Made For A Monster

Leni's POV

It’s another Friday night in the subterranean circus show that is Cassey’s Crimson Crypt. Traffic is crazy as usual, music is deafening and the number of drunks have exponentially increased in the last half hour. I'm working the tables when my coworker saunters by.

“Hey, can you cover for me, I need to go to the dentist’s."

“What sort of dentist is still open at eleven p.m.?"

“Urgh, Leni, Doctors have to work around the clock. Emergencies happen all the time," Ashley answers matter-of-factly.

“Okay, fine. But do you always dress like that when you go see your dentist?" She's wearing a crop top and shorts that don't even go all the way around her butt for crying out loud.

“Well…"

“Ashley–"

“Thanks, love you." And then she very literally disappears.

"You're welcome for the hundredth time this week,” I call after her, rolling my eyes.

I finish clearing a table and am about to leave when I hear a fight breaking in the distance. The scuffle sounds so loud I'm surprised no one is reacting. And then it all begins to make sense: the participants are no ordinary people. They're shifters. It's why no one else but me– who happens to be a natural-born hunter– can hear them. For my kind, two hundred yards is as close as two meters.

That being said, do I want to head for the troublemakers and ask them to keep it the fuck down? Definitely. But I face my work instead because whatever has those supernaturals brawling is none of my business and it's going to stay that way.

I’m returning from serving a group of friends some Bloody Marys when a hand brushes over my ass and I freeze mid-step. Turning, I see a man with a scruffy beard and no self-preservation instincts whatsoever still ogling my breasts right after touching me without permission. But I maintain my composure and keep my smile, knowing that I am still at work and Cassey Macaulay, my boss, has very serious reservations about blood staining her carpet. She’s afterall the one who writes my paycheck and I have quite the number of bills.

“Would you like something, sir?" The sentence literally claws its way up my throat because what I really want to do is curse, not be polite.

But Man With No Shame is totally oblivious to my annoyance. He fucking winks at me. "Why don't you come over to my place, Darling, entertain me a little. I will pay you well.”

"I'm really sorry– company policy stipulates that employees do not relate to customers in that manner. However there are a couple of places I could recommend for you– just down the street.”

"Tell me why should I go for the whores outside,” he returns, "when there is plenty in here.”

Wow.

Someone really wants to end up in the Emergency Room with injuries that will take at least three months to heal… maimed for life even after recovery. I can be that insane.

"Sir.” It's taking an act of God to even maintain my composure right now. "Like I said, we don't do that here."

But the dude begins to pull wrinkled dollar bills from his depressed-ass wallet. Then he grabs my hand and in that split second I contemplate a few things, one of which is that I could drag him from his seat, crash his head on the table then twist his arm in an unnatural angle, maybe even break a few fingers… but I really need this job. If I do what I have in mind, my dismissal will be instantaneous.

So all I do is snatch my hand away. "If you would like another drink, please let me know, if not, do have a nice evening…” That too if it is absolutely necessary… else you can go screw yourself.

But he rewards my politeness by flashing me the finger and I leave, furious. My mood only worsens when I reach the manager’s office and overhear him talking with his family, telling his kids that he misses them and will see them soon, why on earth are they not asleep so late at night?

For a moment I forget what I am doing at his door and instead remind myself that I once used to have that– a family; persons I called home. But I left them. Now I'm waiting tables for people I can barely stand. Heaven knows I miss my relatives. But I can't go back now. Not after everything.

I compose myself, enter the office and tell the general manager that if he doesn't move me from waitressing duty I might kill one of his customers. He agrees easily. I mean, put that way, who wouldn't? So when my best friend, Jake, comes to the bar for a drink I'm the one who handles his tequila sunrise.

“Busy night," he comments. "How many new admirers you got?”

I’ve narrated some of my encounters with problematic customers to him before so him calling them genuine admirers is sort of an inside joke between us.

“Well, the demographics have gone from bad to worse," I reply, not finding it funny anymore. "You couldn't comprehend the rate at which I attract creeps.”

Jake laughs so hard he’s almost choking on his drink. “I think the fact that all the loonies of New York just want to be around you is a sign. Your calling is psychiatry, not any of your five agonising jobs.”

I sigh. "They are just three part-time engagements done for a few extra bucks and when you put it like that you make it sound like it's slave labour.”

"Isn't it?”

I give him a look. “Jake."

"My point is, you should making an impact, keeping the world safe,” he maintains. "Protected. From entities far worse than your occasional horny crushes."

I know where he's going with this.

"Leni, you're a hunter,” he says. "It's always been in your blood. You shouldn't run away from your destiny.”

Yes, yes, I knew this was what he was going to say.

And while he's trying to persuade me to do something I washed my hands off a long time ago, I'm making sure no one is eavesdropping on us– you can't be too careful in a place like this– so after a while I stop stalking everyone who passes by with my eyes and just ask the manager for a ten-minute coffee break “to enhance my work productivity."

The father of three first gives me a suspicion-packed side-eye before finally waving a hand for me to "sure, have fun.”

Minutes later, while Jake and I are at the back of the building that sits above the underground bar, in the cold, eleven forty-five p.m. silence, I mention the shifter fight that happened earlier this evening. For a while he doesn't even say anything then soon he’s folding his arms across his chest, the grimmest expression on his face. “Werewolves?”

"I think so. Pheromones were pretty strong. ”

And then: “how near were they?"

"Too close for comfort. These guys are getting way out of hand. At this rate we’ll have shifters fighting in front of people who thought supernaturals were just bedtime stories… needing serious clean-ups and we can't even begin to contemplate the magnitude of ripple effects mind-wiping magic that volatile will have on the subjects.”

He takes a swig of the brandy he brought with him to the surface. “And that is why we need more hunters out there. These creatures are becoming more powerful by the day."

I give a small laugh. “You do realise that if the world were up in flames, you couldn't get me to become a hunter again, right?"

“It was worth a shot, though.” His gaze turns serious. “Some Moroi were on the East Coast yesterday. The murders were ghastly– a bloodbath.”

At the word Moroi all the hairs on my body are standing on end. Because the group Jake is talking about are a degenerate band of vampires– mindless, bloodthirsty creatures of the night that feed up to the point of preying on the very soul… exactly why hunters are regularly sent after them. Personally, they irk the fuck out of me.

Beyond that, Jake knows how sensitive I am to the topic of vampires– that's why he mentioned them. I mean, the monsters in question laid waste to my clan and ruined my life. Now I'm working three jobs just to be able to afford tuition.

“Please let's not talk about vampires," I beg.

“This is exactly why we should be talking about them and all the other supernaturals out there," he maintains. “They need to be kept in check so that the Alliance will achieve its reason for being. Our job as hunters is very important, Leni."

“Your job, you mean," I correct. “Good luck with it.”