, he slowed, stopped, and groaned. Krystian glanced at the groove in his crossbow—it was empty. The hunter's gaze drifted toward Rubov. The silver bolt was now embedded in the guts of the half-man, half-wolf. The monster, spouting blood from the severed arteries inside its body, took a few hesitant steps back, staggered, and collapsed against the wall opposite the hunter, splashing sewage mixed with gore everywhere. What fell was still a werewolf, but what hit the wall was only a man. A short, plump, bald, naked, and half-dead individual. Rubov wheezed and coughed heavily. Blood poured from its mouth and wounds appeared on its stomach. The sewage in which he lay was beginning to take on an increasingly intense crimson hue.
"You got me, you damned witcher," he poured as much hatred and contempt into his words as he could muster.
Krystian said nothing. Rubov panted. Blood foamed at his lips. Life was draining from him rapidly. The moment of silence was broken by another coughing fit.
"I hope they offered more for a living one," the Russian cackled.
Then he coughed again, wheezed, and died. His body went completely still. The diffuse, flickering light of Villon's torch, abandoned nearby, created hypnotizingly macabre shadows on the lycanthrope's body.
Albus's sneeze woke Krystian from his shock and trance. Staggering, he stood up and approached the Russian's corpse.
"Fuck, I hate this job," Villon cursed under his breath. "Come on, Albus, let's get going."
The Hunter gathered his things, slung Rubov's body over his shoulder, and set off back the same way he'd come. Albus ran ahead of him, looking around warily.
"This place stinks...
I'll have to wash my coat again when I get back," thought Krystian Villon, the newly minted field agent for the Hunters' Guild.
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