From the ledge of an abandoned walkup, he watched. The vantage was clean, clear of civilians.
Below, the reptilian man loomed seven, maybe eight feet tall, a thick tail dragging behind him, smashing car doors as it swung side to side. Heavy iron cuffs still clamped his ankles.
His claws locked around a hydrant, muscles straining until the bolts cracked.
Scaled and pale, but beneath it all was a person.
The hydrant tore free. It roared at the sky, jagged teeth flashing under the streetlights.
He could see it was still man.
Even as the man raised the hydrant high, pale chest catching the light, then hurled it at the building.
He didn't move.
The hydrant tore through the windows four feet to his right. Glass burst in a violent spray. He swept his cape up, shielding his face from the storm of shards.
Not a clever man, but loud and baited by motion and light. When the neon bar sign sputtered, he ripped a newsstand from the curb and flung it at the glow.
Too long underground. Months, maybe years.
The eyes would be sensitive.
That was something he could use.
Two officers approached from the south. One tall, rust-haired, sharp buzzcut; the other shorter, stout, bald, and Asian.
Detectives McDonough and Chen.
Shock froze their faces. Even McDonough, grizzled as he was, stood slack-jawed for a second too long.
Then they raised their weapons and fired.
The rounds bounced off the scales.
From the north, Gordon and the others opened fire too.
It dropped to all fours again, retreating into its low crawl on hands and feet moving like a crocodile across the street.
Same tactic it used in the tunnel.
Protecting its belly.
"What's the plan?" said Todd, who sat on his bike just past McDonough and Chen.
"Get him angry," came the reply, already mid-move. The grapnel gun fired, clamping to a streetlight. "Upset him just enough that he'll ignore everything and chase you."
"How do I do that?"
"The blades in your backpack. Hit him in the chest." He landed on the lightpole, balancing easy.
"He's on all fours. How am I supposed to hit his chest?"
"I'll lift him. You hit him, then ride."
McDonough and Chen ducked behind a car as the tail whipped across the hood, caving it in. A clawed hand followed, raking deep gouges through the metal.
From the light pole above, he fired.
The grapnel line went taut, the magnetic clamp snapped onto the man's spine.
He dropped to the street, braced, and pulled. Using the streetlight as a pulley, he strained to wrench the thing's arms from the pavement. But all four limbs stayed rooted, claws digging into asphalt.
His footing slipped. A burn ripped through his shoulders. He was losing.
Then another set of hands seized the grapnel gun. Gordon.
They pulled together.
Bullock followed, then Johnson. Four men against one.
On the other end, claws screeched across the street, then one arm slowly tore free.
A blade whirled out of the dark and drove into its chest. Blood sprayed. The roar that followed rattled windows.
Todd hopped on his bike. Its engine growled and he tore off.
The chase was on.
He released grapnel line, it recoiled back to the gun.
"He's drawing him south," he said to Gordon. "Away from the crowd."
"We'll catch up," Gordon yelled.
He already fired the grapnel skyward, the line snapping tight as it hauled him to the rooftops. In seconds he was gone, sprinting across.
Four blocks ahead, he spotted them. Todd weaving through traffic, tires shrieking, the creature barreling after him.
"He's gaining," Todd's voice cracked through the comm as cars swerved onto sidewalks. "I'm cutting through a narrow alley near the dead end, it comes out the other side."
Boots hit the ledge. The line recoiled. From his belt, he pulled another flashbang and sprinted to the edge. He looked down, but Todd had already cleared it.
What he found instead were nails clawing at red brick, breaking off chunks. Its scaled head tilted back and screamed. The sound gutted the alley and was followed by an eerie silence.
Those yellow eyes snapped upward fixed on the orb in his hand. He remembered the flashbangs from the catacombs and from the street.
But on the ledge, he stood rigid and composed, never breaking eye contact. Even when a second roar ripped across the street. Although this time, the roar almost sounded human like low gurgle of mangled words.
Sirens wailed at the far end of the block. The slits along its face flared wide, sucking in the night air. Its head snapped toward the river. Then it bolted, pounding down the street before hurling itself into the water with a violent splash.
He slipped the orbs back into his belt, watching the ripples to settle.
Gordon stepped out of a Plymouth. The hood was dented, the driver's side door crumpled. He walked to the edge of the canal, gun still in hand.
"What the hell was that?"
"Bael."
Gordon turned, brow raised. "A demon?"
"What Iverson and the others believed to be one."
More sirens wailed, getting closer.
By the time Gordon turned back, he was gone.
From the rooftop, he watched Gordon as he spoke with his squad. They tried to make sense of the chaos.
A click sounded in his ear.
"Clearly not a demon," came Alfred's voice. "But any thoughts?"
"A man. Diseased in a way we don't understand, plus I think he was trying to speak."
"Well, it's a good think you decided to start recording your evenings," said Alfred, "And, Mr. Todd? He proved himself useful."
He didn't admit it, but Todd had been an asset.
In fact, they all had been useful.