There are some people you know you ought not make angry because it isn’t right. Like your mum--if she’s the nice sort.
There are other people you know you ought not make angry because they have the authority to punish you. Police officers, politicians, insane asylum wardens, your mum--if she’s the bad sort.
But there are some people you ought not make angry that you don’t know about, because no one ever survived to warn you.
I’m the third kind.
I eat souls. The packaging can be tricky, but fortunately I am blessed with special skills to pry my meals from their pesky shells. My teeth rip skin, my jaws snap bones. I am fast, lightning-fast, snuff—oh-was-that-your-life? fast. I try to stick to bad souls, in the memory of my own mom (the nice sort). There were other reasons, reasons I used to understand, but they are reasons for a good person. I am not that.
That might be why I feel so at home here.
Small rooms, thick walls. Hushed whispers and ear-grating wails. A symphony of misery set to the beat of beatings. An insane asylum, prison of the cracked and grey.
Cracked windows, cracked walls, cracked minds. Don’t make them angry or there will be cracked skulls!
Grey stone walls, grey stone floors. Once-white nightgowns now grey. The skin of the inmates. Grey. The metal-framed bed. The bedding. Grey, grey, grey. The bars on the window…
Black. Imagery ruined. Correction—Prison of the cracked, grey and black.
Bad things have been done in this place. The worst things. It’s interesting that the people who need help the most are put in the hands of those least likely to give it. Caring for the mentally ill is a scary and dangerous job, so they need some payoff. Like dozens of helpless people entirely in their control. Does the world know the guards are worse than the inmates? I think they do. I think they’ve tossed the cracked to them so they’ll leave everyone else alone, like fleeing prisoners toss steak to the chasing hounds. Here, have this! Not me!
While I am bad, very, very bad, I am not the only wicked creature walking these halls. And at least I am ashamed of my wickedness—when I’m not reveling in it. Like a dog wallowing in a mud pool, I love the glop and splash of ick. It’s not until after, when the stink dries stiff and itchy that I regret it. Later, when the Hunger is assuaged.
There are others for whom the guilt never comes, who haven’t a memory-mom tsking and shaking her head. Instead, they have me. I suspect they never really feel guilt, but I make sure they drown in regret. Red, sticky regret.
Plenty deserve to drown here, but I am after one in particular. The ghost-girl pointed him out to me. I wasn’t in the mood then, so she reminded me. Then she reminded me again and again until I wanted to kill her. Unfortunately someone had gotten there first. My current target in fact. They are like that, ghosts, once they realize I can hear them. Demanding and impossible to kill. Good for picking out mom-approved meals though.
I could have snatched the guard from his house, lurked in the parking lot by his car, called him claiming to want his Craig-listed couch. I didn’t need to have myself committed. But there’s something poetic about recreating the scene he played out with his own victim, but this time, with a very different ending.
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack…. A bully stick is coming, running along the walls. Attached to a real bully, no doubt. Trying to frighten those cognizant enough to understand. I can’t help but feel satisfied that he is the one who doesn’t understand. A monster is in his midst and he thinks he is powerful…I snicker.
Clack. Clack. Clack…coming closer. Slowing down. It’s supposed to be ominous, and I bite back a giggle with my sharp teeth. How these wannabe monsters love their drama. I am not into drama, except maybe the artistic kind--a red splash on grey is satisfyingly dramatic.
Clack…clack…clack. I have a guest.
Delightful.
His eyes peer in my cell, creep across my skin. I know what he sees. Small, thin, pointy, frail. Curled on the floor. He sees a human teenager—which is half right. I am a teenager but as for the other, no. Whatever I am, it is not that. My dark hair is shorn into raggedy tufts on one side, left long on the other. I did that to myself. As with all the best places, they don’t just let anyone in. This is an exclusive little hellhole.
My eyes, I don’t let him see. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul and I wouldn’t want to give myself away. He tenses anyway, but he doesn’t know why. His bully-bright rational side tells him I am nothing to fear, but his animalistic side knows better.
Danger! his instincts scream.
Nonsense, his rationality remarks.
I am big! his bully-side brags.
It’s why he’s here. He doesn’t like to be frightened of a cracked, grey girl. He is a child determined to face down the monster under his bed. Imagine the child’s surprise when he finds the monster is real. Popped eyes, gasping, bloody red on grey. Squeals and splatters, clawing hands.
Hmmmm, it appears I may be a bit dramatic, after all.
Tap, tap, tap on the glass. He wants my attention. He has it, but I don’t let him see. Tap, tap, tap. More insistent. Step into my parlor, bully boy. Will you deliver my justice, or I yours? It is a no-lose situation. Someone is going to get what they deserve.
“Hey! Retard!” Charming. I hope it’s you. “Hey!” Your voice almost cracked, bully-boy. How embarrassing. Come in, prove how brave you are. I don’t frighten you! Jangling keys, creaking hinges—only one way, it doesn’t close behind him, I guess my lamb-like disguise is less successful than I hoped. Hesitation, I can hear you breathing bully-boy. Don’t be frightened! It won’t hurt….for long. If you’re the one I am waiting for. If it’s not—then I suppose it will hurt for as long as you want it to.
Step, step, step. So brave. The room is a small stone coffin, so it’s not many steps until he is at my side. Still he hesitates. Gird it up, sir. Make sure you are ready before you take that possibly-irrevocable last step.
“Hey!” Ah, he’s ready. “Look at me when I talk to you!” I do.
Oh I do, and it is him.
***
As for what I did to the guard...well imagine a child at their first birthday. He was the cake.
I left behind a mess. The walls painted in a style reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. Red, grey, black, brown.
Mostly red.
I prefer a more Neo-impressionistic style myself--Seurat, Signac!--but my medium has its limitations. Usually I try to be a little tidier--mustn’t see my face on the news! Especially with this haircut. But this is not a place that wants an investigation, and I like the message that only a rearranged corpse can deliver (Picasso!). Well a corpse and message written in blood--just in case I was too subtle.
I am watching.
I stroll down the corridor, the flickering fluorescents celebrate my passing, humming in praise. I spin, bow, and hum along. Bloody footprints trail, bloody fingers smear the walls. As I reach a locked doorknob I snap it off, then the next. Most of the inhabitants won’t run far--they were sent to an insane asylum for a reason, after all. But they have the opportunity, and if they get far enough away they might end up at a different facility, one with a different philosophy.
Some I leave in their cages. Even an animal rights activist wouldn’t let loose a tiger.
I am swollen with the sweetness of his dark soul, filled with it. Strong with it. It had been too long since I fed the Hunger. Like anyone on a diet, I found that complete abstention never works--it just leads to poor decision-making later. Of course, my binges don’t result in weight gain, but rather indiscriminate homicide. I’d say the stakes are higher; but then, a Twinkie would no doubt disagree.
Creaking hinges behind me, the pitter-pat of bare feet as someone flees, away from me--their savior. Come back, we can be friends! A door slams. Guess not. Ah, well, Spider Man didn’t have any friends either.
The asylum used to be a school that used to be a prison that used to be an orphanage that used to be something even older and more miserable than that. Constant expansions over a century or two resulted in a nightmarish warren of nonsensical rooms and hallways. It left many dark corners for secrets to crouch in, or for crouching victims to be cornered in.
At least one more guard is on the night watch. He probably won’t want to be my friend either....but he will most likely be my playmate. I hope it is someone who deserves my special brand of artful attention. I am full...but gluttony is one of my vices. Mom must approve. She would of this last one I am certain, and the ghost-girl will be happy, though it means I won’t see her again.
Goodbye ghost-girl! Be happy!
I prance, I dance on the gritty floor. Vengeance is sweet, sweet music. Creak-creak, pitter-pat, another escape. Come now guard, investigate! I spin, a-glow. Grey-white-grey-white-grey.
Black. Again, dammit. But perhaps the guard has arrived. I stop and hiss.
Not the guard--times three. Three strangers stand at the end of the hall.
And they are hissing back.
Chapter 2
Humans don’t hiss. Well, except trashy girls fighting over equally trashy men. But grown men, respectable in black suits, do not hiss at their enemies. Then again, in my line of…work, I’ve come across all kinds.
Regardless, they won’t hiss for long.
Okay, Mom, I will try not to kill them. I don’t know a thing about them, and that would be bad, to add more innocents to the list I must be accountable for. But, well, if there is a fight….accidents happen.
They stand at the end of the long hallway, in front of the stairs leading down to the ground floor. Respectable-looking men in neat suits with tidily-trimmed hair—modern, urban men, incongruent in this dark, dirty dwelling for the insane. The one on the left is short with a puffy, soft-dough face, while the one on the right is tall and hawkish. The center one has the pitted-face of an acne survivor, but is otherwise middle-aged unmemorable. Their hissing is the only part of them that belongs here. The grey expanse of the narrow hallway separates their skin from my claws, and my feet from the exit.
“What are you doing here?” hisses the one in the middle, straightening out of his crouch and tugging his suit smooth. Yes I, the girl with the ridiculous haircut and blood-soaked nightgown, am the one that doesn’t belong in the insane asylum. “Have you been reassigned? Why wasn’t I made aware of this?”
Um.
“Did zi-Ben send you?” Leftie says.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Rightie.
That zi-Ben, he’s such a kidder.
“And what on earth have you been doing? If you want to feed, fine, but try to keep a low profile,” the middle one exclaims, gesticulating at my gory appearance.
This conversation is going weird places---weird even given it’s taking place in an insane asylum. He can’t know I feed on souls, can he? No. Mom assured me I was unique. The only one like me, ever. I have no idea how to respond, so I say nothing.
“I don’t know where you come from, but here we’re near the Templars,” the middle one scolds, obviously the leader. “You tripped every alarm we set--if they have any of their own...”
Right, the Templars…who?
“I told zi-Ben we could handle it. Even while helping in The Search....I mean we have Skype--this isn’t the dark ages anymore. This place practically runs itself, anyway. We don’t need some junior associate in here screwing things up!” He waves at me.
Do I look corporate? Maybe they belong here more than I thought. Damn, I might be able to talk my way out. Err, I mean, “good,” right, Mom? You’d like that.
Rightie swipes a finger through a blood smear I left on the wall and licks it. A confused look comes over his face—mirroring the one on mine no doubt. I try to hide it, so maybe he doesn’t notice. He has been largely quiet until this point, but now he explodes.
“This isn’t pure….this is—did you eat Samson?” Rightie ends in a bellow. Yes, that was his name. Not that I really ate Samson, in the traditional sense. It was more like cracking a shell open and breathing in his soul, not chewing on him like a puppy with a bone--although there was some of that. I catch my reflection in a window pane--I look like a satisfied customer of Bubba’s Barbecue Shack. He must mean eat eat. I rub at my mouth with my sleeve.
Rightie is still ranting. “I’ve been working on him for months. I almost had his soul, I was this friggin’ close!” Pinched fingers, red face. “All these pures around and you eat Samson! Unbelievable! Not to mention, who am I going to get to work the damn midnight shift?”
I’ve never been caught “eating” people before, but somehow I imagined a different reaction. The suited man storms forward and I drop back down and hiss again. He draws up short and they share meaningful glances.
“What did you say your name was?” This from the one in the middle, his eyes narrowed. I debate lying, but what would be the point? Even if I leave them alive (I will, Mom, really!), they would be foolish to follow me once they know what I can do.
“Meda.” I say and they exchange glances again.
“Zi-Meda or hal-Meda?” The middle one asks slowly. Hmmm....fifty-fifty chance to get this one right.
“Zi.” Judging by the way they all just bared their teeth, that was the wrong answer. I’m pretty sure they just figured out zi-Ben didn’t send me. It looks like we are going to fight after all. Bummer. Sorry, Mom, I tried.
Did you? Her voice drifts across my mind.
Yes! I can almost see her arms cross and hear her foot begin to tap. I can’t see her expression. Time has washed it away. Fine, no.
I really wish she were still alive. I can’t lie to a memory.
“Zi-Ben didn’t send you, did he?” Suspicion confirmed. “Who did you say you are?”
Your death, strange human. I mean, your injury. Is that better, Mom? No murder, just a little maiming. So I can leave. Maiming’s not so bad.
They crouch themselves, mimicking my stance, spreading out across the narrow hallway. They creep forward in smooth, slithery steps. That’s fine, I like my food delivered—especially when I don’t need to tip the driver.
Not food, foe. I’m not going to kill them, Mom. Really.
Here piggy, piggy, piggy.
They come closer. I could attack them from here, but they can’t reach me yet. Not with little human leaps, not from there. Closer, their footsteps are so quiet, I almost can’t hear them over the growl in my throat. Come in, come in, closer. I will leap over. Maybe a leap and a few swipes. Just a few! Just to mess up those suits, that hair. Let them know What was here, What they escaped. It’s rather humanitarian of me, helping them to count their blessings. Appreciate what they have--like their heads. Too many people take them for granted.
I crouch even lower as they approach, rising on the balls of my feet. Ready to leap, ready to dive over. Ready to show these fools that they do not control me. I am not like the weaklings they are used to. I am unique, special. Powerful in a way they could never anticipate. In fact I’ve never felt more powerful. Samson’s fresh soul must have been extra strong.
Twelve feet, ten feet, eight. Their teeth show through snarls and the narrow hallway vibrates with the sound of our enmity. Their fingers curve into claws, not unlike mine. Do they mock me? I hope so. Deflated arrogance fits beautifully on a plate of defeat.
They are close.
Six feet. I leap, perfectly measured, toward the gap between their heads and the drop ceiling. In the dance of death I am a ballerina, a leaping lady.
I want to see the widening eyes, the shock, the awe. I look down and instead see a fist and an explosion of red. A crunch. A chorus of cackles. I lie on the floor trying to figure out what happened.
What! I’m strong! I’m special! But evidence to the contrary stands over me, burbling with wicked giggles, erupting with maniacal cackles.
My prey doesn’t cackle, I cackle.
Instead, I lie on the floor in a pool of my own deflated arrogance, and a horrible sneaking suspicion dawns. I want to whimper.
“What was that? Did you just try to jump over us?” It is the middle one again. “And you’re only a halfling? ‘Zi’ my ass.” He howls with laughter.
I can’t take it. I leap back up to my feet and pounce, this time diving right for that loud mouth. He side-steps me and slams me into the wall, still laughing. His friends howl.
You. Will. Stop. Laughing.
I make a motion like I am going to dive at him again, but at the last possible second I jump at his unsuspecting companion instead, slashing him hard across the face.
The laughter dies and the crouching and snarling resume, and I realize I made a serious tactical error. I should have run. Three on one and I don’t even know what they are. I should have run.
But I just...I mean, I don’t run. As they leap, I decide it’s time to learn.
I cut sharp and run, bent low, my feet flying. Snarls and stomps follow behind me. I hit the stairs and leap down to the first landing, then turn and leap to the bottom. They race right behind me. I blast through the door and it explodes out of the door frame from the contact. It slows me, only a half-second but it’s enough. I’m tackled from behind. I twist as we fall so I am facing my captor. We bounce and skid across the lobby floor. He slams me into the wall, and I feel the stone give under my back.
It hurt.
The hand of the one I clawed is wrapped around my throat. Blood dribbles down his face.
“You think you can cut me, Halfling?” He reaches up and slashes my face. My steel skin parts like silk. I squeal and scramble, fighting his hold. He leans forward, menace radiating from him. Was this what my victims felt like? Powerless, sweaty? Heart pounding? Was this, was this fear?
“Hal-Karim, we aren’t supposed to kill our own.” His fellows had followed us down the stairs. Yes, you can’t kill your own! Own what is an unimportant detail at the moment.
“But accidents do happen,” my captor snarls.
Eep!
“She’s only a halfling, we’ll say she’s a traitor. That she flipped sides.” Rightie offers. Apparently he’s still pissed about Samson.
“That might even be true,” my captor says and strokes my face, his nails rasping against my skin. I twist to get away. “Why else would she pick Samson?”
Flip from what? I have no idea but it’s my only chance. “I didn’t flip sides! I just couldn’t resist! He attacked me first!” He isn’t buying and I recognize the look in his eye. Bloodlust. I often see it in the mirror. I’m dead, it’s too late. How ironic to learn I am not alone as I die.
When mom told me I was special and unique, I thought she literally meant I was special and unique! After all, I never met any other children who could lift cars or chew on steel bolts.
Turns out I am only “mom-special.” Special like a snowflake is special. Special like an elementary kid on honor roll.
There are others like me. And they want to kill me.
That would have been good to know, Mom!
“Please…” I’m never one to give up. “It’s the truth. I didn’t flip—“
“Shhhhh.” The hungry eyes gobble mine. “The truth doesn’t matter when you look so….delicious.” He leans in, breathing deep. His tongue snakes out and slithers wetly across my cheek, licking the blood tickling down my face. He sneers, he smiles. Then he freezes. His eyes widen and he licks me again. Those wide, wicked eyes meet mine.
“Are you….?”
A loud bang echoes through the room and we all turn. The front door has been kicked open.
Someone else has come to join the party.
Chapter 3
As parties go, the food is good but the hosts are complete assholes.
The new attendee, a man, stands combatively in the doorway. Well, not really a man, a human teenager, one of Gods most misbegotten creatures--big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children. Selfish, moody, reckless with a tendency to sleep too much and complain too often. I’m a teenager too, but I take exception to the human part.
Around eighteen. Grungy jeans with holes, faded black hoodie under a leather sleeveless jacket, blond shoulder-length hair. An attempt at a beard (fail).
The million dollar question--whose side is he on? Unlikely to be mine as I’ve never really been much of a team player.
“Crusader!” hisses one of my attackers from the stairwell.
The words have no sooner slithered from his lips when the boy lobs a ball into the room. As it arches over us, he raises a gun and shoots the ball. It explodes and liquid showers down. I duck behind the man holding me, but some still finds my exposed shoulder and it burns. My captor screams and collapses on the floor writhing—he took the brunt of the flying liquid. I don’t see the other two--they must have taken cover in the stairwell or a hallway.
“Do you want to be demon-chow? Come on!” he shouts to me.
Demon-chow? But that’s a thought for another moment. I need no further encouragement and run toward the door. Toward my savior.
It’s an unusual feeling.
The clip of shoes on stone behind me alerts me that a “demon” is chasing me, using me as a shield as we both race toward my rescuer. His claws brush my back and I dive past the boy into the entryway, bringing my savior and the demon into a collision course. They crash with a meaty thud. I jump to my feet and back away from where they grapple. The fight rolls from the entry way and back into the lobby.
I look back for the other two. The middle one is with his fallen comrade, who still writhes on the floor. If looks could kill, I would be toast. He half-rises, but the injured one clutches at his neck and whispers in his ear. With a shocked look at his friend, then, with a final snarl at me, he chalks something on the ground and, with a crack like thunder, the two of them disappear.
Poof. Just like that.
I turn back to where the newcomer and the third demon face off. They pull apart and the boy produces a wicked-looking knife, long and curved. I’m not entirely sure why he’d trade a gun for a knife, but, then, I’m not really sure of anything that’s happening right now. I back further into the entryway, debating my options.
Desire for revenge pulses in my veins. I want to punish the demon. Crush! Kill! And above all--cackle! They claim revenge is a dish best served cold, but I’ve found it to be equally delicious hot--not unlike fried chicken. Two-on-one we could probably take him. If nothing else, the boy could serve as a distraction as the demon tears him to shreds.
But a strong dose of self-preservation holds me back. I’ve already learned the hard way that the demons are stronger than me--or at least a lot more accustomed to fighting people who can fight back. I also feel a little run down, tired already by the unexpected fighting.
So I stand. Indecisive.
The demon looks similarly indecisive, his eyes shooting between the two of us, then back to where his friends disappeared. He wants to kill the boy, and me, but at the same time realizes his back-up bailed. Halfling he’d called me--our similarities are mounting. He looks back again where his friends disappeared, but the boy steps in his way, obviously blocking him off.
“You’re not thinking of running are you?” the boy taunts, blue eyes narrow as he passes the blade back and forth. “I’m not even a full Crusader, just a kid. You’re not afraid of a kid are you?”
The snarling leap seems to indicate “no.” In a move too fast to be merely human, the boy jumps to the side as the demon streaks by. In a smooth motion the boy rolls back to his feet and dives at the demon’s back, slashing hard across its spine. The demon shrieks to shatter glass, his back arching as if someone had pulled his bowstring. The boy pins the demon face-down as it flails on the stone floor, and puts his hands on its bare neck. Inky black smoke billows out of the demon where the boy makes contact with its skin. The smoke is then sucked into the boy, absorbed into his fingertips. Once all the smoke is absorbed, the boy releases the now-limp demon and stands. He looks a little wobbly and he puts a bracing hand on the wall. Then he tips back his head and exhales a long stream of light-grey fog that I instantly recognize. I recognize it because I routinely eat it.
It is the essence of a human soul.
I sit down. Hard.
“Are you okay?” The boy pushes himself off the wall and his forehead scrunches with concern.
I have gone from thinking I am Superwoman (Okay, so maybe her evil twin) to having my ass handed to me. It has been one hell of a day.
And I learned my beloved mom was one big, fat liar, and now here is a boy exhaling souls. To say I have a lot of questions is an understatement. This boy might have the answers--I just have to take them from him. I consider the many tools at my disposal, eyeing his large blood-covered frame, and settle on my weapon of choice—one so infrequently used I need to dust it off first.
My eyes fill with tears. “Wha—” I swallow hard, “what were those things?”
“Demons.” Thanks Einstein. I got that part. “Turns out spiritual warfare is a lot less theoretical than you probably think.”
How many times had he practiced that line? I wouldn’t make judgments on what I think, silly boy. I let a tear trickle over.
He hurries to reassure me. “Don’t cry--I’ll protect you.”
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“What do they want?” I ask. The boy sits down next to me and pats my bruised back reassuringly. I try not to wince and look up at him like he’s my hero—it’s equally painful.
“To destroy the world,” he says, as if that is obvious. Apparently wannabe-monster-hunters also tend toward the dramatic. I turn my attention to the body lying across from us to hide my irritation.
“Destroy the world?” I push. The boy sees where I am looking and stands. He walks to where it lies and pulls a rustic-looking, clay globe from his belt. I recognize it as the same kind he had lobbed into the room, that burned my shoulder. He pops a cork and pours liquid all over the corpse. The body starts to smoke and bubble, then dissolve. The boy turns back to me, holds the ball to his lips and takes a swig. I gasp.
“Don’t worry! It’s just water! Well, holy water. But it only hurts demons.”
I discretely tug my nightgown’s neckline to more completely cover the burns on my shoulder.
He offers the ball out to me “Thirsty?”
I try not to look appalled.
“So, how do they try to destroy the world?” I ask again. He’s starting to make me consider the other tools in my arsenal. Speak, Boy!
He squats next to me and tucks his hair behind his ear with his free hand. We both watch the body dissolve. “Demons try to convince people to turn evil and sell their souls. Once they do, they’ll become a demon when they die. Most demons are made this way.”
Finally, some helpful information. I didn’t sell my soul--but maybe that doesn’t count for halflings. I feel like the definition of that is pretty self-explanatory. And colossal-fibber though Mom turned out to be, I am pretty sure she wasn’t a demon. “And the rest?”
“Some demons just are. I don’t really know the specifics, though there are a bunch of theories. Angels that sided with Lucifer during the fall, minions created by Satan the way God made Adam,” he shrugs, “I don’t really worry too much about theories--just enough so I know who to kill.” He grins toothily.
Under different circumstances, maybe we could have been friends.
He continues. “There are also halflings too--they’re born. Succubae and incubi trying to inflate the ranks ‘naturally’.”
Ding-ding-ding! I try to dial down the curiosity in my expression from “tell-me-now-before-I-rip-your-head-off-and-try-to-suck-the-truth-out-of-it” to “please, do go on.” It must have worked because he keeps talking instead of trying to run.
“Demons also feed on souls, good people that they couldn’t turn. They especially try to murder Beacons--people who are particularly good or who will have a positive impact on the world. Da Vinci, Gandhi, Betty White, and Mother Teresa are the classic examples, but there’s a bunch of other much-less well-known ones.” He gives me a meaningful glance and I freeze. He can’t know I eat souls. There’s no way. But then, he must mean....
Bahahahhahahaha. I look down to hide my twinkling eyes. Bad day or not, that’s hilarious.
“It’s OK, you don’t have to be scared, I’ll protect you.”
Big brawny man, protect this damsel! I try to look angelic and helpless--Beacon-ish. The haircut and the blood can’t be helping. Fortunately he seems particularly thick. “And wh-what are you, exactly?” My voice is sweet. Timid. Awed.
“Malachi Dupaynes, but you can call me Chi.” I said what not who. Interesting, though, that his nickname rhymes with “die,” but with a “k”. A sign, I wonder? We shake and our hands stick a little, because of all the blood. “I’m a Crusader. Or at least I will be, once I graduate.” His chest puffs in that way of young men.
“But you are so strong,” I fawn, I flutter. “Strong enough to fight that monster...you can’t be just a normal student.” I saw how he moved--he isn’t just a human.
“No, that’s in the blood--my ancestors have been fighting demons for centuries. We’ve been given certain...gifts....to help us.” That doesn’t sound good.
“How did you know I needed help?”
“I can sense demons--that’s part of it too.” That doesn’t sound good at all. “I knew they were here so I came to rescue you. It’s what Crusaders do.”
As he crouches biting distance away from this half-demon, I can’t help but think he has a startlingly short and unimpressive career ahead of him. Because although he just saved my life, he makes a career out of hunting my kind. Not that I feel the teeniest bit of loyalty toward my “kind,” but it is going to be a problem if he discovers what I am. There is no choice really.
I am going to have to kill him.
Chapter 4
Mom wouldn’t like it, but I find my near-death encounter has left me a little peeved with mom at the moment.
But it really is a shame--he knows more about me than I do. Also, it seems like it would be helpful to learn more about this school devoted to teaching people how to kill me. I guess I’ve made it this long without knowing either, and I don’t know how his “demon-sensing” thing works. It could kick in any minute and I’m not in the mood for another fight--at least not with someone who will fight back.
It doesn’t seem right to take his life after he gave me back mine. But what can I say? I’ve been known to bite the hand that feeds me. And anyway, he wouldn’t have saved me if he knew the truth. My savior would quickly try to become my murderer if he did.
I’ll compromise and make it quick. Having experienced the whole fear-and-pain thing, it’s the least I can do. I just need him to turn his back--it’ll be over before he even knows it’s happening. I cast around for a distraction--and my eye lands on the most obvious in the room.
I point to the smoldering corpse. “Are you sure it’s dead?” It is mostly slime and smoke, so yes, yes it is. I am banking on the fact that he seems more like the physically gifted type than the mentally--and really I just need him to turn around.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should make sure.”
“No, I’m pretty sure.” His eyes twinkle.
“I think I saw it move.”
“Unlikely.”
“Just go look at it!” I snap then cough, and bring my order back down to a whimper, placing a hand on his arm. I look up through my lashes, then bat them a few times for good measure. “I’m sorry, I just want to make sure it can’t come back to get me.” He smiles like a boy asked to stomp a spider for a silly girl and I know I have won.
It’s a shame, he has a really pretty smile.
He hops to his feet, and I put out a hand so he can pull me to mine. He strolls the few feet to the body while I hang back.
I look at his broad back and think about death. The colors, the flavors, the squelching and splashing. I think about the Hunger and the power. The control. I think of these things and feel the bloodlust grow and pulse through my veins, spreading like a hot, heady poison. I let it take over, glee replacing the little twinges of regret.
I crouch, I roll up onto the balls of my feet. I tense. My legs are springs, my hands are claws.
I narrow my eyes on the back of his neck, where the brain stem becomes spine. The thin column that is so vitally, vitally important and yet so very, very fragile.
I draw back, preparing for the spring. Lower, lower, lower. I am a sleek black leopard, a silent predator who delivers pouncing, painless death....
WHAM! The door bangs open and I jump toward the shadows instead of toward my victim.
Five intruders in one night? This really is turning into a party.
Chi flies around at the sound, one hand flying toward a holy water globe on his belt, the other for his gun. When he sees who it is he relaxes and straightens.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, and I peer around the corner. In the entryway is another human teenager. A girl this time, in a black leather jacket and jeans. She has wavy brown hair, olive skin, and a glare that makes me marvel at Chi’s courage.
“What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here?” She starts forward with a limp. A metal brace wraps her left leg from hip to ankle. I back further into the lobby’s shadows. “I came to drag you back, you’re not supposed to be--is that a demon??” She picks up her pace until she is standing over it. “You actually fought demons?” She says it as an accusation, but Chi’s chest swells.
“There were three of them. I injured another one but he escaped with the third.” Chi brags, and in spite of herself, the girl can’t contain her curiosity.
“Did you...” she puts out her hands, “purify him?”
“I did, he won’t be reborn.”
She looks very impressed for about three seconds, then she remembers why she is here. The scowl returns. “Well it was stupid, coming out here by yourself. The school is practically unprotected with all the Crusaders out trying to figure out what big thing the demons are up to. They don’t need to chase some idiot who wants to play hero.”
“Really? Then why didn’t you stay at the school if they need protection so bad? Or did you plan on playing a little ‘hero’ yourself?”
“I’m not sure saving your stupid ass counts as heroic. Besides,” her mouth twists into a bitter shape and she smacks her leg-brace, “they wouldn’t let me help even if the school was under siege. They wouldn’t have let me come get you had they known.”
“Why did you come? I had it under control. I don’t need help.”
She crosses her arms. “It’s not always about you, Mr. Hero. All the Crusaders are away and you’re supposed to be protecting the school.”
Chi rolls his eyes. “That’s a B.S. job and you know it.”
“Your orders were to protect the school—whether you like it or not.”
“A Crusader school hasn’t been attacked in centuries. I’m needed in the field—I’m better than anyone who graduated last year, they should have let me finish early.”
She is unimpressed by his argument. “Well they didn’t. Orders are orders. The Crusaders are away, so upperclassmen,” she snorts and corrects herself, “able-bodied upperclassmen are supposed to be guarding.”
Apparently Chi is not the order-following kind, something we have in common.
“The Crusaders all being away was why I had to come,” he argues. “The demons were practically on our turf this time. There wasn’t anyone else to take care of it so I needed to.”
“You didn’t need to do anything. There are demons attacking helpless people everywhere. Don’t bother lying to me, I know you too well--it had less to do with ‘need’ and more to do with where you could get to and from before you were noticed missing.” She scolds him like he’s naughty school boy—a neat trick since he’s at least six inches taller than she is.
He switches tracks and looks charmingly sheepish. He takes a step closer and scratches the back of his head, making his triceps bulge gloriously. I wonder if he did it on purpose. “Well, I’m not going to say it didn’t help that it was so convenient...”
Unfortunately for him, she is not easily charmed.
“It was reckless and irresponsible--”
He cuts her off with a groan and an eye-roll. “You use to be more fun, Jo--you use to have balls.”
“Yeah well, I traded them for brains. I see you’re still thinking with yours.”
Haha, I fight the urge to like her.
“If I hadn’t she would have died.” He points to where I crouch in the lobby shadows. I let that crouch collapse into a cower. Jo turns, obviously surprised to see me.
“Who is that?” If a fish could be furious, it would gape like Jo.
“The girl I rescued,” Chi brags.
Ah, my poor ego, to be so defined!
“What’s your name?” she demands.
I consider lying. Again I don’t—they’re both going to die anyway. Besides, Mom always said honesty is the best policy. I frown. Obviously not a policy she kept.
“Meda.” I whisper, back to playing the innocent victim.
“You live here?” she demands with all the gentleness of a 15th Century Spanish priest.
“Yes.” That’s sort of true. Silent seconds pass and I peek to see what is happening. Jo is examining me, eyeing my blood-stained nightgown. I am acutely grateful I’d wiped the blood off my mouth.
“What happened to you?” Her tone is edged with suspicion.
I let my voice tremble when I answer. I actually am a little trembly--the attack had been traumatic. “I was attacked by demons.” Also sort of true--though not where the blood came from. She eyes me, and I don’t like the expression I see there. Analyzing, calculating.
“Why would they come here?”
“To kill me,” That one is barely true--I don’t think that was why they came...just how things ended up going. Dancing closer to that edge!
“Why?” How to answer that one without lying...Blast. I open my mouth to lie--when Chi cuts in, saving the day.
“She’s a Beacon.” That isn’t true at all, but I didn’t say it. I guess it really depends where you stand on the whole lie-by-omission thing. Personally I’m on the fence. “We need to bring her back to the school with us.”
Jo stares at me for a few more awkward seconds before turning to him. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?” She tosses a brittle smile in my direction before limping around the corner. Chi smiles more genuinely then follows her.
“We’ll be right back,” he assures me as they disappear out of view.
Now is the time to kill them, while they talk. Although, if left alone long enough, there’s a good chance they’ll kill each other.
Chi will be first, he is the bigger threat, then the gimp. I creep toward the corner, padding on silent feet. I peek around and can’t see them, but I can hear them. I move toward the voices.
“You met her for like, two seconds--how can you possibly not like her?” Incredulous, from Chi, my stalwart defender.
“I didn’t say I don’t like her, I said I don’t trust her.”
“Still!”
There is a pause as Jo tries to find the words. “She’s too....slick. Smooth.” She knows I’m wrong, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.
Hehe, because it is too slippery.
“What? What does that even mean?” Ah the dismissive tone of know-it-all boys. But I knew what she means. Of course I am slick, smooth. My soul slithers, my face is a porcelain mask. All the evidence of my flaws is spackled over and sanded smooth--like a home-seller hiding the wicked cracks that evidence a poor foundation. Lies are smooth, deceit is smooth, slime is smooth, slithery slick smoothness of something very, very wrong.
Jo growls in frustration--at her inability to find the words or Chi’s inability to find a brain, I’m not sure. I creep closer and peer around the corner. They’re in my sights, just feet away. Chi’s back is to me. Ideal.
“Well why do you trust her so much? You only just met her.”
“I just have a feeling about her.”
A silent beat from Jo. “You’re an idiot.”
I am in complete agreement, but she seems to think it’s a negative attribute.
“She could be a demon for all you know!” Jo continues.
Yes, yes she could. A wicked crouching demon about to dive from the dark.
“No, she couldn’t--I would know if she was a demon.” He holds out something chained to his jeans and waves it at her. I roll up on the balls of my feet. Now, before he uses that thing...
“Well you wouldn’t know if she’s a halfling, now would you?”
Wait, what--he wouldn’t?
WHAM. The front door again. You’ve got to be kidding me--this is getting ridiculous.
I take two giant bounds almost bringing me into the lobby, then turn one-eighty and pretend like I am running away from the door just as Chi and Jo come racing around the corner, holy globes in one hand and guns in the other. Who is lucky guest number six? I decide to let the two of them test that out.
“Hello?” a warbling girlish-boy voice from the lobby. I watch Jo and Chi from where I crouch behind them and their eyes meet. “Hello? Anyone there?” The guns and globes go down.
“Uri?” Chi calls out.
“Chi?” It ends on a squeak.
“It’s fine,” Chi assures me.
Jo is already striding forward. Well, as best as she can on that bum leg. “Uriel Green, what are you doing here?” she demands as she disappears around the corner.
“Errr--gugh, ah...,” Uri stammers. Jo must be treating him to the death-stare. “I, uh, thought Chi was here.”
“That didn’t answer my question.” It’s a scolding growl, like the one mom used on me when she found me...well, suffice to say she was angry. Chi and I come around the corner, and there stands a beet-red boy about thirteen years-old with floppy brown hair and an outfit almost identical to Chi’s. He’s fit, but small, and it’s clear he is just barely sticking his toes in the puberty pool. No match for Jo’s glorious fury. She’ll eat him alive--not literally of course.
Unfortunately.
“Hey, Buddy,” Chi calls out.
“Chi!” The relief that floods from the boy would drown a lesser man. Chi takes it in stride and claps hands with him.
“Whatcha doing here?” Chi asks. It’s the same question Jo asked but without the undertone of impending violence. That makes all the difference and now Uri is bubbling to speak.
“I wanted to see you fight, and, you know, be your back up.” Then he hurriedly adds, “Not that you’d need it!” There is a low growl from Jo and Uri inches away from her and points at me. “Who’s that?”
“A Beacon I rescued,” Chi says too-casually. Uri provides all the awe and hero-worship Jo did not deliver.
“Wow! Really?” The boy blinks at me like I am a fascinating zoo animal. He then looks at Chi like he is a rock star.
“That smear over there is all that’s left of the demon I toasted.” Chi points and the boy is too overcome to speak. He just gasps excitedly and dances around the slime pool like he has to pee.
Jo snorts in disgust. “Can we go? Those demons might come back with friends. Besides I would like to make it back before someone notices we’re gone--I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life in detention.”
I’m pretty sure I hear Chi mutter “spoilsport” under his breath. By the death-beams shooting from Jo’s eyes, I’m guessing she heard him too.
“Come on, Meda,” he says to me, “you can ride with me.”
Jo opens her mouth, but I beat her to it. “Where are we going?” Now that I know they can’t sense what I am, why not go with them and fish for information?
“Home, to the Templar headquarters and Crusader school,” Chi answers.
“Wait, Templar like the Knights Templar?” I am a well-educated monster. Home-schooled of course. I don’t play well with others.
“Exactly.” He smiles, happy I’ve heard of them. “We’re still around, only the Templars are a secret society these days, we--”
“Secret, Chi. Secret society,” Jo cuts in, exasperated.
Chi rolls his eyes. “She’s a Beacon, we can tell her.”
“You don’t even know that! You’re just assuming.”
“She was being hunted by demons--demons hunt Beacons. Plus I found her in an insane asylum. You know Beacons often end up in insane asylums, their genius confused with insanity.”
“You know who more often ends up in insane asylums?” Jo asks sharply-sweet. “Crazy people!”
Chi continues as if she hasn’t spoken but I see his lips tighten. “Look at her? What do you think she’s going to do--wipe out the entire school?”
Cue innocence! My sweet lashes flutter against my helpless cheeks, my useless hands wring the edge of my guiltless, blood-soaked nightgown. My lovely lips tremble over my pearly-white teeth.
Jo isn’t buying.
“Demons do all sorts of crazy stuff. It could be a trap.”
Damn that gimp bitch is a hard sell. Chi hesitates, is he seeing reason instead of my harmlessness? I reach out a gentle claw—err, hand--and place it on his forearm, tugging his attention from her smarts to my lovely little girl helplessness. My lower lip trembles and I hear Jo snort in disgust. Now for the piece de resistance!
“You....” Faux-brave sacrifice always chokes me up! “You can leave me behind. I,” deploy waterworks, hard swallow, “understand.” He crumbles, my tiny tears beat him down like powerful waves.
“No,” he says. “You’re coming with us.”
Victory! Take that you clever cripple!
He turns toward her. “We’ll test to make sure she’s a Beacon as soon as we can.”
What? Gulp.
Grrrr.
A draw.
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