The Beginning of Whit

By Jennifer Innes

Chasing a deadly soul eater down dark alleys, our hero stops a moment to pet a stray cat...
Over confident and under-equipped, Whit Clayborne feels more than ready to tackle his first major assignment as a demon hunter, but he isn’t prepared for everything else that awaits him in Big City. A supernatural haven where creatures have taken refuge for centuries, Big City is hidden from public scrutiny and has never been under the watchful eyes of the demon hunter. With creatures of every kind operating under a delicate balance of council rules and turf law, the addition of an inept and inexperienced demon hunter threatens to throw everything out of whack. Big City is not looking for a hero, but Whit failed to read that email. When the egg supply of Big City vanishes, the apathetic council agrees to let Whit look into this strange mystery. While on the case, Whit finds something more disturbing than he ever imagined possible - a few bad eggs and a whole lot of clucking trouble. This fledgling demon hunter has to prove himself, stop the bad guys, save the city, get the girl, and figure out the best toppings for a burger named in his honor. Life in Big City feels like an amazing adventure, but this is only the beginning...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Innes
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310509865

Jennifer Innes

After a failed career as a comedian at the age of four due to shyness, Jennifer fell into writing to explore both her humor and the world around her. Born and raised in Michigan, she completed a BA in English from Michigan State University in 2007. She moved to Athens, GA in June of 2011, and completed her MAIS from Western New Mexico University focusing on English and History. She primarily writes speculative fiction but also enjoys writing poetry and non-fiction pieces. Utilizing themes of gender-bending and female empowerment, Jennifer hopes her writing will change the way we view men and women in both our stories and our lives.

Book preview

Chapter One

The streets were faintly illuminated by the occasional lamppost and by the fluorescent glare streaming out of apartment windows. Whit tried to not get distracted by the sound of laughter and the clinking of utensils against plates that echoed down the alley. The sounds and the lighting powerfully reminded him of those summers spent with his grandfather, eating hot dogs around the fire and listening raptly to stories that would take a child’s mind to believe. The old man’s voice echoed in Whit’s memory.

That’s what separates men from boys, hunter from prey. Only real men become hunters. Do you want to be a real man Whit? Or just a namby pamby like you’re shaping up to be?

Whit wanted nothing more than to be a real man, just like his grandfather - the greatest demon hunter who ever lived. Summers spent on his grandparent’s farm always fueled Whit’s desire to be a hunter and to prove himself. Year after year Whit listened to his grandfather tell stories about the greatest evils in the world and how he personally purged and extinguished every demon he could get his hands. This made Whit’s heart sing with pride. Never had Whit felt more called to be a demon hunter, and more proud to be a Clayborne.

While the local news had claimed a cougar was on the loose and had attacked and killed several people in the city, Whit knew better. The city needed him, and he wasn’t going to let his people down. A soul eater was on the loose in Big City and Whit was out to stop it.

A lone scream echoed down empty streets, breaking Whit’s meditation. He picked up his pace, moving across cracked sidewalks towards the sound. Finally a demon hunter in his own right, Whit would prove he could save the world too.

Whit pulled his leather coat a little tighter as the wind nipped at his collar. He chuckled to himself, remembering what his grandfather used to say about nights like this. The harsh chill of the air was as cold as the soft caress of death.

Following the path of the soul eater was easy. He had gone over his grandfather’s journals many times. One of the journals specifically explained how to triangulate the movements of a creature that had multiple kills. After determining the perimeter of the demon’s killing grounds, he began circling the four block radius where his prey liked to hunt. So far, nothing had been out of the ordinary. Now the single scream was his signal and he was ready.

The excitement of the chase made Whit’s heart start beating in double-time. He completed a quick inventory while moving towards his prey. His hand brushed against the antique stake gun draped across his shoulder. He nudged the long blade that lay against his thigh. He felt the weight of his handcrafted utility belt, each pouch containing a special element if needed in battle.

He felt the hairs on his arm rise and he knew the creature was close. He turned the corner into a poorly lit alley and saw the smoky silhouette hovering atop an unconscious man.

You’re getting sloppy, demon, Whit said as he stepped forward, reaching for his stake gun. Before he could brush the antique wood with his finger tips an unseen hand reached out and slapped him across the face. He saw stars and dropped to the pavement.

Whit wasn't sure which stung worse - the crisp air of the October night, or the claw marks across his freckled cheek. His neck felt cold and wet with blood and his stomach twisted in a strange new sensation he wasn’t familiar with: dread. Whit pulled himself to his feet, gathered his bearings, forced the dread into the back of his mind and stood, determined to fulfill his legacy.

The creature was fleeing but Whit was up for a good chase. He ran through the empty streets and deserted alleyways, but the shadow sped ahead of him, just out of reach. Realizing that he could not keep up this pace, Whit fumbled for the stake gun bouncing against his back. His hand seized the ancient wood and raised it in front of his face. He came to a quick stop, closed one eye and tried to aim the old weapon. Recklessly, his finger squeezed the trigger and in the split second that passed, he feared the old weapon had failed him.

The snap of the wired spring filled his ears and the force of the weapon sent him staggering backward. His arm flew above his head as his back scraped against a gritty brick wall. Whit’s hazel eyes widened along with his grin as several thin wooden stakes, six inches long, flew down the alley towards the shadowy demon before him.

If asked later, Whit would claim that his aim was dead on and that the soul eater was just a surprisingly agile beast. In reality, his aim was terribly off and the majority of the stakes sped by the demon who tumbled easily to avoid most of the projectiles. Two of the stakes did find their mark and the creature howled as its left shoulder was pierced by thin wood. The remaining stakes slammed into a brick wall, cracking the mortar, sticking out for anyone passing by to see. The demon lay in a billowing lump on the pavement.

Whit whooped with joy. His first hit! He rushed with a skip in his step towards the demon. He marveled at this beast. This creature had a shadowy form that occasionally sprouted beast-like features such as arms, legs, and rows of wicked teeth. It now appeared harmless, as far as he could tell. Perhaps his attack had stunned or even killed it. Unfazed by his haphazard movements, Whit’s smile spread from ear to ear. He let the stake gun clumsily sway from his shoulder as he approached, with no thought of having it poised for a second attack.

Whit got within an arm's length of the demon when a clawed foot shot out and flung him against the wall. Whit dropped his stake gun. The clatter of the wood hitting the ground echoed down the alley. Before he could fully stand up, the demon was upon him, its leg pinning him to the wall as its face neared his own.

Up this close, Whit got a better examination of the evil called a soul eater. The leg was covered in dark grey scales with claws at least three inches long. Someone should cut those nails, was the first thing Whit thought. His second thought entailed a realization that either those three-inch unkempt claws were going to sever his throat or the six-inch long rarely brushed teeth bearing down on him were going to bite off his head and swallow it whole. He wasn’t sure which fate he feared most. The creature unhinged its jaw and released a bloodcurdling screech. A quick movement caught Whit’s eye as an alley cat rushed from behind a nearby dumpster. The cat growled in response to the soul eater’s call. Both Whit and the soul eater looked at the one-eyed fat tabby.

The soul eater hissed back, and Whit’s face blanched. The cat continued to move forward, not making a sound, but twitching its tail slightly and holding its ears back. Realizing that this alley cat was showing him up in the bravery department, Whit coughed and dispensed his last and arguably most damaging weapon: criticism. Your breath is horrible. Cut down on the onions. Whit spoke. Whit thought he heard the creature let out an audible sigh but he didn’t think on it long as his zinger hit the mark, returning the beast’s attention to its original target. Trying to think fast on what to do next, Whit wasn’t ready for what happened next. Suddenly, the soul eater was on the move, taking Whit with it.

As his body scraped along the ridges of the bricks, he wondered if it had been smart to give the demon such sass. Whit struggled against the soul eater’s hold, grasping frantically at the demon’s body. He failed to make contact with solid mass in the swirling, dirty cloud, and remembered that these creatures could materialize at will. In response to his pawing, a clawed hand reached out from the gaseous mass and gripped his throat. His mind raced as the grip became unbearable.

The wall he was being dragged across seemed to be endless. His mind filled with unanswerable questions. How much longer is this wall? Am I being dragged back to the demon’s lair? What about all the things I didn’t get to do like finish that Little House on the Prairie Series – how will I ever know what becomes of Laura Ingalls Wilder?

Whit had to free himself from the demon’s grasp if he wanted any chance to survive and read more of that beloved series. His world was quickly turning black as the misty demon engulfed his entire vision.

His arms went limp but his hand graced the long bowie knife that was clipped to his utility belt by a very fashionable pink climber clip. Upon touching the cold steel of that antique weapon, Whit found his resolve to survive renewed. He grabbed the bowie knife, pulling it from the belt, hearing the stitching snap, the belt falling to the ground, a soft curse from his blueish lips and with this last bit of strength, Whit sliced the polished metal upwards. He felt it sink into something solid and he hoped it wasn’t his own body. Through his blurred vision he saw the blade stuck deep into a dark scaled hand. He tried to pull it out but the weapon refused to budge. Whit wondered how the soul eater could endure a blessed steel blade and then he remembered that soul eaters were known to have delayed reactions to pain. He jerked the knife one last time and felt the blade break in the creature’s appendage. He heard a very audible snapping sound and then a loud scream. The creature released its hold and Whit fell to the pavement. He felt bad for destroying the knife, a gift from his grandfather, but before he could think on it more, everything went black.

He felt no pain, only his body rising in the air, floating across a great distance. He saw the light of the afterlife illuminate his vision. He opened his eyes and saw an angel. Was she there to lead him to his final judgment?

The angel, haloed in golden light, looked down at him. Her slender frame seemed to be draped with an apron. He wondered where her wings were, but then realized she probably still needed to earn her wings like Clarence the angel popularized by the holiday hit It’s a Wonderful Life.

The angel raised a thin brow at him and looked both ways down the alley before she spoke. "Why do half eaten meals keep getting dropped outside our shop?"

Whit groaned and rolled over. He saw her take a step back and then she spoke again. Oh, I thought you were something else. I don't have any donuts for you right now, but if you come back in a few hours with the other bums, I'll be sure to have a dozen or so.

Do angels wear aprons? Whit asked.

Um, I don't know.

Is this Heaven? He wondered aloud.

She muttered something that sounded like ‘drunkard’ and asked, Are you okay? Should I get you some help?

His eyes started to focus. She was gorgeous. Her skin was an almost unnatural creamy white. Her face was framed by hair dark as the nighttime sky done up in a bun with short wisps curling around her forehead. Her lips, ruby red, almost the same tint as freshly spilled blood, frowned at him. In this ethereal moment he wanted to respond but all he could do was stare at her soft lips and wish that the soul eater had rendered him in need of CPR.

Whatever, she said. She rolled her eyes and walked away from him. The halo remained hovering in the air, glowing brightly over where she had stood.

The Stake Out sign was the only visible sign on the block. He stood slowly and pinched himself. He was alive! He had a second chance just like George Bailey and there was his angel, behind the counter of this donut shop.

He pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his torn jacket. He looked around him and noticed his scuffed up stake gun, his broken bowie knife and his now-in-tatters handcrafted utility belt in a pile next to a nearby dumpster. He grabbed the utility belt but left the other two weapons there figuring they would be safe for the time being and wishing to respect the ‘No Weapons’ sign posted in the window of the shop.

As he gained his bearings, he realized that he had been across the street when he blacked out. How did I get over here? He asked to no one in particular. He strained to look down the dark alley across from where he stood and he could have sworn he saw that fat one-eyed tabby again, at a distance. He saw the cat standing on its hind legs and furiously swiping at some sort of dark mist. He considered investigating but he was still severely light headed and didn’t want to revoke his second chance at life that quickly. He would continue the pursuit again tomorrow; tonight he would focus on the young woman he had just met.

Whit turned back to the Stake Out and peered through the large glass windows that surrounded three sides of this shop. The booths that circled against the glass were empty. A 24HRS sign blinked at him and he wondered why this place was open all hours of the day if no one was around.

His eyes drifted further into the shop, noticing a long counter paired with multiple faded red leather stools. Behind the counter were shelves that held donut trays, coffee mugs and diner supplies. Whit wondered if this building had once been a bookstore; these shelves were quite tall and attached to them he saw one of those fancy ladders on rollers that allowed people to reach the higher shelves. Above the shelves he noticed a very large chalk board. About a dozen assorted flavors of donuts were listed in various colors of chalk and all in a very pretty handwriting. He scanned the list of bear claws, fritters, crullers, long johns and bismarks. The variety of flavors, fillings and toppings was impressive and overwhelming.

Whit realized that he had been standing outside for a very long time, just staring into the donut shop. He convinced himself that he was just making sure that he wasn’t walking into a trap then he pulled open the glass door.

The sound of Whit’s footsteps into the almost empty establishment were accompanied by a gentle jingle from a tiny bell which chimed above him. The angel looked up from the terribly scratched, stained, and battered Formica counter that she was polishing. Whit sat down on one of the swivel stools and tried to think of something witty to say.

Can I get a donut and your name? He asked while attempting to look quite debonair.

What kind of donut? And… she gestured towards her left breast. Whit blushed and smiled. When he realized that she was actually pointing to her nametag that read Lux he blushed even harder.

What’s good here…Lux? he added her name to the question to make sure she knew that he understood why she had pointed to her chest.

"Raspberry bear claws are good, or we’ve got a new one called go ahead, make my donut which pairs dark chocolate dough with a maple syrup glaze and bacon bits."

What about those? Whit asked, pointing to a tray on the counter under a plastic lid.

Those…are on sale. I wouldn't recommend them. The bums won't even eat them.

What kind are they? Whit asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

Onion, everything, sesame, Lux said with a look of disgust on her face.

Are they bagels? Whit asked.

No, Lux said as she kept her eyes on the tray.

Um…can I have an ‘everything’ then? Whit tried to be suave and run his hand through his hay colored hair but instead of a smooth motion, his fingers got stuck in the twisted locks. He cursed himself for not combing it before entering the diner.

An ‘everything’ donut? she asked, You know that means it has a lot of non-traditional flavors and a sugar coating.

He nodded as he extracted his fingers from his hair leaving it in a crazy snarled mess atop his head.

She shrugged. Sure.

And a cup of joe. I have a long night ahead of me, Whit said as he pulled off his jacket and set it down on the stool next to him, oblivious to how shredded the back of the garment had become after his battle in the alley.

Lux grabbed a small ceramic plate and a napkin. She used the napkin to rescue one of the ‘everything’ donuts from the sale bin and placed it on the plate for him. She pushed the plate toward him, grabbed a mug, filled it with bitter coffee and passed that to him as well. Her movements were fluid, practiced, almost perfect. Whit smiled at her and tucked his napkin in his shirt like a bib. Lux smirked but he didn’t notice.

Whit picked up the donut, and was about to bite into it but when he opened his mouth wide he felt a sudden pain on his cheek. His hand went up and touched the nasty cuts he received from the soul eater and he set the donut down.

Oh, my, I must look like quite the mess, coming in here all bloodied up. Whit blushed and dabbed at his cheek with his napkin.

I’m not sure to what you are referring. Lux replied.

My cheek got cut up pretty bad, Whit pointed at his own face.

Lux removed a compact from her pocket. It doesn’t look too bad to me. She handed him the small mirror. He popped the case open and looked at himself. She was right, it was only a few tiny scratches. But he was sure he had felt blood out there in the alley. Then he realized that it was probably just a lot of dripping sweat. He never knew that demon hunting would be so exhausting, deadly, and sweaty. He handed the compact back with a smile.

Lux returned the mirror to her pocket. Yeah, I saw that fat one-eyed cat out there. She must have got you when you were passed out.

Huh? he asked.

Chewie might have scratched you while you were lying in the street. Although, she doesn’t tend to get too rough with strangers. Unless there was a flying bug on your face, then she might get too excited and scratch you while trying to catch it.

Whit nodded as he drank a little of his coffee, but the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe and he started coughing. Some coffee spilled on his chin and he tried to wipe it off, smiling away his embarrassment.

Looking for a different topic, he bit into the dry donut and enjoyed the sensation of onion, garlic, sesame and poppy seeds on his tongue, mixed with a sugary glaze. What a unique blend, he said.

Lux held back her amusement as she nodded. She turned her back to him to ring up his order on a very ancient looking cash register.

I’m glad you like it, a voice spoke beside him. Whit jumped in his seat — he was sure that this man had come out of nowhere. His senses heightened; this sensation very similar to the moments before falling asleep when everything is so much louder than it would be when awake. Sounds came at him, the squeaking of the overhead fan that he hadn’t noticed when he came in; the tick-tick-tick of a clock somewhere. Whit spent a tense moment trying to decide if this man was friend or foe. He looked to the middle-aged man – pale, fragile, in some sort of aqua colored running suit with weird lettering.

I mean no offense, the hint of an eastern European accent in the man’s voice was quick to lull Whit’s killer instincts. At least he attributed his ease to the voice of the old man and not the presence of the man’s hand on Whit’s thigh.

I merely want to meet you who share interest in donuts. I am Ira, this here, he gestured to the surroundings, is my donut shop. The Stake Out. You like the name? Kind of punny, eh?

Nice to meet you, Ira, Whit carelessly spewed large crumbs and onion bits from his last bite of donut at the shop owner, I’m Whit. I’m new in town and just happened on this place this evening.

Ah, a newcomer. You hear that Lux? Ira leaned over to shout at the back of the waitress, He is new in town!

Yeah, I heard, Lux said as she turned back to the counter and placed a receipt next to Whit’s plate.

Did you lose your family in some sort of tragic accident? Feeling lost? Looking for friends? Ira asked.

Well I did stumble into an unfamiliar part of town and I’m always up for making new friends. Whit beamed.

The old man smiled in return. We have nice family here, you can join if you would like to.

Join your family? Whit wasn’t sure what the man was getting at, but he figured he was trying to be nice. Clearly Ira was from another country and perhaps they did things differently there. Whit wasn’t the kind of person to invite strangers into his family, but he was familiar with the old adage, different strokes for different folks. I have a family, but thank you for the offer.

Do you need me anymore, or can I go in back and make some more donuts? Lux faced the two men and smiled at Ira. I’ve come up with a great new idea, maple syrup and blueberry donuts.

Okay, you go now. Ira spoke.

Whit watched as Lux walked into the back of the shop through a doorway covered in those long strings of beads that hippies liked to decorate with, or so his grandpa said when he wouldn’t let Whit buy one.

Ira turned to