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Description
Connor rose with the rest of the congregation, garbed in his Sunday best: a redhead in black suit and tie, his beard neatly trimmed, his white shirt crisply ironed, and his shoes shined. The music of the pipe organ swelled and everyone opened their hymnals to the page designated on the board above the priest but something else caught his attention. A couple standing six rows ahead were talking low between themselves.

Disrespectful. He couldn't quite pinpoint it but something about the man in his gray suit and woman in her floral dress had his back up. Not that he knew anyone in the pews around him; he was only visiting Portland. Tomorrow, he'd hopefully finish the business that led him here in the first place but even so, he wouldn't miss Sunday Mass if he could help it. It was the Lord's day, after all, and he'd had more than a few Hail Marys to get off his chest this morning.

Connor's voice sang out, a rich tenor, without needing to read the verses from the book. Any good Catholic worth their salt would know this one. The woman of the pair glanced back at him, meeting his eyes for a second before turning back around. He couldn't hear what she said to her partner in the midst of the music, but the man glanced back as well.

It had Connor's instincts firing and he shifted his foot, tucking his kneeler all the way under the bench in front of him, giving himself room to move. Meanwhile, the woman gathered her purse, the man placing a hand on the small of her back and guiding her towards the external aisle. They're leaving, Connor realized and took a step himself, then another to move towards the end of his own pew.

He caught a curious look from the granny in the row behind him, a young girl beside her smiling up shyly. Conner gave a quick nod of his head in politeness, all of them still singing, before turning back to see where the two were.

The couple made it into the side aisle, turning towards the exit at the back of the church. They hurried past the stained glass saints and pillars, coming towards him. The woman wouldn't meet his eyes again but the man did as Connor took another step, still too far away to intercept. The flare of yellow in his eyes as the man passed confirmed what Connor's instincts were trying to tell him.

A shifter. His gut dropped. Ah, no. Not in the Lord's house.

He gave mumbled apologies and pushed past the elderly couple standing beside him as they sang, the woman especially loud and out of tune in his ear to show her displeasure. He gave her a frustrated look but didn't blame her, still shuffling past until he finally broke free into the aisle as well.

Walking as fast as he could while still trying to maintain decorum, he saw the door to the vestibule close behind the pair.

And just what do you think you're doing? You aren't fighting them in a House of God, he reminded himself.

No. But they ain't walking away free as all get out, either, he vowed as the door closed behind him, muting the sound of the congregation's singing. Looking about, he just caught the movement of another door closing with a glimpse of outside, a bright red exit sign above.

"You sons of bitches," he cursed beneath his breath, then flinched at the sin as one of the deacons lifted a brow at him.

His coat was hanging on a hook in the back corner of the coat room and he hurried, snatching it up along with what leaned against the wall behind it. It was hooked to his belt in a smooth motion, his coat swirling about him as he shot his arms through the sleeves.

Connor dipped his fingers in the holy water as he passed, not even breaking stride as he made the sign of the cross to bless himself and hurried out onto the footpath. He swore he saw the back of the man disappearing through a door across the street. Striding towards it, a loud honk broke him from his focus, making him jump back as a truck sped past just where he'd been. A sedan followed, the driver glancing at him through the windshield and he recognized the woman.

"Hey!" He slapped the back fender and ran after her, only to give up half a block later as she hit the gas and drove off. Ah, no. You're not getting away from me that easily, Connor vowed, dodging cars and doubling back to follow the man instead.

*

"You missed some good music last night, Aidan." The bartender wrapped the strings of his apron around his waist and popped his head into the kitchen where the cook already had the musician's usual waiting on the counter for him.

"Chris and Gaz always work their magic for the crowd," Aidan agreed, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and hearing the plate set down on the wooden bar in front of him. It was overflowing with a large turkey club sandwich made with bacon and extra mayo.

"God, Clint, that smells wonderful. Tell Kathy she's a goddess in the kitchen." Aidan took a swig from his water bottle before replacing the cap. His anxious fingers went straight for the sandwich as the door to the bar slammed open, another patron wandering in.

"You can tell her yourself," Clint insisted. "She'll be back for the lunch rush.

"Welcome!" The bartender called over to the new arrival with a friendly smile. Still cleaning from the night before, Clint pulled a metal stein from the sink and dried it, polishing the engraved name and hanging it back over the bar with its brethren, one for each of his regulars. "We just opened. Sit wherever and let me know what you want when you want it." The bartender tilted his head back to indicate the chalkboards hung alongside the bar's mirrors listing the house and local brews along with the others already visible on the taps.

"Sure." Connor gave a brief nod back. He didn't see his target nor anything out of place as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the near-empty pub. There were a couple of doors in the back to the restrooms and a door behind the bar leading into the kitchen, but other than that, the building was open space taken up by the bar proper with its small stage, English dart boards, booths, and scattered tables.

There were only two people he could see. One was a young man with messy curly black hair in a baggy gray sweater and sunglasses, just starting to tuck into an early lunch at the bar's end stool. The other was the bearded publican who greeted him, your typical Oregon hipster.

Which one of you? Connor wondered as he approached the bar. Both were suspect and either could have been, neither looking settled more than the couple of minutes he'd taken to follow. He had seen the shifter enter and the older ones always had more than one human form mastered, always had themselves well rooted in their territories with their identities.

"Chew before you choke, Aidan." Clint laughed, pulling another mug from the sink as he watched the man tearing into his lunch. "You're worse than usual, today." The statement had Connor considering the lad.

"Can't help it; I was at it all night," Aidan admitted around another bite. "A man doesn't think of food at a time like that."

"Indeed he doesn't," Connor added in his Irish brogue, deciding to take the stool beside Aidan and trying to act natural. "I'll go for one of the house dark, thank you." It was Sunday, he'd left mass early, and even the thought of drinking instead of praying was a sin but if anything, he was definitely a sinner.

"Good choice." Clint nodded, building a pint slowly from the tap in a practiced manner that had Connor turning to face the young man next to him, his suspicion building.

Sunglasses in a pub this dark? Sure, Portland was weird. Many of the residents prided themselves on it, but such glasses were also an easy way to hide one's eyes. And I already saw this particular shifter flash them accidentally. He needs the disguise.

"Wore you out, did she?" Connor asked companionably, like any other man in a pub would. But his mind thought of the woman in the church and he saw half the of the sandwich had already disappeared with a fierce hunger. Almost inhuman.

"She?" Clint laughed out loud, trying to dial it back when Aidan turned his head towards the two of them.

"She was good to me. I had her singing the entire time," the dark-haired lad cheerfully boasted.

"He wasn't talking about a piano, Aidan," the bartender snorted.

"I know but I'll take what action I can get, even if it's only in the mind of a stranger." He flashed a smile that didn't quite hide the edge of hurt.

"A piano, you say?" Connor looked at the two of them, surprised.

"Aidan's a music writer," Clint explained to him. "Makes a bunch of those songs in the background of shows and videos and such on the internet. The kind that sticks in your brain till you want to punch him in the head."

"You have such a gift for giving compliments," the musician taunted back, taking another bite and talking around it. "We're called composers. And last night I was in the throes of passion with a delicate piano concerto, thank you very much."

"Sad, man. Sad." Clint shook his head.

"What can I say? I prefer classic partners." Aidan gave a sniff and wiped his mouth with his napkin before pushing the decimated plate back. He reached for his water again, finishing it off.

"Nothing wrong with that," Connor amiably took a sip of his beer and hummed in appreciation. It was strong enough to stand up on its own outside of the glass, just the way he liked it. "I'll be buying you a drink if you'll let me." He offered, trying to see the tired eyes behind the reflective lenses, looking for any sign of yellow in what looked to be bright crystal blue. Aidan gave him a surprised smile.

"I would not be turning it down if you are." The light accent Aidan mimicked had Connor pausing and taking a quick breath in surprise.

"You're Irish?"

"Only if Irish American counts," the composer shook his head. "I've never been. But a brogue like yours would be music to my mother's ears. I'd have to agree with her, for once. Are you from Ireland?"

"In a roundabout sort of way, yes," Connor admitted and the musician turned to fully face him, extending a hand as the bartender set another bottle of water down for him, taking the empty away. Not drinking, are you? Connor thought, his instincts rising another notch.

"Aidan Gallagher, at your service."

"Call me Connor." It was a firm handshake, a working man's hand with calluses. From the instruments he plays or something else? Shifters had them from running on the concrete. Swordsmen do as well, he reminded himself, which explained his own.

"Hearing your voice has my fingers aching to fiddle rather than strum. Allow me to play for you as thanks for the water?" Aidan offered and Conner nodded. "Did Gaz leave her violin here?" the musician asked Clint, pushing himself back from the bar.

"What, you're finally going to get off your ass and work now?" the bartender teased.

"It's still early. You know Mass isn't out for another twenty minutes if Father Eland is feeling generous today," Aidan reminded him. "That's when my shift starts."

"You must have left early. I can't believe it, you're never on time." Clint shook his head. "The churchies love Aidan," the bartender explained aside to Connor, shrugging a shoulder. "Lord knows why" he chuckled again. Aidan remained silent, a slight frown shadowing his features as Clint laughed at his own joke.

"You go to church, do you?" Connor asked, knowing it was a tough topic in this day and age.

"A guy like me needs all the help he can get," Aidan admitted quietly. "Normally, I'd be over there too, but not today."

Ah, no. A part of Connor was beginning to like the musician. Just my luck. He wished Clint were the shifter, the man more than a little rude, but no. Unfortunately, Aidan was showing all the signs but it wouldn't stop Connor; the creatures were beasts, they had no respect for the humans they slaughtered.

The Irishman watched as the musician slid off the barstool and walked across the room. It was more of a prowl with the way his feet gripped the floor in his Converse, his head down, his hands not quite hanging at his sides. The man was alert as all hell, tense. Then he was up on the stage pulling a case from behind the piano.

Aidan pulled out the bow, adjusting the tension, then the instrument itself, leaving the case open on top of a side table, no doubt for tips. The violin shone, even in the low light from the front windows, worn but well taken care of.

"I hope that man's alright, he's been in there a long time," Aidan called to Clint and the bartender nodded, heading to the restroom.

Connor blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, they came in right before you," Aidan mentioned. "Went straight back." He pointed in the general direction with his bow, then tried a few notes to tune

You fool, you should have checked! Connor quickly stood, heading to the restroom as Aidan started to tap his foot to a beat and his bow bit into the strings.

The sound of an Irish reel filled the air behind him as Aidan started playing. Connor swung the bathroom door wide, stepping inside just in time to see the man from the church shove Clint back into the wall. Surprised, the bartender's head struck the plaster, knocking him out, and he slid down onto the tile beside the hand dryers.

The creature lifted its human head to him and Connor shrugged out of his coat, pulling his sword from the sheath hooked to his belt in one smooth motion. Raising his guard, he blocked the door. Three stalls, three urinals, three sinks, and no windows. The only way the creature would leave was through him.

Aidan's music continued, muffled through the door, and the shifter snorted, unimpressed by the blade. "Could it be?" It cocked its head, the fingers of its hands elongating into dark gray digits with black talons. "A Warsworn?" The last syllable was hissed as its teeth sharpened to points, it's mouth widening as its skull grew, its hair turning wispy. "Your kind are dead. Where did you steal that sword?" his grin was a rictus.

Connor wasn't cowed. "Warsworn and so sworn, you will not leave here alive, monster," he vowed, brandished his blade.

"I think you have me mistaken." It gave a dry, amused laugh. "With yourself," and it lunged.

The room was large enough to give Connor full clearance to swing, Thank the Father, and he took the opportunity. Moving faster than the monster suspected, he slashed at its chest, scoring a line as he pressed forward, his backswing catching the porcelain of one of the sinks and giving a squeal with the tempered steel.

The monster roared, throwing itself at him and gripping his arm, trying to get him to drop the blade as its nails punctured him. It pushed the two of them into a stall, the backs of Connor's calves striking the toilet. He arched back over it as the creature's teeth snapped right above his neck. The smell of its breath was hideous, saliva flying, making him want to gag.

Connor got a leg up and kicked out, his Sunday suit hid the toned muscle beneath it. He managed to knock it back, forcing it from the stall and his blade thrust, switching up his sword style. It hissed again, turning away and ripping one of the dryers from the wall to throw at him. He ducked back as it struck the flimsy door and saw graffiti declaring someone named Stephanie the love of a stranger's life while another proclaimed Aidan was.

With a roar, the monster rose to its full height, shedding its human guise and shredding its clothes, a seven-foot ghoul. It pulled a sink from the wall with a crunch of mortar, water spraying out as the pipes broke, and threw it at the stall again. Connor barely dodged it in time, sliding on the slippery wet tiles.

"Christ!" The swear broke through his lips and he cringed at the need of another ten Hail Marys.

"He won't help you," it laughed.

It was too close to Clint. Connor could see the man was still breathing, a little blood running down from a gash at his temple.

"He'll help me," Connor snapped with faith, lunging out into the open space once more, making himself an easier target.

The two circled, Connor's clothes soaking in the spray, his dress shoes giving him little purchase while its claws clicked on the tiles. The beast was older than he thought, wiry muscle and cruel demeanor.

"I've heard of your kind hunting us, Warsworn. We wiped all of you out, decades ago."

"Obviously," Connor shifted in closer, sword raised. "Not!" He swung again and it gripped the blade in one hand, swiping for his face with the other. Needle-sharp claws swung a hair's width in front of his wide eyes, one slicing his cheek. He dropped back, twisting the blade as he pulled it from the monster's grip, its shriek fitting in time to the wailing violin outside the door. The beast let go, clutching its hand to its chest. Thick smoke curled from the wound, ichor dripping.

"Blessed steel; told you he'd help me," Connor sneered.

It turned and ran.

Realizing he'd allowed it to maneuver between him and the doorway, Connor cursed and ran after it. At least the bartender is now safe. Only to burst through the door after the shifter and see Aidan, fiddling away on the stage, the pub still empty of patrons. The creature ran straight for the musician.

Aidan's head shot up, hearing the two running for him. Connor almost stumbled in surprise as the musician shifted into the loud, sharp notes of an Irish horserace rather than run, his voice a practiced brogue as he started to sing. The Warsworn managed to reach out and snag the beast's tattered jacket before it crossed the room. It wheeled to face him, swinging and snarling.

Connor's blood rose with the beat of the music, dodging again, only to be caught and thrown over the bar by the shifter. He struck a shelf of bottles, glass shattering, his hand shooting out to catch a bottle of Redbreast before it could drop with the rest. Taking a look at it, he gave a mournful whistle before flipping it in his hand and slamming the beast across the face with it as it dove over the bar after him.

Jumping back and picking his way walking backward behind the bar, Connor grabbed another bottle and threw it, the smell of spirits strong in the air as it struck the shifter in the shoulder and bounced off to shatter on the ground. Another followed, glass crunching with every step. There wasn't enough room to easily wield his sword.

Aidan was playing like a demon from the stage, his voice cutting the air with a whoop, obscenity and rhyme spewing as loud as the crash and clash of the two fighting.

"Run, you daft bastard!" Connor shouted over his shoulder to the musician. Aidan paid no heed. It was as though Nero, himself, stood fiddling away while all of Rome burned. Aidan's bow bounced on the strings, strands of horsehair flying as it broke from the force of his strokes and the fiddler broke into another verse.

Aidan's beat drove Connor on and he thrust his sword again. The creature screeched as loud as the fiddle as it caught in its forearm and dug in, slicing out a chunk and making the shifter fall back as thick black blood gouted.

Connor reached the end of the bar and noticed his half-drunk pint beside him. He turned back to his foe only to think better of it. Instead, he reached back and snatched his pint, draining it in a single draught. Giving a yell in time to the music, he pitched the glass square at the shifter, catching it in the side of the head.

It swung again and Connor ducked down, blocking the blows with his blade, trying for another opening. They were at an impasse, the creature snarling in frustration as it continued bleeding out, Aidan's song driving them on.

The beast roared and dove for Conner, shoving the blade aside. He dropped down but it didn't follow, instead, it gripped the bar and jumped over it and him, giving up the fight and bolting for the door.

"Ah no, you don't!" Connor vaulted over the end of the bar after it. Bringing his sword around in a full arc, he cut its legs out from under it, severing its hamstrings. Howling, the shifter landed on its knees and Connor spun, cleaving its head clear off in a spray of blood. Aidan sang out the last lyric, drawing the bow down the strings in a sharp chord to end the song as it landed with a thud.

The musician stood, holding the violin in one hand, bow in the other, chest heaving in the silence that followed. Connor's arms hung at his sides as he fought for his own breath, the Warsworn refusing to drop his sword as the shifter's body melted down into the scuffed wooden floor, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

"You crazy son of a bitch." Connor eyed the musician. The man had seen it all. It wasn't allowed; the beasts of darkness had to be kept secret. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about it.

"You don't know the half of it." The musician ran an arm across his forehead, mopping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his sweater. "You'd be amazed at the things that happen in Portland.

"But don't worry; no one heard anything but the music." The musician broke a smile as the Warsworn gawked at him. "And I didn't see a thing." Aidan reached up and pulled his sunglasses off. His bright blue eyes were vague, unfocused, a blank stare into the room.

Connor stared a moment more before breaking into a heartfelt laugh that the musician joined. "Don't think it will keep me from asking you for help cleaning up before the publican wakes and church lets out," The Warsworn confided, clapping the blind man companionably on the back as Aidan stepped down and placed the violin on the bar.

"I'll help. And then I will have that pint if you're still offering," Aidan gave him a cheeky smile.

"I could go for another," Connor admitted, knowing they'd spend the rest of the day getting drunk together.

Description
Connor rose with the rest of the congregation, garbed in his Sunday best: a redhead in black suit and tie, his beard neatly trimmed, his white shirt crisply ironed, and his shoes shined. The music of the pipe organ swelled and everyone opened their hymnals to the page designated on the board above the priest but something else caught his attention. A couple standing six rows ahead were talking low between themselves.

Disrespectful. He couldn't quite pinpoint it but something about the man in his gray suit and woman in her floral dress had his back up. Not that he knew anyone in the pews around him; he was only visiting Portland. Tomorrow, he'd hopefully finish the business that led him here in the first place but even so, he wouldn't miss Sunday Mass if he could help it. It was the Lord's day, after all, and he'd had more than a few Hail Marys to get off his chest this morning.

Connor's voice sang out, a rich tenor, without needing to read the verses from the book. Any good Catholic worth their salt would know this one. The woman of the pair glanced back at him, meeting his eyes for a second before turning back around. He couldn't hear what she said to her partner in the midst of the music, but the man glanced back as well.

It had Connor's instincts firing and he shifted his foot, tucking his kneeler all the way under the bench in front of him, giving himself room to move. Meanwhile, the woman gathered her purse, the man placing a hand on the small of her back and guiding her towards the external aisle. They're leaving, Connor realized and took a step himself, then another to move towards the end of his own pew.

He caught a curious look from the granny in the row behind him, a young girl beside her smiling up shyly. Conner gave a quick nod of his head in politeness, all of them still singing, before turning back to see where the two were.

The couple made it into the side aisle, turning towards the exit at the back of the church. They hurried past the stained glass saints and pillars, coming towards him. The woman wouldn't meet his eyes again but the man did as Connor took another step, still too far away to intercept. The flare of yellow in his eyes as the man passed confirmed what Connor's instincts were trying to tell him.

A shifter. His gut dropped. Ah, no. Not in the Lord's house.

He gave mumbled apologies and pushed past the elderly couple standing beside him as they sang, the woman especially loud and out of tune in his ear to show her displeasure. He gave her a frustrated look but didn't blame her, still shuffling past until he finally broke free into the aisle as well.

Walking as fast as he could while still trying to maintain decorum, he saw the door to the vestibule close behind the pair.

And just what do you think you're doing? You aren't fighting them in a House of God, he reminded himself.

No. But they ain't walking away free as all get out, either, he vowed as the door closed behind him, muting the sound of the congregation's singing. Looking about, he just caught the movement of another door closing with a glimpse of outside, a bright red exit sign above.

"You sons of bitches," he cursed beneath his breath, then flinched at the sin as one of the deacons lifted a brow at him.

His coat was hanging on a hook in the back corner of the coat room and he hurried, snatching it up along with what leaned against the wall behind it. It was hooked to his belt in a smooth motion, his coat swirling about him as he shot his arms through the sleeves.

Connor dipped his fingers in the holy water as he passed, not even breaking stride as he made the sign of the cross to bless himself and hurried out onto the footpath. He swore he saw the back of the man disappearing through a door across the street. Striding towards it, a loud honk broke him from his focus, making him jump back as a truck sped past just where he'd been. A sedan followed, the driver glancing at him through the windshield and he recognized the woman.

"Hey!" He slapped the back fender and ran after her, only to give up half a block later as she hit the gas and drove off. Ah, no. You're not getting away from me that easily, Connor vowed, dodging cars and doubling back to follow the man instead.

*

"You missed some good music last night, Aidan." The bartender wrapped the strings of his apron around his waist and popped his head into the kitchen where the cook already had the musician's usual waiting on the counter for him.

"Chris and Gaz always work their magic for the crowd," Aidan agreed, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and hearing the plate set down on the wooden bar in front of him. It was overflowing with a large turkey club sandwich made with bacon and extra mayo.

"God, Clint, that smells wonderful. Tell Kathy she's a goddess in the kitchen." Aidan took a swig from his water bottle before replacing the cap. His anxious fingers went straight for the sandwich as the door to the bar slammed open, another patron wandering in.

"You can tell her yourself," Clint insisted. "She'll be back for the lunch rush.

"Welcome!" The bartender called over to the new arrival with a friendly smile. Still cleaning from the night before, Clint pulled a metal stein from the sink and dried it, polishing the engraved name and hanging it back over the bar with its brethren, one for each of his regulars. "We just opened. Sit wherever and let me know what you want when you want it." The bartender tilted his head back to indicate the chalkboards hung alongside the bar's mirrors listing the house and local brews along with the others already visible on the taps.

"Sure." Connor gave a brief nod back. He didn't see his target nor anything out of place as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the near-empty pub. There were a couple of doors in the back to the restrooms and a door behind the bar leading into the kitchen, but other than that, the building was open space taken up by the bar proper with its small stage, English dart boards, booths, and scattered tables.

There were only two people he could see. One was a young man with messy curly black hair in a baggy gray sweater and sunglasses, just starting to tuck into an early lunch at the bar's end stool. The other was the bearded publican who greeted him, your typical Oregon hipster.

Which one of you? Connor wondered as he approached the bar. Both were suspect and either could have been, neither looking settled more than the couple of minutes he'd taken to follow. He had seen the shifter enter and the older ones always had more than one human form mastered, always had themselves well rooted in their territories with their identities.

"Chew before you choke, Aidan." Clint laughed, pulling another mug from the sink as he watched the man tearing into his lunch. "You're worse than usual, today." The statement had Connor considering the lad.

"Can't help it; I was at it all night," Aidan admitted around another bite. "A man doesn't think of food at a time like that."

"Indeed he doesn't," Connor added in his Irish brogue, deciding to take the stool beside Aidan and trying to act natural. "I'll go for one of the house dark, thank you." It was Sunday, he'd left mass early, and even the thought of drinking instead of praying was a sin but if anything, he was definitely a sinner.

"Good choice." Clint nodded, building a pint slowly from the tap in a practiced manner that had Connor turning to face the young man next to him, his suspicion building.

Sunglasses in a pub this dark? Sure, Portland was weird. Many of the residents prided themselves on it, but such glasses were also an easy way to hide one's eyes. And I already saw this particular shifter flash them accidentally. He needs the disguise.

"Wore you out, did she?" Connor asked companionably, like any other man in a pub would. But his mind thought of the woman in the church and he saw half the of the sandwich had already disappeared with a fierce hunger. Almost inhuman.

"She?" Clint laughed out loud, trying to dial it back when Aidan turned his head towards the two of them.

"She was good to me. I had her singing the entire time," the dark-haired lad cheerfully boasted.

"He wasn't talking about a piano, Aidan," the bartender snorted.

"I know but I'll take what action I can get, even if it's only in the mind of a stranger." He flashed a smile that didn't quite hide the edge of hurt.

"A piano, you say?" Connor looked at the two of them, surprised.

"Aidan's a music writer," Clint explained to him. "Makes a bunch of those songs in the background of shows and videos and such on the internet. The kind that sticks in your brain till you want to punch him in the head."

"You have such a gift for giving compliments," the musician taunted back, taking another bite and talking around it. "We're called composers. And last night I was in the throes of passion with a delicate piano concerto, thank you very much."

"Sad, man. Sad." Clint shook his head.

"What can I say? I prefer classic partners." Aidan gave a sniff and wiped his mouth with his napkin before pushing the decimated plate back. He reached for his water again, finishing it off.

"Nothing wrong with that," Connor amiably took a sip of his beer and hummed in appreciation. It was strong enough to stand up on its own outside of the glass, just the way he liked it. "I'll be buying you a drink if you'll let me." He offered, trying to see the tired eyes behind the reflective lenses, looking for any sign of yellow in what looked to be bright crystal blue. Aidan gave him a surprised smile.

"I would not be turning it down if you are." The light accent Aidan mimicked had Connor pausing and taking a quick breath in surprise.

"You're Irish?"

"Only if Irish American counts," the composer shook his head. "I've never been. But a brogue like yours would be music to my mother's ears. I'd have to agree with her, for once. Are you from Ireland?"

"In a roundabout sort of way, yes," Connor admitted and the musician turned to fully face him, extending a hand as the bartender set another bottle of water down for him, taking the empty away. Not drinking, are you? Connor thought, his instincts rising another notch.

"Aidan Gallagher, at your service."

"Call me Connor." It was a firm handshake, a working man's hand with calluses. From the instruments he plays or something else? Shifters had them from running on the concrete. Swordsmen do as well, he reminded himself, which explained his own.

"Hearing your voice has my fingers aching to fiddle rather than strum. Allow me to play for you as thanks for the water?" Aidan offered and Conner nodded. "Did Gaz leave her violin here?" the musician asked Clint, pushing himself back from the bar.

"What, you're finally going to get off your ass and work now?" the bartender teased.

"It's still early. You know Mass isn't out for another twenty minutes if Father Eland is feeling generous today," Aidan reminded him. "That's when my shift starts."

"You must have left early. I can't believe it, you're never on time." Clint shook his head. "The churchies love Aidan," the bartender explained aside to Connor, shrugging a shoulder. "Lord knows why" he chuckled again. Aidan remained silent, a slight frown shadowing his features as Clint laughed at his own joke.

"You go to church, do you?" Connor asked, knowing it was a tough topic in this day and age.

"A guy like me needs all the help he can get," Aidan admitted quietly. "Normally, I'd be over there too, but not today."

Ah, no. A part of Connor was beginning to like the musician. Just my luck. He wished Clint were the shifter, the man more than a little rude, but no. Unfortunately, Aidan was showing all the signs but it wouldn't stop Connor; the creatures were beasts, they had no respect for the humans they slaughtered.

The Irishman watched as the musician slid off the barstool and walked across the room. It was more of a prowl with the way his feet gripped the floor in his Converse, his head down, his hands not quite hanging at his sides. The man was alert as all hell, tense. Then he was up on the stage pulling a case from behind the piano.

Aidan pulled out the bow, adjusting the tension, then the instrument itself, leaving the case open on top of a side table, no doubt for tips. The violin shone, even in the low light from the front windows, worn but well taken care of.

"I hope that man's alright, he's been in there a long time," Aidan called to Clint and the bartender nodded, heading to the restroom.

Connor blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, they came in right before you," Aidan mentioned. "Went straight back." He pointed in the general direction with his bow, then tried a few notes to tune

You fool, you should have checked! Connor quickly stood, heading to the restroom as Aidan started to tap his foot to a beat and his bow bit into the strings.

The sound of an Irish reel filled the air behind him as Aidan started playing. Connor swung the bathroom door wide, stepping inside just in time to see the man from the church shove Clint back into the wall. Surprised, the bartender's head struck the plaster, knocking him out, and he slid down onto the tile beside the hand dryers.

The creature lifted its human head to him and Connor shrugged out of his coat, pulling his sword from the sheath hooked to his belt in one smooth motion. Raising his guard, he blocked the door. Three stalls, three urinals, three sinks, and no windows. The only way the creature would leave was through him.

Aidan's music continued, muffled through the door, and the shifter snorted, unimpressed by the blade. "Could it be?" It cocked its head, the fingers of its hands elongating into dark gray digits with black talons. "A Warsworn?" The last syllable was hissed as its teeth sharpened to points, it's mouth widening as its skull grew, its hair turning wispy. "Your kind are dead. Where did you steal that sword?" his grin was a rictus.

Connor wasn't cowed. "Warsworn and so sworn, you will not leave here alive, monster," he vowed, brandished his blade.

"I think you have me mistaken." It gave a dry, amused laugh. "With yourself," and it lunged.

The room was large enough to give Connor full clearance to swing, Thank the Father, and he took the opportunity. Moving faster than the monster suspected, he slashed at its chest, scoring a line as he pressed forward, his backswing catching the porcelain of one of the sinks and giving a squeal with the tempered steel.

The monster roared, throwing itself at him and gripping his arm, trying to get him to drop the blade as its nails punctured him. It pushed the two of them into a stall, the backs of Connor's calves striking the toilet. He arched back over it as the creature's teeth snapped right above his neck. The smell of its breath was hideous, saliva flying, making him want to gag.

Connor got a leg up and kicked out, his Sunday suit hid the toned muscle beneath it. He managed to knock it back, forcing it from the stall and his blade thrust, switching up his sword style. It hissed again, turning away and ripping one of the dryers from the wall to throw at him. He ducked back as it struck the flimsy door and saw graffiti declaring someone named Stephanie the love of a stranger's life while another proclaimed Aidan was.

With a roar, the monster rose to its full height, shedding its human guise and shredding its clothes, a seven-foot ghoul. It pulled a sink from the wall with a crunch of mortar, water spraying out as the pipes broke, and threw it at the stall again. Connor barely dodged it in time, sliding on the slippery wet tiles.

"Christ!" The swear broke through his lips and he cringed at the need of another ten Hail Marys.

"He won't help you," it laughed.

It was too close to Clint. Connor could see the man was still breathing, a little blood running down from a gash at his temple.

"He'll help me," Connor snapped with faith, lunging out into the open space once more, making himself an easier target.

The two circled, Connor's clothes soaking in the spray, his dress shoes giving him little purchase while its claws clicked on the tiles. The beast was older than he thought, wiry muscle and cruel demeanor.

"I've heard of your kind hunting us, Warsworn. We wiped all of you out, decades ago."

"Obviously," Connor shifted in closer, sword raised. "Not!" He swung again and it gripped the blade in one hand, swiping for his face with the other. Needle-sharp claws swung a hair's width in front of his wide eyes, one slicing his cheek. He dropped back, twisting the blade as he pulled it from the monster's grip, its shriek fitting in time to the wailing violin outside the door. The beast let go, clutching its hand to its chest. Thick smoke curled from the wound, ichor dripping.

"Blessed steel; told you he'd help me," Connor sneered.

It turned and ran.

Realizing he'd allowed it to maneuver between him and the doorway, Connor cursed and ran after it. At least the bartender is now safe. Only to burst through the door after the shifter and see Aidan, fiddling away on the stage, the pub still empty of patrons. The creature ran straight for the musician.

Aidan's head shot up, hearing the two running for him. Connor almost stumbled in surprise as the musician shifted into the loud, sharp notes of an Irish horserace rather than run, his voice a practiced brogue as he started to sing. The Warsworn managed to reach out and snag the beast's tattered jacket before it crossed the room. It wheeled to face him, swinging and snarling.

Connor's blood rose with the beat of the music, dodging again, only to be caught and thrown over the bar by the shifter. He struck a shelf of bottles, glass shattering, his hand shooting out to catch a bottle of Redbreast before it could drop with the rest. Taking a look at it, he gave a mournful whistle before flipping it in his hand and slamming the beast across the face with it as it dove over the bar after him.

Jumping back and picking his way walking backward behind the bar, Connor grabbed another bottle and threw it, the smell of spirits strong in the air as it struck the shifter in the shoulder and bounced off to shatter on the ground. Another followed, glass crunching with every step. There wasn't enough room to easily wield his sword.

Aidan was playing like a demon from the stage, his voice cutting the air with a whoop, obscenity and rhyme spewing as loud as the crash and clash of the two fighting.

"Run, you daft bastard!" Connor shouted over his shoulder to the musician. Aidan paid no heed. It was as though Nero, himself, stood fiddling away while all of Rome burned. Aidan's bow bounced on the strings, strands of horsehair flying as it broke from the force of his strokes and the fiddler broke into another verse.

Aidan's beat drove Connor on and he thrust his sword again. The creature screeched as loud as the fiddle as it caught in its forearm and dug in, slicing out a chunk and making the shifter fall back as thick black blood gouted.

Connor reached the end of the bar and noticed his half-drunk pint beside him. He turned back to his foe only to think better of it. Instead, he reached back and snatched his pint, draining it in a single draught. Giving a yell in time to the music, he pitched the glass square at the shifter, catching it in the side of the head.

It swung again and Connor ducked down, blocking the blows with his blade, trying for another opening. They were at an impasse, the creature snarling in frustration as it continued bleeding out, Aidan's song driving them on.

The beast roared and dove for Conner, shoving the blade aside. He dropped down but it didn't follow, instead, it gripped the bar and jumped over it and him, giving up the fight and bolting for the door.

"Ah no, you don't!" Connor vaulted over the end of the bar after it. Bringing his sword around in a full arc, he cut its legs out from under it, severing its hamstrings. Howling, the shifter landed on its knees and Connor spun, cleaving its head clear off in a spray of blood. Aidan sang out the last lyric, drawing the bow down the strings in a sharp chord to end the song as it landed with a thud.

The musician stood, holding the violin in one hand, bow in the other, chest heaving in the silence that followed. Connor's arms hung at his sides as he fought for his own breath, the Warsworn refusing to drop his sword as the shifter's body melted down into the scuffed wooden floor, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

"You crazy son of a bitch." Connor eyed the musician. The man had seen it all. It wasn't allowed; the beasts of darkness had to be kept secret. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about it.

"You don't know the half of it." The musician ran an arm across his forehead, mopping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his sweater. "You'd be amazed at the things that happen in Portland.

"But don't worry; no one heard anything but the music." The musician broke a smile as the Warsworn gawked at him. "And I didn't see a thing." Aidan reached up and pulled his sunglasses off. His bright blue eyes were vague, unfocused, a blank stare into the room.

Connor stared a moment more before breaking into a heartfelt laugh that the musician joined. "Don't think it will keep me from asking you for help cleaning up before the publican wakes and church lets out," The Warsworn confided, clapping the blind man companionably on the back as Aidan stepped down and placed the violin on the bar.

"I'll help. And then I will have that pint if you're still offering," Aidan gave him a cheeky smile.

"I could go for another," Connor admitted, knowing they'd spend the rest of the day getting drunk together.