Angel

The store just looks completely out of place in town. There are archaic-looking runes carved on either side of the door, which looks like a solid slab of wood and is iron-bound with a large elaborate carving of a cross that covers the entire door. The cross unnerves me a bit, though I don’t know why. The rest of the building is made of brick, with crumbling mortar and faded green wooden shutters. The two display windows are empty, draped in sheets, and the whole building looks hundreds of years old; but there isn’t a single piece of graffiti on it. I stand there staring at the graffiti covered buildings to either side of the small store until Fang, tugging on my sleeve to get my attention, pulls me to the door.

“Try not to touch the cross,” he says over his shoulder. I look at him confused, “it doesn’t burn us, but it’s very unpleasant, like when your foot goes to sleep.”

An old-fashioned bell jingles as he pushes open the door and holds it open for me. I step through warily, feeling a slightly unpleasant jarring sensation that sends a shiver down my back. I almost step back onto the street but Fang pulls me farther in. To my heightened senses the small shop seems musty, and I can smell what seems to be centuries of human lives that have walked through the building; more than eighty percent of them Hunters. How I know this I haven’t a clue, and my confusion is threatening to break through the walls I instinctively built around it. The moment we enter the building a small mousey human smelling slightly of fear, which he hides very well, comes out from behind a beaded curtain strung across the doorway behind the antique varnished wooden cashier’s counter. He smiles somewhat nervously, licking his lips. The man seems quite unremarkable to me; his brown hair thinning slightly, and wearing a very bland tweed suit, but I can tell that he has some inherent power. I automatically recognize him as the source of the unpleasant jarring in the doorway; which I now realize as a vampire deterrent if the cross should ever fail. He looks at me, and tries to make his smile seem more welcoming.
“You’re new,” he glances up and down my figure in a way that I feel inappropriate. I glare at him and he stiffens, averting his eyes. He is even more nervous now and I can smell the fear coming off him strongly, like too much cologne. “So,” he clears his throat, “what have you decided to call yourself?”

I blink, confused, and stare at him.

“Your name, what’s your name?” he clarifies.

I wrack my brains, something always on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to remember my name. I can feel Fang watching me, and I know that he is concerned. Then the fragment of a phrase comes floating foggily to the front of my mind.

“…goodnight, angel…”

“It’s Angel.” I say, and I can’t help the smallest of smiles from tugging at my lips.

“Interesting choice,” the man smiles approvingly, “and as far as I know you are the first Hunter ever to use it. I am Marcus.” He extends a hand out to me, and I take it gingerly; humans, in my mind, being frail creatures.

He grimaces and I know I’ve squeezed too hard. “Sorry,” I murmur, letting go of his hand.

“Happens all the time.” Marcus rubs his hand slightly, and then he seems to change into an entirely different person as he turns and lays the entire store out with a sweep of his hands. “Welcome. Let me show you around. You’ve obviously come here for more than just talking.” As he moves down the small aisle between the counter and the rest of the room, the change becomes even more dramatic. His skin darkens to a rich cinnamon, and his eyes seem to alternate between clear amber and warm chestnut. The unappealing tweed suit melts into a tight black leather jacket, skintight black silk shirt, and black canvas pants that fit tight from the waist to the calves, then flare dramatically. His face changes, becoming dangerous, but still human, and he gains several inches in height. The farther he walks into the store, the brighter the room becomes, until it is flooded with light.

“A glamour,” Fang is right beside my ear, “Marcus is a mage, forge magic mostly, but the glamour keeps the curious humans at bay.” I am listening, of course, but most of my attention is drawn to the wall at the very back of the room.

The wall, it seems, is a glittering mass of steel. Every type of sword ever created, or close, hangs in pairs on it. Every one of them is perfect and beautiful; some simply made, some covered in what seems like hundreds of gems and gilt. Even from across the room, my eyes can pick out every detail of every weapon. But I am drawn to one pair in particular. I cross the room without even noticing and stop; reflected in my eyes are two perfect oval sapphires, each set in the hilts of two elegant Spanish fencing swords. The base of each blade is a perfect delicate one-and-one-half inch, and this width extends out two-and-a-half feet then narrows to a delicate six inch point. A shallow trough runs from the base to just before it narrows; and each blade is engraved with different runes.