Issue # 2 - A Shattered Clasp

A Shattered Clasp

*~~~~~*

Cloying warmth so vastly different from the bitter cold outside drapes itself around the Guardian. Mikel lingers by the exit allowing his silver eyes to acclimate to the strobe lights. Several women gyrate in elevated cages to a Guns-N-Roses cover of Sympathy for the Devil, their slick bodies illuminated in the color of sin from above. Other dancers hawk their wares on the floor, bare breasted carnies promising sensual delights in this circus of voyeurism and masturbatory fantasies.

Irises adjusted and Glock snug to his ribs he begins to move through the maze of circular tables filled with lonely men. Women call to him offering carnal pleasures that he brusquely declines. The females are drawn to him-his power and male essence is a glimmering oasis in this desert of bald pates and beer guts. This night he is only interested in the humans so he ignores the non-hominids that live amid the unsuspecting mortals.

Sitting in a corner of the club Mikel spies him, the glyph on the man’s forehead glows a deep shade of turquoise as he lifts a martini glass to his lips. Ephra had not been mistaken for the mark of servitude was evident to all who possessed the vision. His hand snakes upward to rest on the handgun hidden beneath his ankle length overcoat when unexpectedly the lean man with sun-fire eyes meets his gaze then motions him closer.

The minion was brazen Mikel grants him that for he was loathe to put a sacred round into the bastard in the presence of humans. Loathe also meaning forbidden in this case but none but he and Arapos knew this.

He strides closer then stops when the edge of the table brushes his thigh. A smile lifts lips under a pencil thin mustache that draws attention away from a nose misshapen at the bridge.

“Rayvenwing FINALLY you appear! I was beginning to wonder if that witch whore you bed had missed the calling card,” he remarks pushing the chair opposite his out with a snakeskin boot that was sharply pointed at the toe.”Do have a seat Guardian. I ordered your favorite…Stolichnaya on ice.”

Mikel wrinkles his patrician nose causing the fair haired man to raise a brow questioningly. The reek of sulfur is one that spurs Mikel to greater caution, and curiosity. Straddling the chair in a fluid movement Mikel dips a calloused finger into the vodka, lifting it to touch his tongue to the clear liquid.

“Relax Guardian of the Gates and enjoy your drink. We have much to discuss tonight you and I.”