The Monstrous Hunt

surrounding Betty's. For a moment, I felt nervous, like I was too out in the open. Though the initial pain of that feeling subsided quickly, I was never able to remove my uneasiness entirely.

  I looked around. As time passed, the tables began to fill up with tourists and those on breaks until there was a line at the entrance to get a table.

  Though she was pleasant enough to my face when checking on me, the woman who had seated me was not pleased I was taking up an entire table for hours for a coffee and pasty. I saw her glare when she thought I wasn't looking. I would still be paying so she had to deal with it. I felt no guilt.

  There was an unnatural lull in the babbling of conversation in the room. I looked up at Stonegate. Sure enough, the police were loading a body bag into the back of an ambulance.

  The investigators paid little attention except to wait for the ambulance and other officers to get out of their way. They went back into the darkness of the street to finish their work.

  I turned back to my coffee but stopped in mid-sip as I heard loud laughter coming from the treats shop in the entrance. Wonderfully, the woman and her friends were looking at the chocolates.

  I took the bill that the server had long since placed on the table and checked the amount. I fumbled in my pocket for the right change, almost dropping it on the floor before I could get it to the table. Despite my quickness, the group was already leaving when I stood.

  I followed them.

  They continued down the street to a nearby bookstore. Her friends walked further back into the store right away, stopping by the magazine racks. She stopped to look at a book on a promotional table near the front. It was my chance.

  I walked up and pretended to look at some books next to her. I rarely lacked confidence but when I caught the smell of lily perfume, my knees weakened a bit. Recovering quickly, I said, "Are you students at the university?"

  Idle conversation had always been my weakness. What point was there in it? I never cared if my lack of skill at it offended anyone but now the question I had just asked seemed pointless in a far different way than usual.

  She didn't even look up, just gave a non-descript jerk of the head that couldn't clearly have been said to be a nod or a shake.

  "You and your friends seem close," I said.

  She stopped in mid-motion as she was opening one of the books. Her head tilted up and for a moment she did not look at me. Then she did and that is when I truly went weak. The moment was far too short as her abrupt manner brought me back to myself.

  "Why have you been following me?" she asked.

  I scrambled for an answer, lamely responding, "How do you know I've been following you?"

  Her cheeks reddened as she said, "It would take an idiot not to notice. Even a blind and deaf person would have noticed you around so much. A frumpy looking top hat and velour jacket aren't exactly inconspicuous."

  In my off-kilter pause, she added, "Are you mental?"

  Strangely, this question of my sanity brought me back to my comfort zone, so many days taking lumps on internet forums perhaps. "Are you a bitch?" I asked.

  She jolted at my words; possibly she hadn't expected me to give it back.

  I said, "I wanted to introduce myself to you but haven't had the chance until this moment because your friends are always around. A guy thinks you're attractive and you attack him."

  She didn't back down. "You have to admit, it's creepy," she said. "Who else dresses like that and follows someone around, watching their every move? A stalker."

  "Then I'm a pretty bad stalker," I said. "I didn't see you until this morning and I only followed you for a couple of blocks. I spent the rest of the morning in Betty's and you walked in where I was. I just saw an opportunity to introduce myself. As for my clothes, I've been rehearsing for a play. It's just my costume."

  She considered for a moment. "I guess you're right. You are a pretty bad stalker," she said. "Sorry about that."

  Her hackles were dropping and I felt my muscles relax in kind.

  "I'm Oliver," I said as I offered my hand.

  Taking it in a firm shake, she replied, "Amelia."

  Amelia. The most gorgeous name in the world matched her perfectly.

  "Would you like to meet up sometime?" I asked.

  She hesitated again. I wasn't too worried because her hostility had nearly evaporated. I could work with this.

  "How about at the tea room in the Shambles tomorrow? They have afternoon tea for the tourists at four so we should meet at two," she offered.

  Her desire to avoid the tourists melted my heart. So far, she was everything I had hoped.

  I felt all weak and happy as I agreed. I told her I would see her then. I said good-bye and left the bookstore, not wanting to press my luck for the time being.

  I was sure nothing could ruin my mood. The first thing on my adventure had gone right. Then I passed Stonegate and started walking up Blake Street, the smell of fried chicken and burgers wafting down the road.

  I heard the sound but louder than I had remembered. It was the same sound I had heard before interrupting the Myyga the night before. I stopped where I was and looked around.

  Though the streets were busy and there were police not far behind me, I was terrified. I looked around frantically and saw nothing. After another moment, I continued up Blake Street.

  The sound got louder.

  As I was approaching an unmarked building between two shops, I noticed it had a recessed doorway that was in shadow. The sound was louder still. My heart clenched; my stomach flipped.

  I looked around again. It was daylight and there were people around. Surely I was safe and, after all, the night before my presence had scared the Myyga away. My rational arguments did little to placate my fear but I pressed on anyway. Within a moment, I saw them.

  There were two Myyga squatted over a body. Their long points jabbed into its chest and the grotesque clicking and squishing sounds of their act hit my ears as they worked.

  I screamed nonsensically and ran at them. They stayed only long enough to see what was coming at them before they fled.

  I called for help. I yelled down at the constables who were making sure no one crossed the police tape. I screamed for someone to chase the monsters.

  I mean no disrespect. It is simply what I said at the time.

  When I saw the police running, I turned back to the victim and nearly lost my bowels right there. The body below me was clad in a white tunic adorned with the crest of York, marred only by the blood and the hole that showed his exposed heart.

  I heard the footsteps of the constables slow to a stop behind me, one of them swore.

  "What did you do, kid?" the other said.

  They thought you had done it?

  Yes. I told them I had chased someone off but they didn't look like they believed me. They claimed they saw no one.

  They did not see the Myyga?

  No. Despite being the middle of the day on a busy street, no one did.

  Why do you think that is?

  To be honest, I think they were using me as a scapegoat. A second murder had happened so close to where they had been standing that they were probably seeing visions of messy sackings in the media.

  There was little other reason aside from my proximity. The street was full of witnesses who had seen me walking up the pavement, though no one had seen the Myyga or even the victim until I had shouted out.

  To their credit, the police did not arrest me but they did take me down to the station of the North Yorkshire Police.

  It was a dreary brick compound. Its atmosphere did little for my confidence. The large canopy of trees around the main building added some beauty but my mood was too low by that point to be improved by foliage.

  I cooperated with the constables. Seeing as how they had jumped on me as a scapegoat so easily, I saw no reason to provoke them further. I stayed quiet as they escorted me into the building and did not speak until hours later when I sat in a beige, fluorescent-lit, interrogation room
. It smelled of printer paper and bad coffee.

  A detective sat across from me. He had a folder open on the table in front of him. He introduced himself as Detective Graham, the head of the Criminal Investigations Department.

  He looked surprisingly young even though he was bald with the slightest bit of white fuzz beginning to grow around the sides and back of his head. His nose looked like it had been broken and set improperly years ago but he still looked as though he could have passed as a TV presenter, possibly even a news reader.

  "Every witness on that street saw me walking," I said. "Not one of them would say I killed that guy."

  "We know," he replied. "We aren't charging you with anything, but you found the body and you had said something at the scene about seeing the culprit."

  "Culprits," I corrected.

  He was surprised. "There was more than one?"

  "Two," I informed him. "Two ..." I hesitated. They would think I was nuts if I told them the truth so I lied just a little. "... Guys," I said.

  The detective called out to someone not in the room, "We need a sketch artist."

  "Wait!" I said. "I didn't get that good a look at them. No one else even saw them and they were running away when I showed up. I didn't see their faces."

  "Forget the artist," he called out as if to the same person. Turning back to me, he asked, "Is there anything you do remember?"

  I looked down at my knees as I considered my answer. The smell from my body wafted in front of my nose and I realized it had been days since I had changed clothes let alone showered. I would have to remedy that before my meeting with