'Hello all! Thank you for clicking on this story. It's my first chapter (never mind story) posted here! Thank you to all my lovely friends for being encouraging, as well as helping to proofread and edit it before presentation to the world.
This is erotica, but don't expect pure smut or slash fiction. The amount of sexual content will vary. But to quell your concerns, there is very much going to be hot, steamy sex with monster girls. And maybe monster... boys? Anyway, onto the story!'
*****
Skye closed the umbrella as she ducked into the doorway of the sad-looking, barren café. The sign above the door had said
Pleasant Cottage
. Her first glance indicated there wasn't much pleasant about it. There being only a single place serving food had limited her options. At least it was somewhere out of the rain.
It had been a miserable few days of travel ever since crossing into Fife. She had even feared the rackety old train would hurtle from the Forth Bridge. A result of the winds. Joining the annals of history beside the Tay Bridge Disaster. Her fears didn't come to pass. It was as though the train had crossed a barrier, past some unseen boundary. From the mere grim greyness across the Forth to the pounding, unrelenting rain of Fife. Not on a single of her previous visits had she seen such.
The rain was unnatural, there were no two ways about it. The work of something paranormal or occult. A witch, sorcerer or even a druid, or what concerned her, something worse. Too many unknowns.
The locals had failed to notice, which made it worse. The conductor of the train she stopped to ask didn't have an answer. Beyond a mere comment that the weather was, in his own words, "shite." She agreed.
The door clunked against the bell as she stepped in, alerting the customers and staff alike to her entry. She was a stranger and hoped they wouldn't notice or mind. Drawing attention to herself was the last thing she wanted.
Skye paused as she deserted her umbrella by the door, assessing the occupants. Two middle-aged workmen complete with boiler suits. With their dirty appearance one only saw on tradesmen. An elderly couple occupied a booth by the window, the two of them over eighty by Skye's best estimate, cute almost in a way. She watched for a moment longer as the elderly woman reached over the table to brush crumbs off her husband's shirt, scolding him for making a mess. She hoped they wouldn't have to learn of the danger that lurked so close, preying upon the men.
Tracking her quarry had led to the village and the surrounding area. An old ruin less than five miles away was of particular interest. Especially as she'd gathered the area was used for hunting. The legality of such was up in the air, which likely made it easier for what she was tracking. More chance for victims' loved ones or friends to not be in the know about their whereabouts. Or worse, they wouldn't be missed. She was hunting the hunter, a difficult task. Six missing men concerned Syke because she knew it wouldn't end with only six.
"Take a seat anywhere, love." The voice drew Skye's attention to the waitress. She was an ageing woman whose heavy makeup did little to conceal the tiresome years beneath. She'd seen the type often enough on her travels. A career waitress. Most likely she'd spent her entire life working in Pleasant Cottage. It was a dreary, destitute place, and the woman with her fake smile was the culmination of it.
Skye returned the smile, giving a nod. "I'll give ya a minute to figure out what you want, love. Tea?" There was a high-pitched, forced chirp to the voice that grated at Skye, because of how forced it was. The voice of customer service, that was what Sam had called it. Sam... Skye grit her teeth, forcing the thought from her mind before tears could form, giving a nod in reply. She didn't usually drink tea, but it was better than nothing and at the very least, warming.
The previous eleven hours stalking through dark, soaked and in places flooded underbrush had done little to lift her spirits. Especially as she was yet to find a single solid lead that would put her one step closer to tracking the hunter. It would avoid her, that much she knew. They preyed only on men. Sam would have come in handy; he hadn't minded playing bait. But he was gone. Not dead. That she refused to acknowledge. Not without a body.
Skye once more tried to push the thoughts of her lost lover from her head. She opted for the booth furthest from the door and the other occupants. She seated herself, noting the worn, faded nature of the seats.
The place hadn't seen a lick of paint in decades, never mind anything more substantial. Most of the villagers were working class and for them, it was unlikely to change anytime soon.
She opted for the discarded paper on the table first before the menu.
High Court Rules Strike Unlawful
. The miners had been striking for months. Sitting Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was trying to push for future colliery closures. The miners tried to use the only power available to them to prevent it, striking. Britain still needed coal.
Skye gave the slightest sigh. If only they knew. Their hearts were in the right place. The Reds had called her The Iron Lady. To the mine workers and their families, she was ruining their lives and taking their jobs. Most of them had only ever known the mines. In a village like the one she found herself in, it wasn't uncommon for more than half the males of age to be employed at the local pit.
Skye dumped the paper back onto the table, the front page down. Thatcher couldn't tell them the truth, and more would suffer because of it. Unaffected by the strikes, she had her own reasons to dislike Thatcher. The woman was the devil. Well, perhaps not quite. But not far from it. The demon Thor'goth all but confirmed it before she had banished him. A deal had been struck, between someone, or something, and Thatcher. She didn't know what, but finding out was on her list. Although the idea of becoming a second Guy Fawkes didn't appeal to her.
The town she'd passed through only a day prior was the closest to the local mine. The strikers there had been strong in both number and spirit, even in the face of the rain. A local in the greasy spoon in that town had provided Skye with a commentary on the matter. There were no scabs among their people, that much she assured Skye.
Were the truth an option, the matter would be far simpler. She had considered it. Simply telling the woman there and then. More than likely the woman would have laughed and agreed. How close, yet how ignorant someone could be. The people of Scotland had a deep-seated dislike for the strong-willed woman running their government. Their hate was misdirected. Whatever deal had been made was the real problem.
The miners had dug too deep. It was a tale as old as time. Not only in the towns and the villages of the east coast of Scotland where she found herself. But up and down the country as a whole, in the Highlands, the Welsh countryside, and even in the Midlands. The pits had to be shut, at least temporarily, until matters subsided. She could only hazard a guess towards what they had stumbled upon and hoped it hadn't been the same as Texas.
Skye recalled the family she'd paid a visit to two weeks prior, the father in jail for assaulting his own son for being a strike-breaking scab. It was a real shame, and she could only imagine the lasting impact it might have. Families were split already. Those standing by the strike action on one side. Those keeling and submitting to the desire to continue to provide for their families on the other.
"You alright, hon?" Skye blinked, her knuckles were white and her fingers clenched against the edge of the table, threatening to crumble the cheap, aged wood. She could see the waitress appraising her, stopping upon the messy ink on the backs of her hands. Although she appeared punk, it wasn't quite the reality. Skye could only imagine how she looked, avoiding seeing her reflection had become a habit. She knew she looked tired; Wynn reminded her often enough. In truth, she was tired.
Skye nodded, trying to find her voice. Too often these days she found herself lost in her thoughts.
The ink was an unfortunate necessity, one that drew attention to herself. It was a method she had learned from a Native American shaman. Some opted for bottles, or similar containers, or other things more esoteric. It was possible to trap a demon in almost any object with the right know-how. Yet things were breakable. This way she could keep them close and monitored at all times.
Years had passed since first learning of the method. After severing a demon's existing anchor to the mortal plane, she was able to capture the very essence of their existence. From there it was a simple ritual to bind that essence to her own flesh. The exact form and makeup had been different for the shaman. For her, they took the form of punk, metal, or generally darker tattoos. She felt the shaman and his beautiful beasts had gotten the longer straw.
The years of constant travel had left her arms, chest and back almost completely covered. What had started with a small rabbit on her hip was now a mess of constantly shifting skulls, skeletons, and worse. The non-earthly nature of the tattoos meant they had the habit to shift, move, or change. Something had to hide. That wasn't a question she cared to attempt to explain to a mundane mortal.
"TELL 'ER YOU WAN 'ER. TELL 'ER YOU GUNNA EAT 'ER." The voice was a distant scream, one she had learned to repress and ignore, thankful it was localised to the inside of her head and not the cafe as a whole. The demons being so close to her came with the upside of being monitored, and unable to escape. As well as no risk of their vessel being broken. But, came with the downside of them being part of her. Still, some people had it worse. She had seen real demonic possession first-hand.
Skye ducked her hands beneath the table, trying to hide the ink from visible view before it threatened to shift. She almost only wore long sleeves and high collars.
The distraction had left her little time to appraise the menu. She didn't care to draw attention to herself any further by asking... Wendy, she took note of the woman's name by the yellowed nametag, to return.
"Full breakfast. Eggs runny. Toast a little on the burnt side, please?" Her voice was quieter and raspier than she liked. It was a side-effect of her continued travels, and lack of rest. Playing host to a horde of demons didn't help either.
Wendy nodded as she scribbled the order, pausing for a moment. "Big meal for you, hon. Eating alone?"
