Short story - The Nimrod's Contract

The door slammed behind me with a bang, the same bang I’d heard dozens of times before. This time, a freak wind rather than any human agent was the cause. It was going to be a rotten day tomorrow. I listened to my handler’s instructions through the noise.

‘So,’ he finished, ‘you know what to do?’

I looked from the man’s sullen face to the coin he dumped on the counter in front of me. The walls of that dingy basement were plastered with ‘Wanted’ posters, showing our artists’ renditions of London’s nocturnal grotesqueries, I felt at home. It was the one place I felt safe. I didn’t stay with friends or in hostels, I didn’t even have a house in the slums or in the old industrial areas. This was my all. I picked up the coin and smirked – it was from my last job, a ghoul who had taken to strangling society boys in dubious music halls. But already another commission had rolled into my lap. I picked up the single sheet of paper bearing instructions and a map the coin had been sat on.

‘Have I ever failed to deliver? Or collect?’

‘Never. That’s what’s killing me.’

‘The client pays in the end, doesn’t he? And we share the profit.’

‘Yeah. She does. And we do.’

‘Oh?’ my interest was piqued, ‘A noble lady’s otherworldly tryst gone awry?’

‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

‘What’s the fee?’

‘£400, split 50/50 as usual.’

I whistled. ‘They must be desperate to pay a mere Nimrod and her handler £400.’

‘Just get it done. Want Bessie tonight?’

‘No. Wilhelm.’

‘Expecting trouble?’

‘For £400, a ton of it.’

The man reached into the gun rack behind the counter and brought down the heftier and longer-barrelled of my two pistols. I tested it, loading a magazine and firing one bullet into the nearest beam – still good, the action like silk. It was a fine piece, crafted by a great Birmingham gunsmith, its bullets stamped with divine and infernal runic symbols. I could destroy Lucifer’s wings and shatter the weapons of Uriel with one shot.

I left my handler without another word, emerging from the basement onto the cobbled streets of London. A heavy fog clung to the capital, the gas lamps doing little to dispel the gloom. I heard distant footsteps, all human and nearly all guilty. I could even hear the late evening labour of servants in a nearby stately garret. Holstering Wilhelm under my coat, I walked to where my client would be waiting. The note’s contents pulsed in my brain, signalling danger and reward in equal measure.

“Midnight, at this location. Come alone, and bring a weapon.”

But who am I to take such joy in this? My name’s Leila Sybil. Just that.No title, no honour, nothing to denote me as more than a common slut of London’s streets. I’m what’s called a Nimrod. I go around London mopping up the monsters that don’t make the news. I don’t just take monster contracts for money. I do it to kill the bastards, to watch their faces melt into terrified expressions before I blast them into oblivion. I have one rule; no human casualties.

And tonight, I’d put that into practise. According to my instructions and my handler’s comments, it was for a fine lady in Mayfair. She would take me to my target in her carriage. I wasn’t enthused. Nobility are the meanest of the mean when it comes to payment. An earl once hired me to kill a demon set free from Solomon’s seal by his archaeological dabbling. I killed the demon, and it took Wilhelm near-crushing the earl’s temple to make him pay the £70 he owed.

I reached the junction where I was to meet my client. As I stood there, partially lit by a grime-coated street lamp, I heard the shuffling of someone in skirts and heels nearby. One of the locals plying their wares. I didn’t fir the role – brown leather boots and trousers, knee-length frock coat, and wide-brimmed hat. It wouldn’t stop a drunk from making a pass. But if they tried, I’d fling them into the road.

I checked my watch. It was just on midnight. Dozens of churches chimed the hour. On the sixth chime, I heard horses’ hooves on the cobbles down one of the streets. A large four-wheeler came out of the gloom towards me. I readied myself for whatever might come, gripping Wilhelm’s handle where it rested just out of sight within my coat. The four-wheeler with its two town-worn carriage horses drew up, and the hooded driver made a motion with his whip towards the door.

I approached slowly, smelling something wrong. It was evil, pure and unfiltered, yet not so recent as to make me wary. I opened the carriage door and saw a regal woman in one corner, her eyes staring implacably through a thin veil, her plump form clothed in black. If I didn’t have an excellent memory for faces, I’d swear I was being employed by Her Majesty. But I quickly dismissed the idea – Her Majesty would never stoop to using a Nimrod. And this woman was too tall.

I got into the carriage, and the woman lifted her veil. I didn’t react to the pale acid burns she had across her face, or the single blind eye caused by that same injury. She tapped on the ceiling with her cane and the carriage moved off. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then she spoke.

‘I’ve hired you to kill my son.’

I nodded. ‘Is he dangerous?’

‘He is the spawn of Satan.’

‘That’s a fairly vague description, Mrs....’

‘Viscountess Winterton, if you must know.’

I raised an eyebrow. The Winterton family had been landed gentry in England since Charles II, and claimed a lineage going back to a knight who fought with William the Conqueror at Hastings. In short, one of the snootiest families in existence, if reduced since the Reform Act.

‘Well well.’ I said, ‘It must be important for a Viscountess to consult a Nimrod. So you consider your son to be a “monster”... Please tell me more.’

‘Surely you Nimrods will hunt down such monsters as him?’

‘Have you considered an asylum, or private care? We don’t kill lunatics. If we can, we try employ them. They make good Nimrods.’

‘This is no mental aberration. He is sane, and he is utterly ruthless towards anyone who does not follow his whims. He...’ she gestured at the scars on her face, ‘...did this to me. I am only thankful his sister is out of his clutches with my brother’s family in Yorkshire.’

‘I see. You’re sure your son... Who is he, by the way?’

‘The Honourable Sidney Winterton.’

‘Thank you. You’re sure the Honourable Sidney isn’t human?’

‘What human would do this to his own mother?’

‘You should try reading history books. Or Shakespeare. Plenty of children have done considerably worse things to their parents.’

‘I tell you he is a monster.’

‘Why do you believe he’s a monster? Please, speak as calmly as you can, Viscountess Winterton. I must understand in order to help you.’

Viscountess Winterton lowered her veil, perhaps to help compose herself. It took a further minute before she was able to continue.

‘I had just married the then-Honourable Charles Winterton. I had yet to lie with my husband. I was accosted in a dream by a radiant beauty, a man who put my husband to shame. That night, I felt his rapture, and in the morning I was hollow. I became pregnant, but assumed it was due to my husband as I had lain with him on the night following this dream. When I gave birth, all seemed normal. But our young son.... he is not like other boys.’

‘Any distinguishing trait?’

‘His eyes. Ever since he was a mere babe, they bored into you. By day they are soft brown in shade, but at night they appear black as pitch.’

‘Any happenings in his life aside from... his attack on you?’

‘He appeared a very sickly child early on, and at one point we feared he had died of the flu, for he was stone cold and not breathing. The doctor said he was dead, but then he returned to life – we thought it a miracle at the time. When he was three, Charles’s father scolded him for some quite trivial jest he played on him. A week later, the previous Viscount was taken deathly ill, and passed away. With that, my husband succeeded to the title. I would consider it mere coincidence, but other terrible happenings have occurred.’

‘Such as?’

‘When he was attending school. The butler had spoken to me privately about the boy’s roguish temperament and disrespect for the class differences between himself and the between maid. I fear my son may have heard, though I tried keeping it from him. The following day, the butler was found hanged in the kitchen maids’ room. The kitchen maids who found him were hysterical, saying that some dark shadow had killed the butler and then led them to him. One became so distracted that she had to be committed to an asylum. I later heard it was the kitchen maids who told the butler about the talks my son had with the between maid.’

‘Anything else?’

‘At age fifteen, he was beyond the means of any normal school in England. He had knowledge and a mental aptitude far exceeding his years. At university, he was involved in a scandalous incident involving several other students that resulted in all but he being expelled. The following week, the professor of history shot himself in his rooms. In the years since then, he has been seen haunting houses of ill repute and leaving a trail of suffering wherever he goes.’

I grimaced. ‘Sounds like something from Oscar Wilde.’

‘I...understand the comparison. But it grew worse than any of Wilde’s musings. I confronted him with all this, and that is when he....’ she forced back tears, ‘He said I was to further his agenda, and attacked me. My husband the Viscount threatened to have him committed as insane, but the next day the Viscount was run down by a carriage and killed. I have since been installed in comfortable lodgings by my son, but I have not spoken to him since that day.’

The description fitted. The death-like states when young, the deaths of those who presented a threat, freakish intelligence beyond his physical years, and wanton cruelty even to those closest to him. I was dealing with a Cambion, and here a Cambion of a particularly potent and vicious nature.

‘How long since he attacked you?’

‘Two years.’

‘But you don’t call him the Viscount?’

‘The whole family has done their best to delay proceedings, and he seems in no hurry to accept the title.’

‘Why wait so long before calling us?’

‘He is my son. Be he devil spawn or not, that is still true.’

‘I understand. And you’re taking me to him?’

‘Yes. You should introduce yourself as a woman of the streets who has heard of his reputation and seeks to “test” him. He lives at No. 40, Baker Street. When his footman answers, tell him you are ‘here to consult the Honourable Sidney Winterton on a donation to a hostel for young girls’. It is a code he has circulated for his use. Oh...’ the Viscountess seemed on the point of fainting, ‘this is truly dark. I trust I will never have to undergo such a trial again.’

‘Now you’ve called me, you needn’t fear, Viscountess Winterton.’

Viscountess Winterton sighed and sobbed, relieved that she could leave the matter in my hands. The four-wheeler continued its progress through London until we reached Baker Street. The driver pulled up sharply, and I existed quickly. I gave a final nod to Viscountess Winterton before slamming the door and watching the four-wheeler drive into the fog. I found No. 40 with little difficulty. Ascending the few steps, I rang the visitors’ bell. The man who answered the door – my prey’s footman – was a blank-faced ghost of a man.

‘Yes?’

I did my best to disguise my classless accent, putting on the lower-class twang so often and so wrongly associated with ladies of pleasure. ‘The ‘onourable Win’er’on told me to cm’ere about a fund f’r a ‘ostle f’r girls like I.’

It wasn’t exactly what Viscountess Winterton had said to say, but close enough for the footman to understand the code and accept my cover. It worked. I was shown into and asked to wait in the hall. I certainly didn’t look like a lady of pleasure, but then my prey might consider the novelty a part of the thrill. The footman returned presently and said that the Honourable Sidney Winterton would see me in the library.

I was shown into that same library and told to wait. The place stank of expensive tobacco and wine, of old books, of wood smoke escaped from the fireplace, of a paraffin-based cleaner, and of the trace arsenic vapour from the wallpaper. During the few minutes I waited, I had a chance to sniff the decanters and their contents – all laced with a narcotic. I also checked the flowers, but only detected a fading natural scent.

The door opened as I waited next to the fire. I saw my target in the reflection of a picture on the mantelpiece. He had the slim figure of a 17^th century rake; dark hair plastered across a spherical head, accentuating cherubic features pinpointed by dark eyes and marred by an ill-fitting moustache. He approached, and I felt his long hand rest on my shoulders. I tried not to cringe at his sickening aura, and turned as he directed me with the slight pressure on my torso. He gently took off my hat and looked at me. His smile was all sweetness.

‘A most comely wench.’ his voice was a flute in my ears, ‘I hear you have come about the hostel fund. But I must ask; do hostel envoys normally travel with guns under their coats?’

He moved over to the drinks, and I dropped my pretence. ‘You’re very perceptive, as I expected. But I only needed to fool the footman.’

‘A poor sap indeed.’ he said he said as he got a glass of port, ‘He would believe a common harlot was “Her Majesty” if she put on a good-enough accent. Tell me, did my so-called mother send you?’

‘She wants to end your rampage. Having seen her, I’m not surprised.’

‘I suppose you know she tried to poison me. Else I would have confined my anger to words.’

‘I guessed she wasn’t telling me everything. But what about your grandfather, the butler and kitchen maids, those students and the professor at the university, and your father. You’re going to say it’s all coincidence?’

My prey turned nonchalantly, sipping from the glass. He gestured to the chairs, and we sat. He wasn’t running any time soon, but I still drew my gun in case he made a surprise attack.

‘They all got in my way, so I removed them.’ he replied nonchalantly, ‘That old duffer who offended me in my tender years. The butler trying to rein me in when I needed to expand my horizons. The kitchen maids snitching on me to get crumbs of gratitude from their “master”. Those sycophantic poltroons who were my fellow students. The musty-headed professor who knew what I was the instant he saw my eyes in the dark. Those poor wretches who sell their bodies for coin to buy themselves drink. A father who attempted to shackle me in this world’s perverted institutions. A mother who will not let her son walk his own path. Had she not tried to cripple my health, I would have shown the womb that bore me some scant respect.’

‘Exactly the attitude I’d expect from a Cambion.’

‘You have done your homework.’

‘No. It’s obvious really. And now I’m here, I can smell it on you.’

‘So perceptive. You Nimrods are all that I’ve been told, I see.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been detected before now.’

‘You know the limitations of Nimrods, my dear. Their eyes and ears have limits, even yours.’ his nose wrinkled momentarily, ‘Nimrods, so distastefully straight-laced in their duties, regardless of any one Nimrod’s personal perversions. I wonder how Jolly Jack’s been getting on in Whitechapel tonight... But in this great city, can you – even with all your training and dedication – imagine trying to find one among millions?’

‘True. And we had more pressing matters. One Cambion can’t weigh up against a rogue angel possessing a simple-minded evangelist, a demon crime boss, and a homicidal ghoul. In the same week.’

‘Busy?’

‘Very.’

‘You have my sympathies. And I’m flattered that I now come under “pressing matters”. Your schedule must have cleared considerably.’

‘Not really. I’ve just been paid to kill you now. It might’ve been someone else in Whitechapel, or a policeman-come-monster in Pall Mall, or even Her Majesty herself. It makes no difference – I kill monsters, and get my share of the reward.’

‘A mercenary mantra worthy of any Nimrod. You do your kind proud.’ he downed the last of his glass of port, ‘But before my “execution”, may I have a final cigarette? A terrible habit, I know. Picked it up from the late Viscount. But I believe the condemned “man” is allowed a final request.’

I nodded cautiously. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t assumed the title yes.’

‘The titles of humans bear no interest for me.’ the Cambion drawled as he produced a cigarette case from his breast pocket, ‘Soon I will vanish from this paltry life and pursue my true goal.’

‘Your true goal?’

‘Bringing my parents into the world.’

I knew what he meant. His kind were the spawn of a Succubus who captured the essence of a man, and an Incubus who used that essence to impregnate a human woman. If either or both were brought into the human world, the number of Cambions would expand exponentially. And all bound by familial loyalty.

‘I see. So that’s your plan.’ I cocked Wilhelm, ‘I can’t help but praise your drive and goals, but I can’t let you succeed. As a Nimrod, I’ve a contractual obligation to kill you. Besides, we can’t let Cambions or their sires run riot in London. We have enough trouble keeping the peace as it is.’

‘You are going to stop me?’

‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘A brash prediction.’

‘No prediction. It’s an absolute certainty. I’ve never failed a mission before, and I’m not going to let you ruin my reputation.’

The Cambion had tapped the chosen cigarette on his case, put it into his mouth and lit it with a novelty lighter embossed with a dragon. He drew and exhaled a great cloud of its noxious pale smoke, causing my nose to wrinkle. He then looked directly into my eyes and smiled.

‘Then I shall have to doubly disappoint.’

In the split second that followed, I realised what an imbecile I’d been. You didn’t clean carpets – or chair upholstery – with paraffin. I had fallen into a trap. And the Cambion knew it.

In the moment our eyes made contact, he flicked the still-burning lighter and cigarette onto the carpet. Flames spread in a second across its surface and onto the chair. I catapulted myself back and off the chair, avoiding being caught in the burning fabric by a hair’s breadth. I must have struck my head as everything went black for a moment. When I recovered, the room was filling with smoke, and I heard cries in the street. My prey was gone. I swore and rushed through the open library door into the hall. The body of the footman was sprawled in the doorway, his head almost complete severed. The Cambion had made a run for it, and in batting the footman aside had not held back his supernatural strength.

I rushed from the house, barging past a policeman who was coming to investigate the blaze and the calls of “fire”, and even as I heard his whistle, I ran up Baker Street towards Regent’s Park, following the Cambion’s malicious scent. I guessed where he would be heading – holy ground, where Cambions could hide amidst the stink of the unclean dead. The nearest place was Hampstead Cemetery, several miles beyond Regent’s Park. But that trick wouldn’t work on my nose.

I ran along the streets, and could sense rather than see the underworld urchins of the night getting out of my way as I pursued my quarry. My tireless legs scythed through the fog, and I imagined my quarry desperately trying to reach the sanctuary of holy ground before I caught up with him. It was an endurance race at this point, and it was between myself and a man who had indulged in the vices of the Victorian upper class. But he still got there before me.

The main gates of Hampstead Cemeteryhad been forced open. I stepped over the threshold, gently pushing aside the gate’s creaking remains. One sniff told me the place’s consecration had been violated. Reaching into my coat, I brought out a small phial of sacred water. I threw it in the air, and it smashed with a small blaze of light, illuminating the rolling banks of fog surrounding me. The entire cemetery was now cut off from the outside world, barring any supernatural being – including the Cambion and myself – from leaving. I cocked Wilhelm and walked along the gravelled path into the gloom.

It’s an unnerving experience traversing a cemetery at night. The gravestones leer at you from the shadows, and you fear that their owners might decide to throw you out. There are sounds of animals such as rodents or stray cats, and the movement of the fog attempts to deceive the eye. Over all these is the stench of death that clings to everything, masking much of the Cambion’s distinctive smell.

I couldn’t afford to lose him. But I couldn’t easily smoke him out either. The fog pressed in and my senses tried to paint a thousand hell hounds into each shadow. I really felt like I was walking into the valley of the shadow of death. And I did fear.

I was just approaching a large angel statue atop of a grave when I felt the unmistakable cold of a wraith nearby. I froze, readied myself. It was a few minutes before the wraith appeared to me – a humanoid figure stretched and rendered gaunt by its horrific passing, reaching out towards me from the writhing fog. I stepped to one side and its hand went astray, striking the angel statue. It recoiled with a hiss, its pallid features flaring, then it turned away and returned languidly to its home beyond the fog. This Cambion must’ve been desperate to stir a wraith from its self-indulgent mourning. All the more reason to kill him quickly.

For close on a quarter of an hour, I explored that place. I paused at every corner, listened to any rustle, turned my head at every heavy sound. It was a waiting game. I knew the Cambion would thirst for me, would come to take me if only to exact revenge upon my body for daring to make an attempt on his life. Born to aristocrats or not, Cambions have a superior attitude. But that selfsame pride could prove his undoing. If I acted cautiously, he would grow impatient and attack, and that would be my time to strike. But I needed to keep my own nerves in check. As the minutes threatened to turn to hours, this became progressively more difficult.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ I muttered under my breath.

No response, but then I highly doubted a Cambion would be able to hear as well as I could, or would even answer. I could hear the very distant sound of fire bells echoing under the quarter chime of the nearby church clocks. I smiled, and decided to push him a little in a more traditional way.

‘Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children will burn.’

There was a slight flurry nearby, something heavy shifting, but I checked myself. It could be a false alarm. Or a trick. I continued walking slowly along the path, and finally came to a small crossroads near a large stone cross atop an elaborate sepulchre. I stood there for another five minutes, waiting. I heard a sudden shuffling, and at the last second ducked as the Cambion flew over me with a movement that would have taken my head off. I spun and fired into the air where I calculated his head would be. The Cambion hissed with pain and landed hard a few feet from me. He had a burn on his cheek from the bullet, and as he touched it, he smiled as if amused or excited.

‘That is the first time any being has marked me.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘But you shall be the last.’

For the first time, I saw the pure-black eyes Viscountess Winterton had described. So this was what others had seen before misfortune and death struck them. The Cambion rushed at me, swiping with his cane. I saw the glint of steel, the blade of his swordstick. It severed a lock of my hair as I dodged its first slice, then blocked several thrusts and slashes with Wilhelm’s barrel and jumped back. The Cambion dodged my retaliatory shot and made to skewer me. I managed to get myself in front of the sepulchre, so when I dived to one side, the tip of the blade struck the marble wall. There was a slight ping as the tip snapped off, and the Cambion hissed. He sheathed the broken blade and turned to see Wilhelm levelled at his chest.

‘Impressive indeed.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I don’t appreciate my property being damaged. Let me show you my parents’ gifts to me. Come, slaves of Lucifer, denizens of Purgatory!’

The Cambion snapped his fingers with a flamboyant twist, and I felt the ground heave around me. That was another thing a Cambion could do in a tight spot; summon the unquiet dead as their thralls. I didn’t have enough bullets to deal with every assailant if the Cambion had summoned the entire cemetery. Time for my own trump card. The revenants began shambling towards me, their rotted mouths stretched wide. The Cambion smirked as they neared me; aside from the burn on his cheek, he looked like any other pristine Victorian gentleman.

‘Now this will be interesting. I have never seen the dead dissect the living.’

I smirked back. ‘Nor shall you.’ I raised my hand, as there was still ample time to perform the ritual without getting to safer ground, ‘Prince of the Heavenly Armies, I summon thee to dispel these enslaved. In the name of the Archangel Uriel, Requiescat in Pace!’

There was a flash of light in my clenched fist, and all the corpses faded into nothing, returning to their graves. The Cambion stared at me.

‘No! No human can command the archangels unless–’ he then seemed to understand what had happened, ‘Oh.... Oh this is good. Nay, wonderful. My nose did not mistake. A hybrid in my midst, summoning my enemies to overwhelm me.’

‘No. Just to even the odds. If I wanted to overwhelm you, I would summon some of your former allies.’

‘You what?!’

I took the opportunity and fired. The bullet struck him in the shoulder, and the entire arm rotted and fell away instantly. The Cambion roared, and leapt at me. It was then that I felt the first tinge of true fear. It isn’t easy fighting off a Cambion in such a confined area at night with low visibility, whatever their condition. This Cambion was strong, infused with the dual prides of malice and aristocracy. I had to resort to dodging as his arm swiped at me with enough force to take my own arm off.

I finally managed to get the Cambion’s back to the sepulchre, and I seized my chance. The Cambion swiped at me, I ducked, then kicked. My prey struck the marble with bone-breaking force, and before he could recover I pressed my weapon against his chest and fired. The bullet passed through his heart. It didn’t kill him – that wound would never kill a Cambion – but it made him go limp and slide to the ground. As he stared at me, he raised his remaining hand and shook an accusing fist at me.

‘I curse you, Nimrod. You shall suffer the torments of the damned. You shall be taken into the deepest pits of Hell, there to burn for a month longer than all the world when Doomsday– What are you sniggering about?!’

I couldn’t help it. I was reaching into my coat and bringing out what I needed to finish this. A small phial that gleamed pale orange, taken from the edges of the Circle of Heresy in the depths of Hell. The Cambion recognised its aura and tried to move, but the wound and the bullet’s crippling properties kept him immobilised. I opened the phial and spoke to the air. My words made the fog churn.

‘Lucifer, Almighty Lord of Hellfire, I summon thee to imprison this wanderer from your dominion. By the First Sin, from coldest Cocytus, come and reap thy harvest!’

I tossed the phial towards the Cambion, and its contents splashed around him. He squirmed, tried to crawl away. I pressed Wilhelm against his forehead and fired once more. The bullet spread his brains across the sepulchre wall, and he slumped in a state of shock as the portal formed beneath him. Flaming tendrils wrapped around every part of him, even the severed arm and the gore from his wounds, and began haphazardly dragging him down. It took effort and broken bones to bring him through that tiny portal. I saw his eyes glaring at me through the pain as his limbs were tied in knots and the demonic tendrils relished his suffering.

Once all of the Cambion was through, the portal and the brimstone forming it vanished. I sighed, then turned and began my long walk back towards the city centre. It was 1 AM when I reached that place, and the clocks were striking the hour as I entered the basement where I had started the mission. I sat in the single wooden chair and dropped to sleep, waiting for the morning to come. It was accompanied by the door’s unceremonious bang as my handler entered. I reported my mission a success, and he said he would collected the fee as soon as possible.

‘Want another job?’ he asked mechanically.

‘Not yet. I’m taking leave.’

‘Got it. Your reward’ll be waiting for you. Good hunting, Nimrod Leila Sybil.’

I nodded and left. I would spend some time in the country, find a field to rest in well away from the city and its monsters. My work as a Nimrod wasn’t done, but it didn’t dominate my life. That was another rule I followed – an unwritten one the others didn’t appreciate.

The sun was rising, but thick clouds and unseasonal rain kept its light in check. I looked down at my shadow, cast by the nearby light of a still-active street lamp. I saw my human figure, and the four tattered wings growing from my back that only those in Heaven or Hell could see. It was a sign of my ancestry. My gift and my shame. Oh well, who better to be an all-powerful monster-hunting Nimrod than the most powerful monster of all. A bastard child of Angel and Demon. A Nephilym.