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Of The Hunters and Hunted Part 1 of the "Of the Malleus Maleficarum" saga A fictional story, written by REIF DISCLAIMER: This is adult fiction with heavy transgender elements, if you find that in any way offensive, or you are under the age of majority then stop reading NOW. No character in this story is meant to resemble any actual person living or dead. This is a non commercial work of fiction. Please don't steal. Comments and feedback can be sent to [email protected] Version History: Version 2 (8/15/2012), Broke up some overlong paragraphs, corrected some French language usage (thanks to Kazorh/bob854 for corrections), and some minor spelling mistakes. Some new content compared to the initial version, mostly fixing minor plot holes. Made some minor changes to several details to preserve continuity with planned sequels. Chapter 1 A dark omen flew silently through the trees, only the soft whisper of disturbed stillness heralded the crow's passing between the oaken columns that stitched together the realms of Earth and Sky. There were patches of moist moss here and there, little more than splotches of green that intermittently decorated the ranks of trees that stretched out unending into the constant brown of the deep wood. This forest was old, very old, a testament to fact that Man had not yet wholly tamed the land. At the border of their little existences, beyond the walls they built to keep out both man and beast shadow still danced with the light in an endless chaotic ballet in the old forest and hid things that men still feared. The crow passed through all of it uncaring, slipping between rays of golden light and dusty shadow in a primal, ethereal way before finally passing under the eaves of a particularly great oak where it took a perch on a low branch and melted into the shadow cast by the trunk. Whether something had directed it here, or if its presence was simply the mysterious result of chaotic chance it had its own little part to play in the tapestry of fate. It was not long before something else moved in the forest; passing through shadows of its own, a figure too tired to move gracefully stumbled across the forest floor. Soon the invader in this dark realm was made plain, a human girl was moving across the carpet of roots and leaves that formed the forest floor. Whether the crow recognized the girl would be another mystery, it had seen plenty like her at the town some five miles away that was marked by signs that read Rouen though the crow had no use for Man's strange symbols. The bird noted to its dissatisfaction that while the outward curve at her chest was significant there was no large matching curve at her belly. The act of bringing life into the world was still fraught with peril and the carrion bird remembered some of its finest meals had come from the results of mothers who were more girls than women failing to survive the primal act. That however, was not going to claim this girl anytime soon and while she was dirty, she was not filthy. Her stained rough brown woolen dress had seen its share of wear, but was still clothing rather than rags. The lines of her face spoke of occasional hunger but not starvation, and while her breathing was ragged as she approached the tree that the crow had its roost in, it was the ragged breath of exertion not disease. The crow was disappointed that nothing about the girl's appearance hinted at death, this girl existed outside of its mystic dominion, and in its frustration it fluffed itself up unnoticed as she came to rest against the tree trunk. Her occasional wracking sob sent fresh tears down her cheeks to etch new pale lines in the dirt there between deep breaths meant to give solace to her burning lungs. "KAW!!!" The crow finally announced his presence, sending his loud shrieking call down to the girl below who nearly panicked at the sudden sharp sound. She reflexively jumped back only to trip on the hem of her own dress sending her sprawling backwards with a flail of limbs to land on her back and rear which sent a plume of dust up from the forest floor. She lay there a moment trying to block the throbbing, aching fatigue in her legs from her mind before rising to get up. She rubbed her head trying to soothe her frayed nerves as she got to her feet, mumbling to herself in thin relief. "J'ai besoin de me d?tendre, c'est juste an oiseau, Marion." (I need to relax; it's just a bird, Marion.) Except as she finally found the bird in its shadow, still sitting on the branch it ceased to be simple bird, it was a crow, an omen of death and doom all too recognizable to the scared girl and it wrung fresh frightened tears from her terror. It appearance was altogether fitting, although Marion Dumere's heart still beat out its pounding staccato rhythm behind her breasts her life had come to a crashing end some fifty-three minutes ago. Though none of the men that now chased her had anything that could measure the passage of time to that degree of accuracy. The magistrate could do the best, he had a miracle of modern technology, a water clock that on a good day was only an hour or so off that sat next to a hand copied almanac in his quarters that identified today as the 9th of June, 1492. Now though, time seemed to stretch out for Marion as she stood transfixed by the unwelcome harbinger of doom, afraid of what dark sinister portents it presence could deliver. "KAW!!!" the bird called, bringing attention to the fact that this girl was no more welcome in its world, than in the world she was fleeing from. "Va-t'en," the girl whispered, desperately hoping the bird would give her peace. (Go away) "KAW!!!" the bird refused. "Va-t'en," the girl again commanded, a note of frustration creeping into her shaky voice. "KAW!!!" the bird refused again, asserting its right to darken this corner of the forest and this girl's life with its presence. "Va-t'en!" the girl spoke in anger, her voice unwavering in its defiance of the avian prophet. "KAW!!!" the bird replied, its beady black eyes seemed to bore into Marion's soul and whisper that it knew all too well what she was. "Va-t'en!!!" The girl screamed her anger at the crow fueled by inward denial and outward fear. That anger peaked and then seemed to fall away from Marion, and then it was as if a ripple moved through the fabric of reality, then shot like a dagger towards the offending bird leaving for an infinitesimal instant a slash across the face of existence. The distortion intersected with the crow and suddenly a wet splatter of crimson decorated the trunk of the tree and the branch the bird perched upon. A spray of jet black feathers exploded outwards before they began to drift downwards in a silent rain. On the branch, the crow slowly tilted backwards on its perch before finally falling off the branch, spinning uncontrolled in its descent through an awkward death spiral. The crow?s body passed through the shower of its own dislodged feathers on its final flight before impacting the ground with the soft thud of its broken body hitting dirt, its feathers floating down to leave a black halo around the corpse of the dead bird. A few feet away Marion collapsed to her knees in shock. Her hands flew to cover her mouth; muffled soft squeals of fear emphasizing her terror generated more from the unnatural event that had seemed to emanate from her own will than for the fact that she had killed the crow. ?Je ne suis pas une Sorci?re, je ne suis pas une Sorci?re, je ne suis pas une Sorci?re...? (I?m not a Witch, I?m not a Witch, I?m not a Witch?) Marion repeated her words in vigorous denial at first, growing softer with each condemning iteration, her statement desperately trying to assert and make real a truth that even she had trouble believing at this point. Even to her ears the words sounded falsely hollow. It was too similar to an event that had transpired some fifty-four minutes ago in Rouen?s market square. Then she had been trying to deliver a bundle of carrots when a starving street urchin had tried to steal her cargo. The resulting tussle had raged for a minute drawing the casual attention of bored onlookers but no aid. When the urchin bit her it was too much and she screamed for him to be gone from her sight in a tone that promised imminent vengeance. The sensation that followed an instant later was not in the least bit expected as something had seemed to push away from her, carried on the edge of the hot wave of her anger, before snapping back to send the urchin flying through the air riding a strange iridescent ripple in space before he came crashing down into a pile of wood some thirty feet away. Marion had been almost as shocked at the event as the score of eyes that had watched it, and she had sighed in relief, her anger already forgotten when the urchin got up and scrambled away from her in abject fear as fast as his legs could carry him. That relief had withered and died a scant moment later as she collected a few wayward carrots. She felt dozens of eyes watching her and a chill descend across the square despite the day?s summer warmth as if a cloud had crossed the sun. She had hurried on past the suddenly silent crowd. As she had passed the edge of the square the whispers had started as the townsfolk confirmed each other?s observations. Marion had gulped as the quiet silence enveloped her in her passing and carried one particularly hostile whisper at the edge of her hearing to her. ?Witch? it had spoken in quiet damnation as the sound of running feet began to echo up and down the dirt streets. Still, she had mechanically made her delivery, her mind racing uncertain as to how she going to explain that she had no idea as to how the event in the square had happened. She had barely left the stall and passed beyond the corner of the next narrow street when the sound of heavy boots, clinking metal, and angry voices reached the stall where she had been but a moment before. Marion had peeked back around the corner dreading what she would see. There a group of men held an impromptu council, their hands full of cruelly held pitchforks, scythes, hammers, and pikes according to their profession. The local priest had run up panting for breath flanked by men bearing coils of heavy rope and lit torches, their pitch heads crackling in hungry yellow flame. Marion had pulled her head back whimpering in a horrifying realization. Two years before she had been in mandatory attendance along with the rest of the town when an old woman that had lived on the edge of the forest was brought before the Inquisitors in the church square for her ?trial.? The matron had protested her innocence long and thoroughly, alternatively explaining that she had never hurt anyone, or throwing herself submissively upon the tender mercies of the judges in hopes of vindication. Nothing had altered her fate and Marion all too well remembered the crowd?s intermittent chants of "Br?lez la sorci?re!" (Burn the Witch!) The memories of the woman?s terrible agonized screams as the flames had consumed her. The billowing, acrid, oily black smoke that had covered the square. It had all suddenly become far more personal as they echoed through the young girl?s mind and thus in a panic she had fled a moment in front of the mob, through the gates, and across the farm fields. Fleeing without thought, plan or reason into the primeval forest where she now knelt at the foot of a great oak more in mourning for her lost life than the crow dead by her will. A world away back in the magistrate?s office an agitated clerk was opening the town?s register. He sought an entry with an ink stained finger, found it, picked up a quill and dipped it in ink to write a quick note. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and began copying the note along with the description of the girl who had fled the town not an hour before. In old ink the entry read: Marion Dumere, woman, born May 1476 In new wet ink the clerk had added: Revealed as a Witch by her own Witchcraft on the 9th of June 1492, and fled from justice. By edict she is condemned to be burned at the stake should she ever be captured. The clerk finished his notes and addressed the letter to the head of Inquisition in Paris where the information would be noted and eventually forwarded to Rome. The existence of a strawberry haired teenage peasant girl from Normandy in the north of the kingdom of France would shortly become vastly more important to many. With the final act he sealed the letter in hot red wax and pressed the town?s coat of arms into the seal. With that act Marion Dumere, peasant girl, was officially dead, the first victim of Marion Dumere, hunted Witch, monster, and abomination. There would be no funeral, no kind words, no flowers, and the only participants that would shed tears would be the deceased and the accused. Those tears of a virgin monster flowed heavily now, generating a slow soft patter on the forest floor until a new sound filtered through the trees. The baying of hounds echoed across a long arc between Marion and the town as the mob, its collective courage reinforced by its growing size, moved ever deeper into the gloom of the woods after its quarry, now led by the local lord?s tracking hounds. Marion slowly rose to her feet, frozen at the distant, approaching sound of the hunters and the call of their dogs like a deer. Finally her mouth moved to command the rest of her frozen weary frame in quiet, yet desperate words. "Fuir, Marion, tu dois fuir!" (Run, Marion you have to run!) Turning, she put her back to the hunters and fled away from everything she knew into the unknown. It would become a haunting reality, the same so many times over. Generations passed, nations rose and fell, the maps were filled in, but always, relentless shadows dogged the running steps of Marion, WITCH. Chapter 2 Thud, thud, thud, thud? Marion was running again, the cadence of the synthetic material of her tennis shoes striking solid weathered concrete kept time with the rapid rhythm of her pounding heart. She moved quickly, her long sweeping strides eating distance through an urban jungle in her latest escape so very different yet very similar to her first. No trees and no moss decorated this landscape, just the large blocky shadows cast by large square edifices of artificial rock that were themselves decorated in places with garish neon graffiti. She spared a concerned glance behind as she rounded a street corner, hooking the dingy steel post of a street light with a hand and swinging herself around it to conserve as much precious momentum as possible. Passing into the shadow of a building she jumped over a comatose wino sprawled out on the sidewalk as she shot a hand into the cargo pocket of her loose jeans and fished out her phone between strides. Thankfully she was still getting enough GPS reception among the buildings to accurately track her position which her phone dutifully plotted on the small map it displayed on its screen. Marion?s pace slowed slightly as she spent a few seconds to memorize the immediate pattern of the city streets before she replaced the phone and redoubled her efforts, silently thanking whatever powers that be that she wasn?t blindly fleeing for her life in a long dress?again. The need to blend in with the feminine fashion of the day was not always compatible with the requirements of hasty retreat and the tradeoff had nearly gotten her killed several times, most recently in San Francisco in 1906 as the complex Victorian style dress she wore that day had dramatically slowed her movement. Her own mistakes in getting lost in the dusty young city hadn?t helped. Only the dumb luck that the Hunters had also gotten confused in the warren of hastily erected, unplanned streets had let her make her escape. She glanced over her shoulder again as she made another sudden turn sending a couple of loose pebbles skittering over the curb into the street, a worried frown etched deeply on her face as a large athletic man of Nordic stock with a blond buzz cut came barreling around the corner at which she had made her previous turn. More ominously, a familiar Hispanic man was riding a black, nondescript motorcycle further down the same street. He had been the one on foot at first when the pursuit began an hour ago, the blond riding. They had switched off half an hour ago and now were probably about to switch back. Marion silently cursed the situation as she had no breath for words; the advance of technology was evenly indiscriminate in its aid. The two Hunters were at most thirty seconds behind the fleeing Witch, which was not good. Her lead at one point had been almost a minute. While her gift/curse gave her endurance and speed far beyond that of a normal young woman, her body?s reserves were not infinite and she was beginning to tire. A single Hunter team would have had trouble keeping pace with her gazelle like run even with their motorcycle relay, but a second team had shown up not long after the chase began and between the four of them they were doing an annoyingly good job of keeping tabs on her location by directly chasing her and getting out in front of her path. Thus, ever so slowly, they were consuming the distance between themselves and their quarry. Four whole men, hardly even a mob. Marion spared a stray thought as she considered her options. Truthfully though, the Hunters didn?t really need a mob any more than they had needed the Inquisition. History may have moved on, but the Hunters had not, when other organizations outgrew the hunt for Witches the Hunters merely shed the obsolete organization much like a snake sheds its skin and continued their unilateral genocidal campaign. Not that Marion doubted they would have any trouble killing her without a mob if they caught her, experience had taught the five century old young woman that they were most likely armed to the teeth. In 1906 the Winchester Rifles and Colt 45 revolvers had been carried in open view in the still lawless West. Now there were probably carbon-fiber semi- automatics hidden under their jackets and rifles stashed out of sight. Five centuries and the one of the few overriding constants through all of that time had been mankind?s unflagging improvement in the tools they made to deal death to one another. She was not without weapons of her own, but the mere fact that the Hunters had blindly detected her could only mean one thing, and Marion could only assume that they all had those damnable necklace talismans that absorbed Witchcraft as well as detecting the ripples in the flux of reality that the use of Witchcraft generated. Her most potent weapon was thus rendered less than useless. Her Witchcraft would only serve to telegraph her location. Still she was going to have to start taking risks if she wanted to live, as much she disliked adding chance to the equation she had too. Unless something drastic happened the distance that was her only real defense against her end would continue to shrink as the burning fatigue that marked the flagging of her endurance crept ever more into her lungs and legs. Turning another street corner Marion willed herself to a faster pace, demanding more from her aching body even as it offered ever dwindling performance. She covered half a block before the short haired Hispanic man came around the same corner, his faded jacket and shirt not quite fully covering the bulges at his hip and neck which denoted the presence of his most powerful weapons. Her lead had grown back to 45 seconds as the two chasers had switched places but it was a temporary respite at best. Finally, she saw a possible plan and darted across the street towards the entrance of a decaying urban housing project. A beat up old blue Ford nearly ended things right then and there in the middle of the street but she dodged out of the way. For a few seconds the blaring of a car horn and a stream of unprintable profanity was added to the things chasing her before that too fell away. As she passed through the entry drive she stuffed a hand into her other cargo pocket and pulled out a small bag of metallic objects that a child might have assumed to be jacks. Making another turn down the first ?street? of the complex she emptied the bag across the road in a cascade of scattering, pinging metal. The caltrop had gone out of general warfare about the same time that the cavalry charge went out of fashion, but they could still puncture a tire as easily as hobble a horse. With that she left the road and darted down an alleyway paved in cracked concrete between the dilapidated, decaying buildings seeking the maze of fences that enclosed the small spaces that were the pathetic excuse the residents had for yards. If she guessed right the motorcycle rider would probably follow the runner in here; they couldn?t risk her getting lost in the multitude of buildings that formed this parcel of urban blight. It would let her have a chance to rest or slip away. The law of averages owed her in luck so far today, but she couldn?t count on the motorcycle running over her trap, still delay might suffice, if she could break contact her odds went up dramatically as she had not come in here to hide but rather increase the variables in the pursuit to the point where two Hunters couldn?t possible cover them all. Chaos worked in her favor for she was its unwilling acolyte. Coming to the end of the alleyway she vaulted the first fence using nothing more than raw athleticism infused with a not entirely human grace. From there she was a streaking blur passing in and out of the lives of various families. It lent a slightly surreal tinge to the life and death pursuit as she got a few heartbeats to examine each family?s small slice of life before vaulting the next low fence. A well used tricycle with most of its vibrant red paint flaked off sat forlornly here, a Barbie play set missing most of the furniture pushed into a corner there, a tired old bulldog raised his head to watch her go past in one yard, and in the last before she cleared the row only her heightened Witch reflexes allowed her to awkwardly hurdle a row of stunted tomato plants that some poor family was cultivating. Finally she cleared the last fence growing increasingly tired thanks to her impromptu acrobatics, the strain in her arms adding it self to the complaints of her legs, but she was sure she had gained ground on her pursuers. She was near the back fence of the complex now and on a hunch she decided to cross an open alleyway to seek the boundary. The buried fear she had been suppressing peaked as she was again exposed for the world to see for several terrible seconds, but if any noted her passing they made no noise and no sign of the blond or the Hispanic man was forthcoming. She darted again towards the back yard of the building that abutted the rear line of the property and vaulted yet another fence. She came to a crashing halt as she came up to a weathered gray, but solid, ten foot high wooden fence that marked the edge of the property with another foot of rusted barb wire sitting haphazardly on top. Also of immediate concern was the massive pit bull that strained the concept of the word ?pet? that had begun a low growl to her left. Witch and Beast regarded one another silently for a moment as primal moisture glistened on the hound?s revealed fangs. The beast however, had an instinctual knowledge that ran deep, it knew without even knowing why that it would not win this fight if it pressed the confrontation. An unspoken agreement passed between the two, the Witch would not linger and the beast would confine itself to merely announcing how impudent her invasion of his realm was in the form of ominous growls. The confrontation settled, Marion turned back to the fence and thought over this latest dilemma. In that pause her ragged breathing suddenly seemed very loud in the background hum of the city. She?d need her Craft to clear it which would announce her presence, but there was no way a normal human man, trained killer or not, was easily getting over this barrier. Her pursuers would have to go back around and lose a massive chunk of time, thus it was worth the risk. With the decision made she backed up and summoned her power, a swirl of dust and detritus swept out from where she planted her feet carried by a wind that was not wind. With a flying leap she cleared the fence with a foot to spare like some Hong Kong martial arts movie stunt and noted with happy glee that a flat weed-overgrown alleyway stretched out on the other side for an easy landing. The last five minutes Bruce Maxham was not in a pleasant mood, the wiry man with a hawkish face well suited to his profession was tired, and the long chase, even with the relay rest on the motorcycle, was pushing his forty-two year old frame to its limits. The fact that had the whole exercise could have been avoided was particularly galling to his professional spirit. All the rookie Sven had to do was quietly alert the others that he had stumbled onto a Witch without alerting it and the Hunter teams under Bruce?s lead could have surrounded and efficiently ambushed it. Instead Sven?s erratic, excited, unsubtle behavior had tipped off the red-headed Witch that the bulky Nordic man was no ordinary city resident and thus the day that had started with the promise of a quick snatch and grab of an inexperienced Witch instead had found all of them sucked into a marathon chase of a completely different, much, much older Witch. The fact that this was not the first time this Witch had been chased was glaringly obvious from the beginning. The seemingly random changes in direction, the avoidance of law enforcement that he could have co-opted with his exceptional fake government IDs and documentation, the refusal to be herded into a chokepoint, and above all its discipline in avoiding the use of its Craft that would have given him pulses to triangulate on spoke to its experience in avoiding Hunter team tactics. Contemporary doctrine for this situation was to use the relays to keep pressure on the target Witch, using fresh legs and the motorcycles to combat the Witches? inhuman endurance until, inevitably, fatigue wore them down, preferably after being herded into a secluded location with few exits. At that point invariably a Witch would turn and fight, but protected by their talismans, a Witch?s most potent weapon was removed. With precision teamwork it was usually a simple matter of subduing the exhausted Witch and hauling it back to a suitable location for ?information extraction?. With two teams and four trained men it should have been easy, but it had taken all of his skill and deductive insight gained from over twenty years of hunting these abominations that looked like women to keep the slightest contact on the Witch. He had just started to think he had it as team two slowly closed in, but they had lost her in a housing complex and precious minutes were slipping away without a sighting. His frustration peaking, he whipped his PDA/phone from its holster on his belt and hissed a question into the device. ?Sven, Diego, what the hell is going on?! You had eyes on her, and you weren?t that far behind, I need a direction or we're not going to be able to get in front of it.? A Latin voice replied in words interlaced with heavy breathing in Bruce?s earpiece, ?It's gotten into the (huff) patchwork of fences in this housing complex; I (huff) can?t cut across them as fast as it can. (huff) I could have reacquired but numb nuts (huff) ran over a spike it left in the entrance way (huff) of the complex and the cycle is out of action. (huff) He?s fallen out of detection range and our triangulation has gone to hell. (huff) It's at the extreme edge of my passive detection and I don?t have a direction anymore. (huff) Sven was coming off a run rotation, he?s got nothing left to do this on foot.? Bruce swore under his breath and contemplated his targets imminent escape, it was nearly impossible to triangulate on a moving target with a single data point, even if they reacquired, down to one relay team due to the rookie's second mistake of the day, it would be an extremely difficult takedown if the Witch could still run. Switching to a different receiver he sent Carl his own teammate to patrol the road that ran nearest the far boundary on their own motorcycle desperately hoping he could get a new fix on the Witch's location. Carl affirmed the command and moved down the road away from his leader and half a minute more passed in silence as the leader of the Hunters considered what punishments the rookie was due to receive thanks to this debacle. He had just begun to reach towards the transmit button again to chew out said rookie when his charm faintly glowed in response to the spreading wave of a Craft pulse echo. His mind raced at his good fortune even as his phone/PDA data uplink gathered data wirelessly from his talisman and the talismans of his compatriots. The fusion of mystic focus and modern technology doing its job well. By comparing the strength of the pulse at the various points and distances along with the differential in arrival times it was a simple mathematical calculation to pinpoint the approximate origin of the pulse?s source and thus the Witch who generated it. Several seconds later and Bruce was looking a nearly perfectly circular probability map overlaid on the local street map with the GPS locations of his comrades noted. The disposition of his assets was not good, Sven was too far away to quickly get back in passive detection range, and by his own orders Carl was badly out of position. He himself was a good eighth of a mile away. Finishing the motion he had begun earlier with his phone he quickly formulated a plan, ?The Witch is at the north edge of that property. Diego, get back on it. Carl bracket it to the northwest, I have northeast. Sven I don?t care what you have to do, find something you can use as transportation we are not losing this bitch again," The words trailed off with his frustration creeping in at the end. Bruce once again ran, trying to shrink down the distance along the leg of an imaginary triangle bracketing the pulse?s center, eyes darting between his surroundings and the currently unlit passive range indicator of his detector charm. A minute passed and the dot representing Diego was approaching the center of the probability circle and the last known point of the Witch?s location. ?Diego, status?? Bruce demanded without slowing his own pace. ?Sec, fence?HMMPH?.Ah mierda (shit) there?s a high boundary fence I?m going to have to?AH MIERDA!!!?? Diego didn?t complete the thought. ?ROMPH!!!? The deep bass of a massive bark/growl was so loud that even separated from the event by telephone Bruce winced at the sound and tried to mentally picture the animal that made it. Bruce could do nothing other than listen to the open line and the struggle between Hunter and the vicious hound. The battle lasted a good thirty seconds and was set to a score of Spanish profanity, muffled growls, and the frequent yelps of pain of both man and beast, but mostly man. ?BZZZZTT? (dog whimper)? The unique electric sound of a powerful Taser and the whine of an animal carried across the connection and announced Diego?s technology assisted victory. ?Dog?? Bruce flatly inquired, still grimacing at the thought of what Diego had run into. ?A chihuahua is a dog that was no dog. Listen amigo, that bestia maldita (@#$% beast) chewed me up good, I?m bleeding in several places. I may be out of this," The controlled note of pain in the Latino?s voice was readily apparent. Bruce swore at the situation, he was definitely down a team now and on the verge of failure. Those thoughts were put on hold as a strawberry haired girl slowly jogged out of the alleyway between two blighted buildings at the end of the block some distance away. His talisman faintly glowed with a passive detection near the extreme limit of its range. The Witch was clearly tired, and Bruce suddenly hoped that maybe he could still pull this one out. That possibility got a lot harder though as it looked around and seemingly zeroed in on him. Likely helped by the fact that he was one of the few things moving in the decaying neighborhood. For the briefest of instants the Witch froze in recognition. Marion knew that speed was crucial after her Craft assisted jump, but the limits of her fatigue demanded a slower pace. Several minutes of jogging had taken the edge off the burn in her lungs and legs even as she emerged from two low buildings and began to cross a street. A hundred yards to her right, a man was running in her direction which immediately drew her attention. She stopped for the briefest of instants as recognition set in. ?MERDE!!!? (SHIT!!!) The single exasperated word escaped her lips, as she turned and broke back into a northward sprint, knowing all too well that despite everything, including her cunning and resourcefulness, that she had just bumbled into the second fresher Hunter team that had been chasing her, which might prove fatal in her current condition. ?Carl, it's on Industrial and Washburn headed north on Washburn!!!? Bruce cried knowing that though the Witch?s pace was not what it had been earlier that he could not long match it. Still he did his best to close the distance. ?Roger that," Carl heard the desperation in his friend and commander?s voice, he needed to turn around which was complicated by the busy traffic on this street. Noting the deserted sidewalk on the other side of a row of parallel parked cars seemed to promise a ready solution, a moment later he finally grew frustrated enough to jump the curb with his motorcycle and take the improvised lane. He looked down briefly to his PDA to get an idea of the distance and confidently spoke. ?On my way, ETA 5 minutes, I?ll intercept?? (CRASH) The awful sound of breaking glass, screeching tires, and tortured metal suddenly filled Bruce?s ear before diminishing to silence. In his haste Carl hadn?t been paying attention to the row of parked cars, and the law of averages had taken the golden opportunity to once again balance the day?s luck between Hunters and hunted as an elderly man failed to notice the oncoming motorcycle on the sidewalk and opened his car door out over the sidewalk with predictable results. ?OH (huff) you got to be @#$% me (huff)!!!? Bruce asked the rhetorical question to the universe in particular as he tried to keep pace with the Witch in front of him. The entire calculus of the equation had boiled down to him versus the Witch in a contest to see who could run just a little farther. For both, the outside world and all in it fell away as their minds fixated on escape vs. pursuit and the all consuming fire in their lungs and legs as their bodies begged both of them individually to stop. In a well used car not far away Gregory Pash was savoring the sweet bliss of freedom that comes with the end of a workday. He tried not to fixate on his annoyance with the odd hours that went hand in hand with a position in retail management. ?Hey, at least I don?t have to worry about traffic," Greg softly reminded himself out loud as he threaded the surface streets, determined as always to avoid the congestion on the freeway. As always though, he felt just a touch nervous as his route passed through this particular section of town that was seedier than he would have liked. He always feared that he might breakdown here someday with disastrous results, and the marginal feeling of unease was always unwelcome. Doing as he normally did, Greg loaded one of his mix CD?s into his player and set it for a random song, a second later distracting music began blaring from the car?s well used speakers. Here we are, born to be kings; we?re the princes of the universe Here we belong, fighting to survive In the war with the darkest powers And here we are, we?re the princes of the universe Here we belong, fighting for survival We?ve got to be the rulers of you all I am immortal, I have inside me blood of kings I have no rival, no man can be my equal Step into the future of you all Queen ? Princes of the Universe (verses 1-3) Greg began to hum and tap the steering wheel as the song played. He couldn?t really even say why he liked the 80?s Queen song that much, it was just a catchy tune. One tap though brought a wince to his face as he accidentally hit a tender cut on his right hand. It had happened right before he had left his store when he had broken down a shipping box without wearing gloves, like he always told his staff to do, in his haste to finish the work before shift end. The reward for his haste had been a large packing staple, pointy end down, drug across the flesh between his thumb and index finger. It was a cut deep enough to draw blood, but not really serious enough to need more than a large Band-Aid, and he had simply left work rather than deal with filling out a bureaucratic injury report which accessing the medical kit would have necessitated or explaining to the store staff why he had ignored the safety protocols he was always scolding them about. He came to a stop at a red light and glanced at his hand and the shallow wound where some liquid blood still oozed from the inch long gash, not entirely scabbed over yet. It was annoying, but on the whole it was little more than another minor injury the type of which any man might expect to occasionally receive in the normal wear and tear of life, it wasn?t like it was going to be big deal?His reverie on the subject and his music was broken however as the long low notes of a train horn to the south defeated his worn car?s soundproofing. ?Well at least I?m not going to be waiting on the train," Greg remarked to no one but himself as he sat waiting on the stop light to turn, noting how fortunate he was that his daily route didn?t have to cross the train tracks. Greg was not the only one suddenly interested in the passing locomotive. Marion two blocks away to the south west recalled the times she had passed by those tracks and a desperate plan formed in her mind. She had no idea that the man she was outpacing behind her was the last Hunter that could stop her escape, and so she pushed her herself to her limits hoping she would have enough left to carry out the risky maneuver she now felt was her last viable option. Bruce internally noted that the Witch wasn?t changing direction anymore, it was making a beeline straight north and the sound of a train horn moving in the distance sent a sinking feeling into his gut as he suddenly deduced what his quarry was about to attempt. He considered his options as each beat of his heart sent pulses of weary agony through his leaden limbs and mingled with the searing fire in his lungs, every fiber of his being wanted him to stop running after an hours worth of off and on sprints. The fact that only a tiny percentage of men could have run as well was cold comfort against the undeniable truth that the Witch was opening the distance between them. He could tell it was tired too, her posture screamed out her fatigue; he thought about how much it must be hurting right now after over an hour of this without rest, and then mentally crushed the stray thought that had dared to consider his foe?s humanity. He had a choice to make now as they passed into the last block before they would hit the tracks, he could shoot, but to pull a gun was dangerous. It was easy for him to pretend to be a cop in most situations, but cops don?t gun down what appear to be unarmed young women in the middle of city streets in broad daylight, if he pulled his gun and someone saw him there would be questions, difficult questions, was it worth it? The glow of his charm winked out as the Witch passed beyond his passive detection range and emphasized the moment of decision. Right, left, right, left, Marion?s mind concentrated on the strikes of her feet on the pavement as she willed herself on in an act of endurance born of desperation. The Hunter was falling behind, and she could see the end of the row of endless mundane shops. At the end of the block bright sunlight filtered through the city haze and announced a break in the pattern of repeating square blocks. The Union Central Railroad had two parallel lines running through the center of the city, part of the endless webs of roads and rails that supplied the inorganic behemoth, bringing in food and materials to supply the collective mass of humanity that inhabited the city and carting away waste and goods as citizens lived out their lives each day with their own little dramas. The long term implications of the train?s existence was lost on Marion in this moment, more important to her was that in the name of efficiency the builders of the train tracks had decided to carve the tracks through the rolling hills to keep the tracks on an even grade. The result was a massive scar through the heart of the city, a 50 ft wide canyon flanked by 15 foot deep vertical embankments along this section set in featureless concrete slabs. Its builders called the man made ravine progress, the neighborhood punks thought of it as prime advertising space for their graffiti and gang signs, and Marion thought of it as a giant freaking moat which is exactly what she needed. The collective breath of fate seemed to still as several things happened in short succession as Marion broke out of the shadows at the end of the street into bright daylight. She willed herself to focus her power even as she lit off her first Craft assisted jump to clear the battered chain link fence designed to keep pedestrians away from the tracks. The unnatural, forceful wind she generated dislodged an empty faded soda can from the trash collected at the base of the fence and sent it flying back up the street in a high lazy arc, carrying it out of the fluttering cloud of shredded plastic left behind in Marion?s wake. As she cleared the fence Marion turned her head back towards her distant pursuer and gave a one fingered salute to the Hunter in a rash act of defiance born of half a millennium of fear and anger. It was too much for Bruce?s wounded pride to take, against his better judgment, in a single fluid motion robbed of its grace by the fatigue in Bruce?s frame; he drew the silenced 9mm Heckler & Koch Match grade USP from his holster and fell into a marksman?s stance. It was a long shot to make and he didn?t have his breathing or forward motion entirely under control as Marion continued her own motion and made her second gravity defying jump from the lip of the train canyon, arms flailing awkwardly as she fought for balance in the midst of her flight. Bruce had expended tens of thousands of rounds in his career into nonliving targets and a hundred into actual Witches, the skill born of a lifetime of practice flashed through his eyes as he sighted down the cold forged chromium-steel barrel tracing the arc of Marion?s inhuman leap to its apex. Bruce squeezed the trigger and made an automatic follow up shot. Two gouts of flame leapt from the muzzle of his weapon in quick flashing succession, the rounds propelled by the harnessed explosions streaking through the air spinning in their flat trajectories. To any eye fast enough to track their progress the silver etched runes carved into each bullet, only partially marred by the rifling marks of the gun?s barrel, seemed to strobe as with each spiral as they reflected the bright sunlight in their passing. It was a horrible, terrible ballet of physics and time as the shards of metal death approached their target. Bruce however, already wished he could have those two rounds back. Fueled by raw emotion and sabotaged by his own weariness he had felt the barrel of his gun slip ever so slightly out of alignment even as he had squeezed the trigger. Though the two rounds ate the distance between themselves and the Witch at the rate of 1,200 feet per second, they drifted ever so slightly to the right, pulled off course by the fractional error in Bruce?s aim at their launch. Truth be told, it would have been an incredible feat of skill at all to even hit a target moving in three dimensions at extreme range after running for miles, but it spoke of Bruce?s extreme personal standards for himself that he felt like a failure for a bullet that missed by less than a foot. Miss, however, was a relative term. Though the first bullet did not hit the sought after spot that would have passed through Marion?s spine and into her vital organs its path still intersected her body in a deep graze carving a quarter inch divot out of the flesh of her right shoulder and imparting a slow spin to her body in mid air, turning Marion fractionally just in time to feel the second bullet whiz by her head as her body began its ballistic descent. An instant later the sound of the first bullet?s flight and the screaming wake of torn air generated by it caught up to her ears followed shortly by the sound of the second bullet. Some intellectual part of Marion?s mind knew that she had been shot as it happened, the abrupt change in the motion of her jump, and the spreading arc of crimson mist carried away from her by its own momentum testified to their cause, but it was not for another second until the blinding sensation of pain, racing along fatigue deadened nerves, finally reached her brain that the wound became real. Gravity however, was not going to stop its inexorable pull to accommodate the wounded Witch no matter how plaintive her cry of pain was. An old memory of long ago flashed through her agonized mind in the seconds before she met the ground about a bird hitting the ground in a broken heap. She wondered if she would even be alive when she reached the concrete ledge stretching out before her. Even worse, it was becoming obvious she had leapt too well and was going to overshoot the ledge, but not the barrier fence on the other side. For a horrible eternity as the ground rushed up to meet her, she waited for the next set of lethal bullets, which never came. As the can Marion had dislodged seconds earlier completed its high arc and hit the street in front of Bruce, ringing with the plinks of hollow aluminum as it bounced, on the other side of the rail canyon the sounds of clattering metal and reverberating thuds announced a fence?s solidity despite its builders never having considered the possibility of a grown woman falling out of the sky and landing on top of it. Marion hit the fence halfway up her body, the top cylindrical rail of the fence trying to go through her hips near her center of gravity. Inertia carried her top half over the rail and in the last second of her flight the world spun around her point of view in a nausea inducing whirl before she landed like a sack of potatoes with a dull bruising thud on her back. For several long seconds she lay there looking up at the sky all thought momentarily lost to the shock that had claimed her mind from this latest abuse. The sensation of throbbing pain in her arm and a warm, sticky, wetness creeping across her shoulder finally forcibly rebooted her consciousness. With a roll she came to a crouch and broke for the cover of a nearby corner bus stop intent on putting a thin sheet of Plexiglas between her and her attacker before moving off down the street. Bruce had been waiting in anticipation for his target to get up and offer him a better shot. He was unwilling to risk further attention on the low odds of hitting a prone target, but the Witch's low roll hadn?t given him much more of a profile to shoot at, and once it was behind the bus stop it was over. It would have taken a miracle anyway for him to hit the Witch at that range through two chain link fences but he hadn?t given up. The obscuring shelter of the bus stop however, meant that he couldn?t even see it anymore. Bruce shifted his gun to one hand and whipped out his PDA as the sun-faded empty soda can rolled slowly towards his feet. Only took a few seconds were required for him to verify what he already suspected, and what Marion had been counting on. It was three blocks to the nearest street bridge that went over the rail canyon, three blocks up and three blocks back down to get back on the Witch's trail. Six blocks at a dead run for the slimmest chance of success, and the veteran Hunter didn?t have it left in him. Bruce fixated a furious gaze in the direction his quarry was departing in; his ice cold expression would have done Captain Ahab proud. In front of him the passing train slowly chugged through the cut, with a final act of frustration Bruce raised his booted foot and brought it down with all the angry force he could put into the blow on the unoffending aluminum can at his feet. The satisfying crackle and crunch at least made him feel a little better for the lost chase. ?DAMNIT,? Bruce yelled, his loud obscenity masked by another long note of the train?s horn as he turned to slowly walk the three blocks up to the nearest crossing. Marion?s world consisted solely of pain as she stumbled and shuffled zombie-like up to the next street, her spent body aching from the effort of her run and combining with the bruised flesh of her front where a diamond pattern was already printing itself across the skin of her legs and hips in red battered flesh under the material of her pants. The dull, throbbing ache at the top of her right arm only added additional insult. She could feel the flow of warm, wet blood running down her injured limb, coating her skin with a sheen of liquid crimson. The long forlorn note of a train horn behind her barely registered on her mind. She had no idea that her misery was over, that the chase was won though it had half killed her to do so. As far as she was concerned another man in a jacket with a bulge at his hip could be around the next corner, or another of those damnable black motorcycles could come down the street at any moment. She couldn?t run anymore, but she was determined she was not going to die here, and so she threw the rules of what she was and wasn?t supposed to do in public to the winds. Rules and codes of behavior were luxuries the half dead couldn?t afford. Thus as a well used Chevy came down the street she stepped off the curb and into its path holding up her good hand commanding it to stop unknowing that what she was about to do was completely unnecessary. Greg?s thoughts about his duties and responsibilities had evolved over the last few blocks to general introspection about his life. His position didn?t afford him much luxury but it paid his bills, that in and of itself might have saved his first marriage which only lasted three years under the strain of the tight budget necessitated by his then position as a department lead back when he was an inexperienced twenty-something. The emotional damage of that episode had left him wary of relationships, and he had to admit with growing alarm that as the years passed his chances in that realm were dwindling. It wasn?t that he was a failure; he just hadn?t succeeded to any great extent in life and the opportunity cost of the lost decades spent in mediocrity was beginning to weigh on his mind. His eroding potential and the possibility of a life spent without anything great accomplished to show for it was fast becoming a concern as his age slowly ticked through his mid 30?s. His introspection along the familiar route drew his focus from the road, and only the warning from an instinctual part of his brain caused him to refocus attention to the street in front of him, suddenly finding that space occupied. He slammed his brakes and felt as much as heard the protesting screech of his brakes and tires. He managed to stop just shy of the young woman standing in the road, and momentarily he battled with the confusion born of the uncertainty of whether he should be angry about her being there, or fearful that this was some kind of ambush here in this rough part of town. Then his confused mind realized that the blood red color of her shirt at the right shoulder wasn?t its natural color, it was in fact actual blood. That combined with her overall obviously poor state prompted a horrible realization in Greg?s mind. ?Oh God, she?s been mugged or something,? he softly, uneasily, spoke to himself. Clarity finally dawned on him on what he thought the battered woman wanted, he assumed she had stopped him to get help. With that partially correct assumption Greg let his caution slip, threw his car into park and opened his car door to get out. He quickly moved up to the wounded girl and instinctively reached for her injured arm with his right hand to see how badly she was hurt. He wasn?t the least bit prepared for what the girl did as his hand closed around her blood streaked slender wrist. Marion had almost thought the man was going to run her over. He had finally stopped but not before leaving twin rubber streaks on the pavement. She had slowly stepped forward as the man sat dumbly in his car for a moment before getting out. The look of concern on his face was appreciated, but Marion didn?t have the strength left to pretend to be anything other than what she was, or be in the least bit subtle. His hand closed around her injured arm even as she raised her left hand to his face. Greg never had the time to consider why this girl was putting her hand in his face when a bright flash seemed to fill his mind. He didn?t have any natural defenses against the Craft Marion worked, and with his will unfocused against resisting the intrusion it took only the blink of an eye for his consciousness to be hijacked. Marion knew she had succeeded when the man?s body had suddenly tensed and then relaxed even before the tell tale, unfocused glassy look came into the man?s brown eyes. Even so, her own mind wasn?t operating very quickly as her own body drifted in and out of physical shock. It took several seconds for her to concoct a plan and in that time the man?s right hand stayed firmly anchored to the wrist of her injured arm. Finally, she spoke. ?Let me go, you will drive me north, keep driving until I tell you otherwise. Obey all traffic laws.? Marion flatly commanded before her temporarily enthralled would be rescuer released her and moved back to his vehicle. She slipped into the passenger seat and collapsed. The sensation of motion was so welcome now to the tired Witch since she didn?t have to provide the means of locomotion. Marion slumped down in the seat, completely spent, and willed herself to make certain she was out of danger before moving on to phase two of her plan. She knew that she was getting her Witch blood all over the man?s car, and she could clearly see where it had covered the man?s right hand. It was dangerous and there were risks with the exposure, but she was too wasted at the moment to really care. Finally after several miles had passed she directed the enthralled man to pull behind a strip mall. Focusing her will again she worked a Craft of healing and regeneration on herself. The much needed spell done she had her thrall pull out from the strip mall and continue his northward journey. As the miles ticked by she could feel her injuries begin to lessen, and the wound in her shoulder knit shut. ?Go west, you are to take to me to the Clover Hills bus depot, obey all traffic laws. When you have dropped me off at the bus depot you will return directly home making at least two changes in direction to do so, you will have no memory of picking me up or where you took me, once home you will be free of my control. Do you understand?? Marion directed the zombiefied man, a note of happy relief evident in her voice now that the prospect that she was out of danger free and clear seemed certain. Thrall-Greg silently nodded, his thinking mind recorded the instructions even though his will and memory remained caged. By the time Greg pulled up to the bus depot Marion was feeling relatively whole again. Most of her volatile blood had evaporated off of her arm and the fading stains on her shirt were pink rather than red. Even so, she was glad she had set up the emergency jump point back in the maintenance area rather than the passenger lounge and away from prying eyes. It was a simple thing to avoid the few workers and reach an outwardly mundane supply room. Inside the room, which was brightly lit with artificial light from a large flickering fluorescent bulb, rows of stacked cleaning solvents of all types lent an acrid smell to the air while various mops and brooms in various states of wear stood stacked against a wall. It wasn?t the most pleasant place to be, but she wasn?t going to be here long. She bent down and pulled a large loose tile from the floor, revealing a pattern of hideously complex runes and diagrams visible only to eyes that could see the Craft. One of the diagrams was specifically designed to contain the Craft pulse the other diagram would generate. Marion touched and triggered the primary spell then carefully replaced the tile, waiting on the timed countdown she had built in to finish. Only a brief flash of iridescent light shone through the cracks of the closed door as the timed spell activated to indicate that something completely out of the ordinary had transpired within the mundane storage room which was now again empty. Far away, Marion waited for her head to clear in the basement of her home after the disorienting jump through space-time, and debated which was more pressing, a drink, a shower, or a long catatonic rest on her couch. She decided to start with the drink, followed by rest, then the shower and despite all of the day?s terror a slight smile crossed her face as Marion Dumere, Witch, realized she had lived to see another day. Meanwhile About the same time Marion was entering the bus depot a sullen jacket clad man was sitting alone on a sidewalk near the train tracks and pondering what he and his men had done wrong that day. Bruce could see clearly the drops of blood here and there which confirmed he had hit the Witch. He could also see the black screech marks on the nearby pavement that ended just in front of one of the larger pools. He had no doubt in his mind that his quarry had finished its escape in a car after hijacking the driver with a spell. If the Craft pulse his charm had detected was anything else he would have been shocked. It had taken thirty long minutes for him to wearily walk the distance to the nearest crossing point over the tracks and back down to this point. He had no illusions that his quarry was long gone as he watched its cursed blood slowly evaporate off the pavement. He knew it would be valuable to the forensic lab techs if he could collect it, but the specialized equipment needed to do so was far away in the team?s truck and beyond his reach. He softly swore as the last of it disappeared. Five minutes later a large cargo truck, the kind so ubiquitous in large cities, marked ?AJ?s Freight? pulled up to the curve. Bruce slowly stood up and moved up to the truck, he opened the small access door at the truck?s side and pulled himself up into what should have been the cargo area as the truck pulled away from the curb. Instead of darkness, his features were bathed in the soft glow of electronic light as a cutting edge surveillance suite stretched out to his left and softly hummed with the flow of electricity. The illuminated monitors showed a map overlaid with various colored lines punctuated with red points denoting the places the sensitive equipment had registered Craft pulses. Bruce snorted as he recognized the spaghetti- like twists and turns of the pursuit paths. The red dot superimposed over the train tracks where the paths ended blinked over and over taunting him for his failure in its mechanical fashion. Bruce turned away knowing he would spend a great deal of time dissecting the complex map, but now was not the time. Across from the data center a narrow work desk that could convert to a cot sat underneath various locked weapon cages that held an assortment of the most lethal small arms currently manufactured across the world, many of them of dubious legality. At the end of the truck a pair of black motorcycles sat in their cradles flanked by equipment lockers all behind the hinged fa?ade designed to look like a tight pack of brown shipping boxes. Bruce noted the flat tire on one cycle and the mangled front on the other. Turning towards the cab he could see Sven driving, while Diego bandaged his injuries in the passenger seat. In the rumble seat in front of him Carl sat quietly cradling a medical kit and a small box that contained a mix of several small, bloody shards of glass and copious amounts of crimson stained gauze. Carl felt Bruce?s eyes on him and he turned his injured face to look at his leader. ?I?m sorry boss, I let you down today, if I hadn?t wiped out we would have?? Carl?s apologetic words were interrupted by a wave of Bruce?s hand. ?No, you didn?t fail me, Diego didn?t fail me. That was not an easy pursuit and you gave it your all. It was a high risk chase and things go wrong in high risk chases.? Bruce?s words were firm and reassuring as he spoke, in the front seat Diego silently nodded in recognition of the compliment. Bruce continued in a far harsher tone, ?NOW, Rookie, why don?t you explain to us why we had to engage in a high risk chase instead of setting a proper ambush?? In the drivers seat Sven winced at being called out, and tried to think of what words might mollify his commander. He took too long. ?Answer me, DAMNIT!!? Bruce swore angrily, he was not going to let this pass. Finally Sven answered in the quiet tone of the chastised, ?I screwed up.? ?You screwed up, yes there is that, you realize now that the Witch we just chased is going to run to some bolt-hole and disappear, and if it's in contact with the other Witch we actually came for then that Witch too is going to disappear as well. You may have just burned years of work, dozens of people may die at this Witch?s hands, and this cancer will only become more difficult to root out. If you do it again I?ll make sure you spend the rest of your career mopping floors at HQ, ROOKIE!? The threat hung in the air before Bruce?s angry face finally returned to its neutral mask. ?Okay, what?s done is done; now let?s figure out who we were chasing.? With that Bruce pulled a chair from the data center, and pulled up the Hunter?s database. Carl moved to sit next to him and soon the two were looking at the several hundred records of known Witches. ?What you want to start with?? Carl inquired. ?Hair, there can?t be that many with red hair like that," Bruce flatly replied. The database indicated that there were 32 Witches known to have naturally red hair. ?Well it?s a start, any ideas to age and type?? Carl suggested. ?The Witch ran at a dead sprint for over an hour at top speed, got up after a nasty fall, AFTER I got a piece of it with a warded bullet. High pain tolerance, super endurance, fast as hell, it's either a very new Class V without a visible mutation, or it's a very mature Class IV, lets go with IV. Trust me if you saw its last jump there wouldn?t be any question as to type, Air type, without a doubt," Bruce spoke more to himself than his friend. The database took the offered specifications and cut down the number of possibilities. There were 16 redheaded Class IV?s known. There were 5 known redheaded Class IV Air type Witches. Bruce pondered a moment before adding, ?It knew this city, it's clearly been here awhile, remove any possibilities with known residences outside the country and knock it down to those Witches known or suspected to be living in America for more than 10 years.? Two possibilities now showed in the database, the first appeared to be a regal woman with straight long auburn hair. Bruce shook his head recognizing the picture. ?Molly McGrae not that one, it got into some money a century back and it has dug itself into Boston society like a tick, we?ve been trying to get to it for half a century, there?s no way it would be out here for a stroll alone. Who?s the other one?? A second rec