The sky was a heavy, bruised purple when Azmoz finally stepped out of the library. It was that strange time of morning when the stars had faded but the sun hadn't quite decided to show its face yet. His stomach gave another aggressive twist, reminding him that it had been far too long since his last meal. He didn't have much choice; if he went home now, he would just be staring at the peeling wallpaper while his insides ate themselves. He needed food, and he needed it now.
He decided to head toward the small grocery shop situated on the very edge of the Kalan forest. It was a long walk, and most people avoided that area because of the thick, suffocating overgrowth and the rumors of things that moved in the shadows of the trees. But for Azmoz, it was the perfect place. The shop was run by a man as old and decaying as the building itself, and more importantly, it was the only place where he wouldn't run into the students or the city guards who liked to make his life miserable. At this hour, the path was silent except for the crunch of his boots on the gravel and the distant, rhythmic chirping of insects hidden in the tall grass.
As he walked, his right arm began to itch. It wasn't a normal itch, but a localized heat coming from the tattoo of the purple book. He reached over and rubbed it through the fabric of his sleeve. He could feel the power humming just beneath the surface, a dark, pulsing energy that seemed to be feeding on his own exhaustion. The two spiders were still tucked away inside the ink. It was a strange sensation, knowing he had two living weapons literally etched into his skin, but it provided a small sense of security he had never felt before.
The shop finally came into view. It was a squat, wooden structure that looked like it was being slowly swallowed by the forest. The porch was crooked, and the windows were so covered in grime that you couldn't see anything inside. A single, dim lightbulb hung over the door. Azmoz reached into his pocket and felt the few coins he had left. It wasn't much—barely enough for a loaf of bread or maybe some dried meat if the old man was feeling generous. He sighed and pushed the door open, causing a rusty bell to chime overhead.
Behind the counter sat the shopkeeper, a man whose skin looked like crumpled parchment. He was leaning back in a creaky chair, clutching a wooden walking stick between his gnarled hands.
"Oh, it's you, little boy," the old man wheezed, not even bothering to stand up. He squinted through the gloom, his voice sounding like sandpaper on stone. "I thought you would have died or something, as you haven't visited in a while. Figured the forest finally got sick of looking at you."
Azmoz didn't flinch. He was used to the old man's grumpy attitude. In fact, it was almost comforting compared to the active malice he faced at the library or in the city. He walked up to the counter, his eyes scanning the meager selection of food. "Not before you, old man," Azmoz replied dryly. He pushed his glasses up his nose, noticing that the tape holding the left side together was starting to peel again. "I've been busy. Work doesn't stop just because I'm hungry."
The old man chuckled, a wet, rattling sound in his chest. "Work, he says. Dusting books that nobody reads. You're a strange one, Kaelith. Always have been. Just like your parents before the fire took 'em." He spat into a bucket by his feet and gestured toward a shelf of bread. "Take what you want and pay the price. I'm not running a charity for orphans today."
Azmoz moved toward the bread, his fingers hovering over a loaf that didn't look too moldy. He was about to ask for the price when the old man suddenly froze. His head tilted to the side, his clouded eyes widening as he looked toward the front door. The air in the room seemed to grow cold instantly, and the silence of the forest outside was replaced by a low, guttural vibration that shook the floorboards.
"What was that?" the old man shouted, his voice cracking with sudden terror. He struggled to stand, his wooden stick tapping frantically against the wood.
Azmoz turned around just as a shadow fell across the frosted glass of the door. A massive shape emerged from the forest boundary, moving with a jagged, unnatural gait. It was a dog-like creature, but far larger and more distorted than any hound Azmoz had ever seen. It had two distinct heads growing from a single, thick neck. Both heads looked like a cross between a wolf and a lion, with powerful, muscular jaws that dripped with a thick, white substance. The substance hit the ground and hissed, steaming as it ate into the dirt. Its fur was matted and black, and its eyes glowed with a feral, mindless hunger.
The beast growled, a discordant sound of two throats working in unison, and started to run towards the shop. Each step it took left deep gouges in the earth. The sheer predatory intent coming from the creature was overwhelming, making the air feel heavy and thick.
"Hurry! Come inside the shop!" the old man screamed, waving his arm at Azmoz. Azmoz didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled back behind the counter as the old man lunged for the door. The old man slammed it shut and tried to slide the heavy iron bolt into place, but he was too slow. His hands were shaking too much, the metal rod clattering against the frame.
Before he could lock it, the hound reached the porch. It didn't bark; it simply lunged. Its massive jaws clamped down on the edge of the wooden door. Azmoz watched in horror as the creature's teeth sank into the wood as if it were made of paper rather than sturdy oak. With a violent jerk of its heads, the hound began to bite down the door, tearing away large chunks of wood. The sound of splintering timber filled the small shop, echoing like gunshots.
Azmoz felt his right arm start to buzz like crazy. The tattoo was burning now." I have to do something", he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. "But I can't call the book in front of the old man. If he sees what I am, he'll tell the authorities, or worse".
Panicking, Azmoz looked around the cluttered space behind the counter. His eyes landed on a heavy iron rod that was leaning against a stack of crates. He grabbed it, the cold metal feeling heavy and awkward in his hands. He braced himself, planting his feet firmly on the creaking floor. He knew the door wouldn't hold more than a few seconds. The hound was relentless, its two heads working in tandem to rip the entrance apart.
With one final, powerful shove, the hound broke down the door. The wood shattered completely, sending splinters flying into the room. The beast stepped into the shop, its two heads swiveling as it glared at the two humans. Its breath smelled of rotting meat and sulfur. The white drool continued to leak from its mouths, sizzling on the floorboards.
The old man didn't back down. He picked up his wooden walking stick and held it out like a sword, his knuckles white. "Get back, you beast!" he yelled, though his voice was trembling. The hound ignored the old man entirely. Its four glowing eyes were locked onto Azmoz, sensing the strange, dark energy of the book. It lowered its haunches, preparing to pounce.
"No!" the old man cried. As the hound jumped, the old man threw himself between the creature and Azmoz. It was a desperate, suicidal move. The weight of the beast slammed into the old man, sending him crashing to the floor. The hound was on top of him in an instant, its heavy paws pinning his shoulders down. The old man tried to stop the snapping jaws with his wooden stick, shoving it into the creature's path, but the wood snapped with a single, effortless bite. It was like a toothpick against those lion-like teeth.
Azmoz watched, frozen, as the hound's left head lunged forward. It bit down hard on the old man's neck. There was a sickening crunch of bone and a wet, tearing sound. Blood sprayed across the floor, hot and metallic-smelling. The old man's legs gave one final, weak kick before he went limp, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
"No!" Azmoz screamed, his voice raw. The sight of the gore, the blood pooling around the old man's head, triggered something inside him. The panic vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp rage. He didn't care about secrets anymore. He didn't care about the old man seeing the book—mostly because the old man was already dead.
Suddenly, the tattoo on his right arm started to move. It wasn't just a buzz now; it was a violent surge of heat. The ink swirled, and the two spiders he had bonded with earlier shot out from his skin. They weren't the tiny house spiders they had been before. Nourished by the book's dark energy, they had grown to the size of a man's fist, their carapaces gleaming with a dark, oily luster.
The spiders moved with terrifying speed. They didn't wait for a command. They jumped simultaneously, sailing through the air toward the hound. Each spider landed on one of the hound's heads. With predatory precision, they moved toward the creature's eyes. The hound let out a high-pitched yelp as the spiders sank their fangs deep into the soft, glowing tissue of its eyeballs.
The hound started to frantically move its heads in pain, thrashing around the small shop. It stood up, abandoning the old man's corpse, and began to claw at its own faces, trying to dislodge the tiny attackers. Greenish-yellow fluid leaked from its punctured eyes, mixing with the white foam from its mouths. It was blinded and disoriented, its growls turning into pathetic whimpers of agony.
Azmoz saw his chance. He didn't give up on this moment of weakness. He dropped the heavy iron rod and reached down, picking up the broken, jagged end of the old man's walking stick. The wood had been snapped at a sharp angle, creating a wicked point. He lunged forward, his movement fueled by a sudden, unnatural strength. He drove the sharp end of the stick upward, aiming for the hound's soft underbelly as it reared back.
To his surprise, the wood went in straight. It pierced through the thick hide as if it were nothing. He pushed with all his might, burying the stick deep into the creature's organs. A thick, pungent green blood erupted from the wound, coating Azmoz's hands and arms. The smell was horrendous—like ammonia and stagnant swamp water. The hound gave one final, shuddering gasp. Both heads lolled to the side, and the massive body collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud, narrowly missing Azmoz.
The spiders detached themselves from the dead beast and skittered back toward Azmoz, climbing up his boots and disappearing back into the tattoo on his arm. The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the drip of green blood onto the floor and the distant, early morning birds beginning to sing.
Azmoz stood there for a long time, his chest heaving, his hands stained with the life-force of a monster. He looked down at the old man. The pool of red blood had reached the edge of his boots. He knelt down, checking for a pulse, but he already knew the truth. The old man was dead. His throat had been completely torn open, and his face was pale.