First Kill (Cain University Book 1)

by Lucy Auburn

  Well, they won't be coming with me tonight.

  Narrowing my eyes at the place where the magical doors should be, I yell out, "You got me into this mess! Now I want you to get me out. I've got an assignment, after all."

  It feels silly to yell at inanimate objects, especially when those objects aren't even here. There's a purpose to my madness, though. The file Headmaster Shu gave me has a magical rune on it that's supposed to help me summon the doors and bring me to the target.

  But despite my yelling, nothing happens. Maybe it has something to do with the conditions she added to my surveillance mission: bringing my so-called Conduits with me.

  There's no way I'm turning back now, though. The idea of sidling up to Grayson and asking him to accompany me makes my stomach turn. He'll be so smug and snide about it, and act like he's doing me some kind of favor.

  No, I want to prove myself. That means going alone. If the doors will let me. If I can convince them to bend the rules a little.

  You'd think, after getting me into this in the first place, they'd want to help me out.

  Whining, I add, "I promise to come back!" Followed by a, "Pretty pretty please? With cherries on top?"

  It's just dark emptiness where the doors should be. Kicking the gravel at my feet, I scowl, throw the short sword on the ground, shove the file and knife inside my jacket, and stalk towards the blank spot. I don't even know what I'm doing, exactly. I just know that I'm pissed as hell, I want something, if I don't get it, someone or something is gonna pay for denying me.

  Raising my palms, I let the force field of my power ripple out of me like a wall. No, like two doors. As it moves outward, visible in the air like hot steam, it hits resistance. There's nothing visible in front of me, but the doors are there, somehow, even though at the same time they aren't.

  Gritting my teeth, I push. Stare the empty space down. Feel my anger build, brick by brick, the unfairness of it all hitting me. I didn't ask for any of this, didn't ever want it. I was a simple girl who dreamed of the big screen, or at least the local stage if I couldn't have that. Now I'll never get to act, because I'm Killer Ellen. I'll never become a part of the normal world again, because I walked through those doors.

  And the father who made me this way isn't even alive to be held responsible for the blood that runs through my veins. Hot, easily-angered blood, full of powers and the thirst for death.

  He made me a killer.

  "Fuck you!" I yell so loud that I'm sure someone will hear me, and I'll be caught trying to sneak off campus again, but I don't care. "Fuck you, Vincent Arizona, you dead asshole. I wish I had a normal, boring dad like Herb." Tears stream down my face, and for the first time since the night she died, a well of grief opens up inside me for my mother. "She's dead because of you. I just know it. The only thing she ever did that would've gotten her the attention of an assassin was marrying you. You're probably the reason why she died."

  For a moment I see the silvery specter of a man with dirty blond hair and a dimple in the center of his chin. He stares at me, wind whipping his clothes and his Air Force uniform, something like sadness in his eyes.

  Then I blink, and he's gone. It's like he was never even there. Paranoid, I look over my shoulder, and I swear for a moment that I see the edge of a silvery cane near the shadows cast by the campus gates. But it disappears, and all there is in the darkness is nothing.

  Looking forward again, I gasp and drop my hands at the sight of the doors. Tall, thick oak carved with scenes of human death, wrought iron made of things that kill, and a warm golden light that doesn't match the blood these doors have seen, or the death that makes them visible.

  Before I can go through, something soft and furry meows at my ankle, rubbing up against me. Glancing down, I feel a strange, hopeful leap of my heart at the sight of the little siamese kitty I just freed a few hours ago.

  "You followed me." She chirps, and I bend down to scratch the side of her neck. The purr that leaves her little chest is so powerful it must rattle her bones. "I don't think you should follow me through the doors. But if you wait here, when I come back, I'll feed you."

  I'm not sure if she understands me. Without Wyatt holding my hand, I can't seem to tap into her emotions very well. But there's nowhere else on campus she can really go, and somehow I doubt she'll act so friendly to any other human besides me. What little I saw of the inside of her memories today revealed to me that she has no reason to trust a single one of us.

  With a little mew, she twines between my legs and scampers off into the darkness. I glance once more towards the section of the thick wall around campus where I thought I saw Greyson, but of course he's not there. And while he's not as loud as Levi, he's definitely not quiet either, thanks to that leg of his and the cane he uses. It was just the paranoid part of me that saw him; if he really were here, he already would've announced his presence by showing up to annoy me to death.

  Certain I'm alone and unwatched, I scoop Eve's sword up off the ground, grab onto one of the door handles, and pull it wide open. I have no idea what I'll find on the other side, but I'm hopeful that it'll deposit me somewhere close to the person I'm supposed to surveil, just like Eve was brought straight to her target.

  After all, I don't exactly have money for a plane ticket—or the ability to board a plane, now that there's a warrant out for my arrest. I'll have to sneak out and back without being found by anyone, something that will hopefully be easy enough now that I know I have supernatural powers.

  Pushing open the doors, I look inside, feeling a little foolish for bringing a sword as I do so. The other side of the door is the inside of an office building, late at night when all the workers are gone. Bright fluorescents have been left on overhead, no doubt for the overnight cleaning crew. Stepping through, I push the doors shut behind me, and a moment later they vanish.

  It's strange to be in an office building. I've never worked in one before—the closest I got was the back office of the theater I worked at after graduating undergrad with my performing arts degree.

  When I got the job, Jack told me he was proud of me, and threw a party; two weeks later, he interrogated me about coming home fifteen minutes later than expected. He pushed me into the wall that day, and later, when I was icing the bruises, he cried and apologized so sweetly that I actually believed I could love him better.

  The apologies drifted away, or at least became hollow to my ears, as the abuse escalated. More and more, the bad times grew, until they were so close together that an apology was followed on its heels by another tirade. By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late—I'd pushed so many friends and coworkers away because of him. I didn't want to burden my mom with my problems, since I knew she was undergoing chemotherapy. I stayed away not just because of Jack, but because I thought she'd be better off without me. I knew she had Herb to take care of her. I thought I was doing the world a favor by slipping away.

  I came to an office like this once, visiting Jack at his work. Watching him charm people, brag about my job, tell everyone that I was coming to the office party—a party I wound up being "sick" for because of the bruise he gave me—I felt like a proposal was coming soon. Instead I stabbed him to death, chopped his body up, and stuff him into checked baggage.

  Shaking off the memories, I open my file and skim through everything once again. A name pops up: LOBORAN BIOLOGICAL TECHNOLOGIES. Walking over to one of the cubicles, I pick up a piece of letterhead to compare—same company. The doors have brought me to Delia's place of work.

  Checking one of the clocks on the wall tells me that it's past eight thirty, which means Delia shouldn't be here. But there's the distinct sound of voices coming from around the corner, so someone is here. The doors wouldn't have pointed me in this direction for no reason; I brought the file through, after all.

  Frowning, I find a place beneath my hoodie to strap the short sword, swipe an ID badge off one of the desks, and walk in the direction of the voices. The sword pokes me the whole ti
me, so with a muttered curse of frustration, I finally take it off and stow it in one of the cubicles. I don't know what I was thinking—clearly I'm not ready for blades longer than six inches. There's a reason why I stabbed Jack to death with a kitchen knife instead of smiting him with a broadsword.

  As I draw closer to the voices, I pass through a heavy door that's been propped open by a doorstop that doesn't look like it should be there. The card reader to the left of the door has an angry red blaring light; belatedly, I realize that there's probably a security system in this building recording me even now. It's too late to turn around, though, and maybe I can use my new powers to find the room where the footage is kept and indiscriminately blast the servers with my force field.

  Now that I've got a plan—albeit a shitty one that proves why I need a graduate program if I'm going to do this—I move forward into the secondary part of this floor. This side, unlike the other, is full of laboratories, each of them behind a separate door, tall glass stretching from the floor to ceiling. I look inside them one by one, staring at fridges full of mysterious vials, lab rats kept in cages, microscopes and computers big enough to take up the whole room.

  It isn't hard to figure out which lab the voices are coming from. Now that I'm getting closer, I can make out the words, and a sense of foreboding goes through me at the sound of two raised voices.

  I've heard this argument before.

  Been one half of it, even.

  "Richard, you need to understand." The patience in her voice, the resignation and fear beneath it all, as she tries to make him turn back into the man she fell in love with instead of the one standing in front of her. "My job is everything to me. I would never do anything to jeopardize it, and that includes workplace fraternization."

  "That's what you call it?" There's genuine distress in his voice, but also anger and contempt. No doubt he justifies what he says and does to her because it comes from his insecurity, as if that changes any of it. "What a clinical term, Delia. 'Fraternization.' Just say it: you're fucking your boss. Or if you're not already, you're going to."

  A shockwave of sound as glass crashes to the floor. Siding up to the lab, angling myself against the wall, I look inside and watch her carefully step back from the shattered pieces on the floor. My hands clench so hard that my fingernails dig into my palms, and the pain I feel is an echo of the pain he used to cause me.

  "Like I said, I had to redo these samples because of a contamination issue. My boss isn't even here—he's gone on a work trip to New York."

  That doesn't help calm his rage. Snarling, he says, "So you know his schedule."

  I see the realization cross her face: she made it worse, not better. What she doesn't know is that she can never make it better, not really. That power is in his hands alone, no matter what he says after, when rage turns to guilt and sorrow. It's never an accident, and he always has control.

  Heart racing, my own anger building inside me, I slide carefully into the lab and behind a bookshelf, aware how easily I could be caught. I'm supposed to be here doing surveillance, not confronting an asshole. And Delia is the target, not the boyfriend who's clearly stormed into her workplace after hours to confront her.

  But my instincts don't care whose name is written down on the file I tucked inside my hoodie, or what the rules are inside distant Cain University. Right here, right now, it's just me and the scene going on in an empty building, where he thinks no one will witness the way she flinches when he raises his hand.

  No words pass between them. For a moment, everything is quiet. And I get the distinct sense that I'm being watched—not by Delia and her jerkface of a boyfriend Richard, but by another presence behind me. Whipping my head around, I stare into the hallway, looking for any sign of movement—but all I see is exactly what I want to see, an empty space with no sign of a single person standing there.

  Still, I can't help the feeling of unease inside me. Something is wrong, and it's not just me and my rogue mission giving me the heebie jeebies. Sliding my great-great-grandfather's knife out of my pocket, I gather a bit of my telekinesis in the other hand and prepare myself. If someone else is here, then this moment might be the only chance I get to save her from him.

  I know it's absurd. If I kill Delia's abuser, it won't save her; Headmaster Shu already has a file on her, and somehow I doubt that she'll pull her as a target just because I showed up and did everything wrong. She could still wind up dead by Sunday if the Shadow Fold decides that she's up to no good and should be taken out. But I can't just stand here and watch as he advances on her, lip curled in a sneer, and she backs up until there's nowhere left to go, a glass cabinet full of beakers and vials at her back.

  "My mom told me I should look for a homemaker, like her. She warned me that women like you do what they want—and who they want." He makes a choked noise, something like grief or sorrow, perverting his own pain to justify causing hers. "You'll never change, will you? All these late nights at work. The lies and excuses. I keep giving you another chance, but all you do is hurt me."

  In a voice small like a child's, Delia says, "I never want to cause you pain. I love you, Richard."

  "Then quit your job."

  Her silence, the thinning of her mouth, say for her what she won't say out loud. My heart squeezes in pride for her even as I know what's coming next. No doubt this job, her work, is the only time she gets to be away from the shadow he's slowly cast over her, gets to be herself and feel normal. The coworkers, her boss—they all remind her how people are supposed to treat each other. But he's ruined even that, coming into her sanctuary and destroying her solitude, his jealousy nipping at her heels when she should be celebrating the triumphs of her career.

  I remember when I was cast as the leading role in one of my university's little original plays, Go On Slowly. The instant Jack found out there was a kissing scene, he begged and pleaded and raged for me not to do it. At the time, I thought I was protecting him by dropping out; some part of me believed that things would get better if I was just considerate enough of his feelings. It never occurred to me to be considerate of mine: my ambition, my love of acting, the fact that I should've been able to do the play.

  I can't go back in time and change my choices. But I can do for Delia what I didn't do for myself: stop him before it becomes too late. Eyes landing on him as his fists clench in anger at the non-answer his girlfriend is giving him by refusing to quit, I know that it's now or never. The next thing he does will leave a permanent mark.

  As I slide out from behind the bookcase, unnoticed by either of them, I hear a footstep so loud it could only belong to a three thousand pound horse wearing squeaky tennis shoes.

  And I know why I've been feeling watched for so long.

  Glaring out into the hallway, I narrow my eyes at the four Fuckfaces I don't see. Some part of my emotions must want the hallway to be empty, so Mason is using his Affinity to give me what I want: nothingness. But I won't be fooled. I know they're there, Levi's loud footsteps included. They followed me, and if they get the chance, they'll stop what me from doing what I'm about to do.

  So I slip out into the hallway, feeling their presence there even if I can't see them, throw my hand up, and push at them with my force field.

  As they slide back, windmilling comically—except Grayson, who frustratingly manages to simply stumble and fall to his knees—I can hear Delia inside the laboratory. "Who's that? What's going on?"

  Glaring at the Fuckfaces, now that the illusion has fallen, I lunge back into the lab. Delia meets my eyes; I meet hers. Suddenly it's not the boyfriend she's afraid of, but me.

  That doesn't change what needs to happen next.

  With a snarl and baring of my teeth, I face off against him, hold my hand up, and throw my powers out.

  Nothing happens.

  Well, not nothing—a tiny breeze lifts up the corner of his hair.

  Stunned, I try again. And again. But what has come so naturally and easily the past few days is suddenly completel
y gone.

  My powers don't work anymore.

  The asshole says, "She has a knife—get behind me!" Stepping in front of his girlfriend, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out something I know he shouldn't have: a gun. He levels it right in my face like it's nothing at all. "Get the fuck out of here, now, or I’ll shoot."

  Something you should know about me: I'm not good at backing down.

  I lunge for him instead.

  As I do it, I can feel that it's a bad idea, but I can't seem to stop myself. I'm Ellen Arizona, after all; hotheadedness runs in the Arizona blood, just like a taste for cheap whiskey and, apparently, a desire to kill shitty people. I want nothing more than to grab good ol' Richard's neck and squeeze until he can't breathe.

  Or, failing that, stab him to death.

  I've always been good at that one.

  I manage to sidestep his gun and get close enough to throw him off-balance. Baring my teeth, I slash wildly at his arm, and he curses as blood wells up. The gun falls from his hand and goes spinning out of control, sliding across the white tile floor.

  Just like I didn't need powers to kill Jack, I don't need powers to kill this guy.

  "You think you're so big and important, don't you? That every whim, every desire you have matters more than anyone else's. You're going to ruin her." He backs up, something like confusion on his face, like he can't believe it's come to this. "She deserves a life without you in it. And I'm going to give it to her."

  I whip my hand back, prepared to throw the full force of my body into the knife and plunge it deep into his chest. I've learned from my last experience with murder; I know where all the sensitive places on a man's body are. I can take him down before he gets the chance to even blink.

  But while I was looking at him, I forgot about her.

  "Stop it!" She's holding his gun, hands trembling but face determined. "Get away from him, or I'll shoot."