I'm on compassionate leave, but I don't need a badge to justify my actions, and I don't need a gun to get my hands dirty. What I do need is fucking stitches.

"Son of a bitch!"

The blood spills down from my arm, trickling onto the dust-coated floor of this derelict husk of a building.

"Kali?"

Jack's voice taunts me from afar, adding salt to my wounds. I move slow, creeping through the ugly shell of this decades abandoned Hospital, trying not to give away my position. Its presence is darting through the dark places, its eyes burning with hungry desire, The Crocotta has learned a lesson from our initial encounter. The prey can become the hunter.

In the 1950's, Scarlett fever was all the rage. You got sick, got shipped off to these places, and if you were lucky, very lucky, you would one day return home and never speak about what you saw. Of the voice calling out to you in the darkness. The creature climbing the drainpipe and scratching at the window. Of the 12-year-old girl, who bedridden, and near death, managed to unlock her door from the outside, and was last seen walking into the woods...

There's a reason places like this make us feel cold, making goosebumps rise our flesh. Making us fearful, hysteric, and distrusting of the darkness. Despite how ignorant humanity are, they are also very perceptive. They know that the monsters lurk in the darkness. That they feed on the kindness of strangers.

Crunch. Shit... I stop, holding the air in my lungs, scanning the darkness for the slightest shift in movement. A sudden hot breath on the nape of my neck locks my limbs in place as fear holds me tight, refusing to let me go.

"Mommy?"

Jonathan whispers from behind. My knuckles clench, tears inadvertently run down my cheek. The crippling fear is thrown to the side by the explosion of rage within. I don't move, I know it wants me to run, but I refuse to play along with its sick fucking games. Instead, I leap into the air, twisting as I rise and extend my foot.

Crunch. The Crocotta Whimpers and snarls, before once again, I'm alone in the darkness.

"Fucking Coward!"

Taunt floating down the vast corridors, rebounding as it moves, deeper and deeper into the dark.

"So, you want to be a fucking pussy then, fine."

I'm unarmed, disadvantaged by the endless dark, and in desperate need of my gun. Searching for anything, anything at all, even a bedpan will do. What I do manage to find are a concrete brick and a rusted iron-pipe.

Okay, okay, I've been in worse situations. The time with the shapeshifter and all I had was a stainless-steel nail filer. I can do this.

Breathing deep, I run aimless and frantic, as if looking for the exit. It's watching me, I know it is. I give it a good show and fall to the ground cursing.

Sitting in the dark, head bowed, I listen.

Any second now it'll strike.

Patience is not one of my strengths, it never has been. But, it's all or nothing, I can't keep playing hide and seek with a dog-monster all night. Well, I could but it's already getting boring.

The mind is alert when danger is near. It translates that danger to you in sensory form, the feeling of being watched. It's a by-product of survival, it's for this very reason that I tighten my grip on the iron pipe and swing it in a wild arc.

My strike connects and something large falls on top of me, its limbs flailing wild for purchase, disoriented from the blow. Teeth puncture my forearm, sinking to the bone. Immediately, I respond with my trusty brick. Repeatedly, I bash its head in. Until its powerful jaws release their force on my arm, and its body is still.

Pushing it from me and wiping the blood from my eyes, I give it one last kick in the ribs just to be sure.

"Was it good for you?"

I stumble, my footing not so good, and walk back to wherever the fuck the exit was.

After wandering in the darkness for god knows how long, I'm finally returned to the land of fresh air and light. My injuries are minor at best and have already begun healing. I soak up the moonlight and exhale the fresh air.

What now? I know my body and mind need rest. Yet, these past few days since Jack... Home feels anything but. My bed is perfectly made and hasn't been slept in at all. Sleep has eluded me, my body and mind, require a constant distraction from this chaos and crippling loneliness. A mother without a child, a wife without a husband, that's me. Living in the broken husk of what once was a vibrant and happy family home. To make matters worse there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not a God, a wizard, or a Magician.

The Magician...

Clenching my fists bone tight, I run to my car. We were all fucking idiots.

Already a voice grows ever louder, flooding my brain with images.

Silent, and as expressionless as a statue, while Jack is led to the van for transport. The dejected quality to Jack's voice, as he told Vincent that he wouldn't fight. The snide smile on Vincent's lips. Jack, trying to say something to me, before the van door slammed shut on him. I kept my composure throughout. Remained distant, instead of raging. And now in the silence of the night, in the moonlight and artificial glow of the street lamps, my rage is building. Clenching my fists, I cross the street heading for my car.

"It's never too late."

I don't know what I'm planning but I know one thing, The Magician knows something, and that's good enough for me.

Starting the Ignition, the engine roars into life and I smile as I reach for my phone.

"Fancy earning yourself some cash?"

"That depends. What's the job?"

Turning around the corner, speeding through several red lights along the way.

"Finding the Magician."

She's silent, but I can tell what's going through her mind before she speaks.

"Yes. You can call dibs on one tome of your choosing."

"Deal!"

"Melissa?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be late."

She ends the call and I increase into the next gear, feeling the freedom and power of speed.

Melissa is the best window I have into the occult. She's also one of the few people that remained loyal to me, even after everything went to hell with Jack and Jonathan.

Jack...