Shadows in the Concrete Jungle Book One: The Grey

Prologue

The rain had drowned the city of Los Angeles for more than a day, causing the gutters to overflow with water and trash, the clouds covering any light the moon may have offered. But the man crouching on the roof of a boarded up convenience store didn't care. He preferred the darkened skies to do his work in, for it was easier to hide himself into nooks and crannies.

The witches had demurred that rain for more than a day here was a negative portent, a bad omen. But still, the shadowed man did not care. Though the rain had pelted him, his hood pulled low over his forehead, and a scarf obscuring his face, he sat still, and waited, watching.

Across from the convenience store, a shady dive club bumped with bass, colorful lights pulsing in time with the beats, red, blue, white, then red again. People stood in line, umbrellas protecting them from the onslaught of the rain, the barriers protecting their makeup, and their flashy, skimpy clothing.

His eyes shifted over every individual in the lineuntil the line ended, traveling down the alley, where two figures stood in the rain, unbothered by the downpour. There you are, he thought. He stood from his crouch, and backed up from the ledge, and with a sprint, leapt across the narrow street, landing lightly on the roof of the club, which was made of glass. Had anyone looked up, they would only see a shadow, the rain sluicing on the glass.

The hunter crept to the ledge, and peered down, the two figures in the rain sharing words in their harsh, grunting language. It made his skin crawl, the sound of Demonic being uttered so casually.

Silently, the man drew his sword from the leather sheath strapped down his back, the weight of his katana a firm reminder of his job, the runes around the hilt making his hands buzz, alerting him to his prey.

With a silent breath, he dropped from the ceiling to the ground, the katana swinging through the air.

The demons stood no chance, taken by surprise, barely having a chance to alert before the blade sang with their black blood, ending their existence for good, and turning their bodies into dust in the rain, to be washed away into infinity.

The job done, the slayer flicked the thick black ichor from the sword, resheathed it, and turned his back to the spot where the demons had stood. He tilted his head to the sky, the rain landing on his face in a gentle caress, and started away from the club.