"Fishers of Beasts"
Some of us were sent out to be fishers of men, but there are those sent
out to be fishers of beasts.
Azazel, one of the Grigori, the Watchers of Men, had fallen and
revealed the art of sword making. Now, he stood at a corner smoking a
cigarette, his dark hair matted against his forehead, hawking cheap guns.
"Men shouldn't fight," I said.
"We're not men, are we?" He stamped out his cigarette.
"It's never too late. I've recruited many and they believe this too."
Azazel laughed through a deep cough.
I smiled. "Not as well as we used to be?"
Azazel pulled a .45 from his vest. "These are not mortal bullets, my
friend. These are consecrated with the secrets of our kind."
I slipped a hand inside my coat and brought out a small piece of chalk.
I knelt and drew a circle around my feet, marking symbols in each of
the cardinal directions.
Azazel erupted into another coughing fit and squeezed off a shot. When
I didn't react, he fired twice more.
I tossed a small white card outside the circle. "Call me when you
change your mind."
Azazel picked up the card, squinted at it, and tucked it into a pocket
on his vest. "Don't count on it."
He tore off down an alleyway.
Some were meant to be fishers of men, but I am a fisher of beasts
because when I look up at the midnight sky, I see home.