Soul's Decay : Chapter Four

Chapter Three

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“Buenos días, mucho gusto. ¿ Cómo se llama usted?”

Mr. Macdonald spoke fluently, writing the greeting down on the whiteboard, and turned around to face the class. About half of them were dozing off, and a boy with piercings dangling from his nostrils, ears and lips was trying to hit an unsuspecting girl’s head with balled up worksheets. Some were eying the spot where the picture of a woman used to be hesitantly. They had asked the question minutes before ; “Where’s the picture, Mr. Macdonald?” and Mr. Macdonald had frowned and replied in Ancient Greek to shut them up.

Outside, the afternoon sun was extending tendrils of light towards Mr. Macdonald. You don't belong here,, it seemed to say. You don't belong here, creature of the void...

Mr. Macdonald glared back at the sun, walked over to the teacher’s desk and slammed down on it with a hand. If he didn’t know better, he would have deduced that the old, wooden desk had just broke in half. The class jumped, and became deathly quiet. The boy with the piercings slowly set down the crumpled worksheet on his desk, gulping, and tried to look like he was paying attention. Mr. Macdonald felt his eyes flash silver for a second, and he mentally bit himself, hard. “Could someone tell me what I just said?”

A quick look around the classroom told him that nobody was going to answer the question anytime soon. His grip on the edge of the desk tightened, and he heard the wood crack under his hands. With a sigh, he removed it just as quickly. “That meant, good morning, nice to meet you. How are you?”

Nobody talked, but they all stared at him as if he was a ghost from their strangest dreams. The silence was eerie, only broken occasionally by faraway sounds of students chatting, birds chirping and water running. Suddenly, the classroom seemed to be getting uncomfortably hot. Piercing Boy flinched visibly when the crumpled worksheet dropped down onto the floor and rolled forward until it stopped right next to the girl sitting in front of him.

Mr. Macdonald walked back to the whiteboard and hit it lightly with his palm. The sound echoed around the room. “Well? You just learned a new sentence. Stick it in your useless brains and say it.”

“Buenos días, mucho gusto. ¿Cómo se llama usted?” A single voice broke the silence, and Mr. Macdonald looked at the source of the voice with a wide smile. It was a small girl, who looked like she belonged to middle school rather than West Liverpool high. She gulped, and hesitantly smiled back.

“Excelente! What was your name again?” The look the girl gave him was something that humans would direct at a person who was trying to pray for a flood in middle of a desert. Her voice was much smaller when she finally replied with a frown. “Um... Kendra, sir? Kendra Atkinson?” Abel smiled even wider. “Yes, Kendra. Thank you for actually listening to your teacher.”

Some students shifted nervously in their seats, stealing a glance or two at each other. Mr. Macdonald gave them a pointed look, and erased everything on the whiteboard. His hand paused for a moment, before it scribbled down a new sentence. His back turned to the class, he grinned slightly, just a hint of sharp teeth showing before he put it away.

“Zorro de las nueve colas.” Mr. Macdonald exclaimed, throwing his marker to the side. It clattered on the floor and rolled away into a crack. The students gave him a confused look. Mr. Macdonald stared at them, and not being able to see any comprehension on their faces, sighed heavily. “Does anybody know what I just wrote? Anyone?”

“Nine foxes?” A boy guessed, his eyebrows furrowed together, and Mr. Macdonald nodded sharply. “Próximo. Anyone have any other guesses? Hmm?”

“Tails.” An Asian girl murmured, and squinted at the board. “Tails… Nine… Fox. Nine… tailed fox.”

Mr. Macdonald looked at her, and nodded in confirmation. Her eyes brightened, and a wide smile of disbelief broke out on her face. Mr. Macdonald couldn’t help but notice, there was a tinge of fear in her eyes, behind the joy of knowing the answer to a question nobody else was bright about.

“Gumiho! Zorro de las nueve colas… that means gumiho, the mythological nine-tailed fox in Korean, Japanese and Chinese mythologies!”

“Good, very good, Ms...?”

“Su Min, Mr. Macdonald.” Su Min answered with a small frown, but it soon disappeared. Mr. Macdonald grinned at her, and scanned the class with a gleam in his eyes. “Si! She is very, very right! Nine-tailed fox, otherwise known as gumiho, kyuubi, etc, etc. And how did you know that, Su Min?”

“Well, I am Korean, and most Koreans are familiar with the concept of gumiho. Also,” She seemed to ponder whether or not to say whatever she was going to say next. Her fingers started to nervously tap against her thigh, and most of the student body rolled their eyes, as if saying, I got tired of her crap a long time ago. Mr. Macdonald felt a sudden chill go down his spine, but nodded at her to continue with a sly smile. “...Also, my parents used to say that our ancestors were Sa-Nyang-Kuns. In English, Hunters.”

Mr. Macdonald’s blood ran cold. He could feel his claws reappearing on his hands, and his heart started to beat in his ears. Thump - Thump - Thump - Su Min continued, unaware of her teacher’s transformation, which was blocked from her sight with the teacher’s desk.

“They kinda named themselves that. They actually believed that the nine-tailed foxes existed and was a danger to humanity, so they hunted them down with hunting dogs, guns and amulets written with cow blood. I think that mother used to mention that, one time, one of my ancestors, a Hunter, managed to catch a nine-tailed fox. He died days after, but he boasted his achievement to his town and burned the corpse in front of the people he could gather. So... yeah… my ancestors apparently being Hunters and my race. Korean.”

She finished breathlessly, a proud smile on her face, and looked at Mr. Macdonald for a reply. His breathing was erratic. Hunters. They are here - no, they’re not here. But she’s a Hunter. Is she? Does her ancestry make her a Hunter?

“Mr. Macdonald?” Su Min asked, worry clear in her voice. Now, everybody was staring at him. Mr. Macdonald took a deep breath, while willing his hand to go back into a human state. He gave the class a tense smile. “Very... very good, Su Min. That story certainly was interesting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Macdonald!” The girl grinned at her Spanish teacher, and watched him as he shakily erased the words on the whiteboard. She couldn’t help but notice a hint of golden fur on his thumb, which glinted beautifully in the sunlight. But it can’t be. Mr. Macdonald has brown hair, not gold… Shaking her head to clear it, Su Min returned to doodling on her Spanish worksheet.

☪

A cafe in Canada was full of laughter and many people who wanted a good morning coffee, in which an old man sat. Classical music was playing - a nice mix of piano and violin. Pleasant smell of coffee wafted into his nose, and he hummed lightly, smiling. He reached forward to mix his own cappuccino that was sitting in front of him with a small, silver spoon, before leaning back in the wooden chair again. The world has gotten better, as always. With a content sigh, he looked down at his wrist, checked the time briefly, and waited.

The doors to the cafe burst open, and a young man stormed through the crowd to a certain table. He brushed past a young couple, and they gave him a look before returning to gazing into each other’s eyes. The old man raised his head, and his lips formed into a welcoming grin. Shaking his head, the young man looked around him with hostility and disgust. Finally, he directed his gaze back to his senior.

“Tom.” He greeted, his gaze softening as he took in the old man.

“I see that you have gained yet another tail, Mason.” Tom replied with well-deserved respect, and motioned for Mason to sit down in front of him with a nod. With lighthearted frown, Mason roughly pulled out a chair and plopped himself down.

The classic music took on a high, quick-paced pitch.

“What is it? I am running short on time. Is it about Abel?”

“Oh, yes, the maniac. No.”

“Then what?” Mason muttered, glaring at a nearby table which was louder than he would have preferred. His eyes flashed gold. A passing waiter gave him a nervous look, carrying a plastic tray with five coffee mugs balanced upon it on his hand, before he shook his head and walked away briskly.

Tom wordlessly held up a handle of a dagger, two sets of Chinese letters, written in cow blood, on both sides of the hilt.

A strangled gasp tore itself free from Mason’s throat. He made a wild grab for the handle, cleanly detached from its blade, and Tom let it go without a tinge of hesitation. Mason’s fingertips hovered above the letters, and reluctantly, he let them make contact with one of it. Immediately, recognition flashed in his eyes, and he pulled his hand back with an animal-like hiss.

The offending object dropped from his grasp, and Tom moved forward with inhuman speed to snatch it out of the air before it could fall onto the table. Their eyes made contact, and Mason nodded silently.

“So they’re back…” He growled, putting his face in his hands. His eyes slid shut, and he shook his head, as if it was going to create a gateway for him to rush out of the painful reality. Tom soon followed suit, silently setting the handle down onto the table, his cappuccino long since forgotten.

“They’re back to hunt.” Tom agreed grimly. Silence continued between the two, long and stretched. Mason absently fingered a necklace that hung around his neck, the pendant - a small, glass jar -supported by a long, leather string. The jar contained a single strand of shining, white fur.

Finally, he looked up to find Tom already staring at him. What is that in his eyes? Mason wondered sardonically. Desperation? Fear? Hope? Grief? What is it?

“Drink your cappuccino before it gets cold.” Mason spoke lowly, not making any move to get up and leave like he clearly wanted to. Tom took a sip of his drink, which he had just noticed existing, with a sad smile.

“It already has gotten cold and cheap, Mason. Better to not drink it.”

“Hmm.”

Another silence settled down on the table, and Mason shifted with newfound nervousness, his sharp, green eyes darting from side to side, searching for any possible threats. Tom noted the fact, and looked down at the handle of the dagger, a heavy hopelessness behind his aged eyes.

Mason gave the dagger’s hilt yet another icy look, hatred flooding his eyes, before he gained enough strength and willpower to stand up. The chair made a long, screeching sound on the wooden floor as it was pushed back. “I better go. And... warn the others.”

“Yes. A millennium’s a long time to forget.” Tom agreed. In his mind, he thought that maybe, they were overreacting. Maybe they didn’t need to go into hiding again, not yet. Nevertheless, he visualized the yet another bloodshed that was possible - not certain, but possible, and that was just enough - and shivered violently.

The younger man, perhaps only in his physical appearance, studied Tom knowingly as if he knew what thoughts were running through the old man’s mind. He pushed his chair in, and tossed three, crumpled dollar bills onto the table, finalizing their meeting. “Buy a new one. Who knows when you’ll get to have another?”

“Thank you, Mason.”Tom replied. Mason stood there for another good minute. During his wait, he made a move as if he was going to step forward and sit back down, but spun around instead. A side had obviously won his inner turmoil.

“They killed my brother, Tom.” The man said stiffly, his nails growing into claws and digging into his palms. Blood dripped down onto the floor. Tom looked up, surprised. He had expected Mason to leave without another word.

“But they won’t kill me. And they won’t kill you.” His hand went up to his neck and grabbed the tiny jar on his necklace. Before Tom could utter another word, Mason practically sprinted away. Tom stared at the dagger hilt, left behind on the table, and let out a snarl of disgust. He slipped it into one of the pockets in his worn out jacket, and reached forward to take the three dollar bills into his hands. A bitter smile twisted his lips.