(Banner by Hastur.)
There is truth in fiction.
Myth. Folklore. Legend.
An undeniable truth that,
for many,
exists only in the realm of fairytale.
Humanity is not alone.
Evil lurks in the shadows;
monsters as strange and as horrific as any nightmare.
Vampires. Werewolves. Creatures that defy common explanation.
For countless eons mankind has been preyed upon,
and for countless eons the Hunters have stood in silent vigil.
Guardians in the night.
Darkness has taken root in the City of Angels,
a weed,
creeping like toxic ivy.
A beacon of wicked corruption.
The Hunters pay heed to the unspoken call.
Stephen Quinn
Quinn Ranch, Los Angeles, California / March 2017
A red Honda Civic was cruising along State Road 247. A desolate run of blacktop connecting the towns of Barstow and Lucerne Valley, the whine of the hatchback's engine echoed by the nothingness that stretched on either side. Hills, too far out to see the city. Sky an immaculate shade of forever blue. The windows were rolled down, and the music turned up, loud, Stephen Quinn tapping along on the steering wheel. Sunglasses reflecting the landscape. Hair catching the wind.
He was fast approaching a slower driver. Stephen pulled left, crossing the double-yellow, and sped past, before slipping back into the southbound lane as an oncoming semi-trailer sounded its horn, driver shouting a wordless insult, a little too close.
No traffic. Speedometer reaching towards 90. Then a sudden left turn at an unmarked road, bouncing along the pavement towards Taylor Spring and West Ord Mountain in the near-distance. A mile-long approach to Quinn Ranch. The homestead was modest in its design, a simple ranch-styled house with two stories, attached garage, an outbuilding in the back, and enough land to form its own sovereign territory on the map. Away from prying eyes. Built by the Quinn family a century ago, maybe more, and updated throughout the decades to suit the modern lifestyle. An off-white with a sandy lawn (no point wasting water), stone accents, and a red-tiled roof.
Stephen pulled up the drive, towards the garage, parking alongside a dirty-white Ford Focus that looked to have gone a long time without a wash. He killed the engine. No point locking up this far out in the sticks. He entered through the open garage, careful to avoid touching the clean Corvette parked inside the safety of the shade.
Opening the door he was immediately hit by the cold air of a well-maintained AC. A necessity in these parts. Alexandra Wilkens was sitting on a stool at the island, eating a sandwich, offering a small wave as greeting as she played on her cellphone.
Stephen removed his sunglasses. "What are you doing here?"
The woman, one half of a set of twins, had a bad habit of showing up unannounced. Was the sort to invite herself in.
"Eating," she answered, finishing the meal that likely had been raided from the refrigerator. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Making some deliveries for Serrano. His courier's gone AWOL. Muy loco. Stole something, too. Don't know, so don't ask, but Serrano is mighty pissed, more-so than usual if you can believe it." She slipped down from the stool to fetch a can of soda.
Stephen took the soda and drank it despite her mock protests.
Another voice joined in from the next room over. "If you could lend a hand it would be a big help." Edward Quinn, Stephen's great-uncle, and the man who'd taught him everything there was to know about monster hunting, sitting at a wooden desk and studying a note adorned in the sloppy chicken-scratch of Serrano's handwriting. There was an open case on the floor, and inside there looked to be a handgun, as normal as the interior decoration, if not for the odd glow, blue, as if the inlaid gemstone on the grip was radioactive. No telling what it was. Could be anything knowing Serrano. After a moment, Edward looked up with the tired expression of an old man. His voice, however, remained strong no matter the age. "I sent Gill a few days back, but she hasn't turned up since, which is exactly like something she'd do, but I worry nonetheless."
"Gill?" asked Stephen, leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, sipping at the soda.
"Gillian. A friend of mine," said Edward, then, after a pause, added, "I don't think you've met."
"So you need me to find her?"
Edward gave a knowing grin. "Trust me, she can handle herself. The thing Serrano lost, well, that shouldn't be left to whatever hands find it, but if you see Gill I wouldn't be opposed to the idea of keeping her out of trouble."
"She sounds fun," added Alexandra.
"Sounds like a headache," muttered Stephen. He finished the soda, tossed the empty can into the trash, and then turned to leave the way he'd come, a bit annoyed at having to clean up somebody else's mess. Gillian, whoever she was, was already a tick in his side. "I'll be back later, then. Don't wait up." The door closed behind him. A few moments passed, and then his Civic could be heard trailing back down the private road towards civilization, to the black market shop Serrano owned in the Wholesale District of Los Angeles.
Edward returned to his task, and Alexandra, cleaning up after herself, went on afterwards to finish her deliveries. The Quinn Ranch sat alone in the desert east of Los Angeles. Normal if not for the secrets that lay inside.
