Monday, April 14, 2014

Davan Shaw


Dreamin' of a killer while he dances on your door. . . 

Davan Shaw is a nice country boy. This is what he wants you to believe. Chances are, in the right scenario, this is what you will believe. He plays the role perfectly. He is the boyfriend your grandmother wants you to bring home. . .even if you're a man. He can finally fix that fucked up stair on the back porch. He knows his way around a gun. He looks like he's going to be there for you when your world turns upside down. He has a good singing voice. He has a wide variety of skills, both practical and social. He could do anything he wanted in life and do it well and make money doing it. 

He chose the road, though. He looked into the dark, wet distance and he chose the hunt. Sometimes he plays at something else. Sometimes he'll stay in a place for months, fixing up properties, ingratiating himself with the neighbors. But he belongs to the road. He always chooses it, in the end. You will never win. 

But. . .that's OK, right? This is a roller coaster you are definitely high enough to ride. 


Name: Davan Shaw
Age: 33
Occupation: Hunter, contractor, dabbles in various other paying gigs
Orientation: Bisexual, heteroromantic, promiscuous (so far!)
Height: 6'5''
Weight: 220 lbs.
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Dark brown
Origin: American south
Area of Operation: Continental US
Personality: Aggressively charming, noble, righteous, passionate, capable, dependable; immovable, wrathful (on hunts)


This was not the family business. Far as his family was concerned, it was no one's business but the cops'. Some sick bastard had taken her heart out, sure; didn't mean it was anything weirder. They understood his desire to get to the bottom of it, but when he started obsessing over the layers of claw that had torn off on the way through her breast, they tried to dissuade him. It was just some trick of a budding serial killer, a weird signature they wanted to leave. People were sick and desperate for fame, after all, and if this would get true crime books written about them in the future, everything would be worth it. Sleepless nights scouring the internet for answers had finally turned up something that felt like an answer. Werewolves ate hearts. It wasn't a compulsion he recalled from the horror movies he watched as a kid, but when it went on to say they met their end through a silver knife, he knew what he had to do. 

He'd spent too many nights listening to Delilah cry for want of her mama, cradling her uselessly in his arms and remembering all the articles he'd read during Jacqueline's pregnancy about how children bonded with their parents. At such a young age, the strongest bond the baby had was with her mother. The smell comforted an infant. It was a thing gone from this world, torn out with her heart by that ugly fucking beast. Daddy's arms would never be good enough. Even singing the most delicate lullabies, she'd calm only so long as it took for him to close his own eyes, at which point she'd start in again. With that possibility burning in his blood, determination to make sure this did not become the serial event his family claimed, he knew fatherhood had been taken from him, too. He couldn't hack it, wouldn't be so irresponsible as to take a tiny baby out on the road. She was dropped off at her aunt's, ostensibly for just a few days, while he got his head screwed on straight. 

Instead, he drove off and never returned. Sometimes, he thought maybe he'd overreacted, that what some hunters said about it being a calling was bullshit. He'd left behind what could've been a good life, even with that heartbreak. He'd stood to inherit his father's contracting business and had already been at worksites for years, helping out, learning the ins and outs of the work. Chances were he wouldn't have been ready to take over the position til about now, as it happened, but his portion of the work made a fine enough wage. If he hadn't felt so sure in that month of mourning, he might have bloomed into a fine father, maybe even found some other girl to marry, act as a mother to Delilah. He knew too many families who'd been torn apart somehow than to think doing so would be a betrayal to Jackie's memory. Sometimes, life happened and it happened hard and people did what they had to do to get by; nothing wrong with that. If she was looking down from Heaven, it was knowing that she was not on Earth; she would understand. She'd been a practical woman. 

Mostly, though, there was the righteousness. He sniffed out a dozen more werewolves, moon-bound to do the same thing to some other family as their brethren had done to his. He found countless ghosts, snuffing the lives of teenagers just for being teenaged enough to make good on dares, never given the chance to age and wise up. Vampires turning sleepy villages into monsters' nests. Deeply dark modern-day mages sacrificing little girls to some formless, demonic entity. It wasn't vengeance that continued to motivate him, for he was lucky enough that his first kill was precisely what he wanted, far as he could tell, considering there were no witnesses. No, he'd just pointed his car toward home and thought of all the other families that thing might have ruined, all the heartache and nightmares and uncertainty, and couldn't bring himself to go. He looped around down the highway instead; he was going to need more guns. 

He learned to be dirty, after a while. He'd tried earning an honest wage at first, answering internet ads for handiwork and busking where he could find a good pitch - he'd always had a good, strong baritone - but the money just wasn't enough, not if he was going to keep gassed up, keep himself in weapons and all the different odds and ends a hunter needed to do his job. His eyes could go hard, now, hard and cold in a way that was impossible to read and hard to ignore, and he used that, won half his gambles legitimately and the other through a smoothly inserted card with marks too drunk to bother counting what remained. In recent years, he'd begun stealing identities, just a little; working his way in to get credentials and slyly add one of his aliases to the list of approved users on a credit card. Meeting an older hunter after a job, cradling some broken part of himself, he'd learned how to find just the right match for himself in health insurance, too; right age, right history where there wouldn't be too many questions asked. If the only people he was cheating were the rich and stupid, the lives he was saving ripe with potential, was any of it truly a moral crime? Sometimes, the spooks have money, have weird artifacts that fetch a nice price at the right pawn shop. Lifting those, he doesn't even think twice; they're practically trophies he melts down into cash. 

Learning mostly from the hunters he met along the way, he doesn't have much by way of sympathy for the monsters he hunts down. With his first experience of that world being the murder of his wife, why would he? In his mind, even the more articulate spooks were no longer their own people, driven grotesque and immoral by curses or unnatural lust for power. The men they'd been were gone, or who they wanted to be never available to them at all. They'd never find happiness in this world. Better to send them to the next and see what happened. Lives were saved and suffering soothed.

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