by Arlene Webb
Irritation grunted from him, and he left the cascade. He hid his demon eyes, and stood with his arms crossed facing the door. His lower covering clung to his legs, his long hair dripped, and his face and chest glistened with beautiful droplets. The door opened. Dull sunlight flooded the room.
A big alien with short, dark hair and safe upper clothing held a smooth piece of wood in its hands. Its ugly mouth fell open. “What have we here? Some kinda red-skinned freak? A hippie? Indian sort? Breakin’ and enterin’—a felony. Ya broke the damn door.”
Its hostile tones hurt Damon’s head. He had to teach everyone invincible? “Close damn door, or Damon break arm.”
“I’d like to see ya try, Red.” The creature stalked into the room. It looked at the bed smashed into the wall, the broken teacher, and raised the wood up and down in its hand. “You even trashed the TV? Goddamn, this is gonna cost ya. Big time.”
“Cost ya? Teach. Close damn door first.”
It moved so slowly, and Damon let it. Wood smashed down on his shoulder, splintered and the top section fell to the floor. The pain didn’t infuriate Damon as much as the flood of confusion radiating from the fragile thing. Was every creature in this miserable world impossible to communicate with? He groaned and lunged.
He bypassed the flinching creature he thought was…not an it, but a he, a man, and kicked the damn door closed. Adjusting so he didn’t break bones, he wrenched the broken wood from the man and tossed it. The fire-food smashed a large hole before falling with chunks of wall onto the bed.
His demon hand around the man’s neck, Damon lifted him. The effort to be careful made him shake, and he threw the man to join the mess on the bed.
The man rubbed his throat and struggled to his feet. He cringed as if Damon would kill him. It really made him want to.
“What the hell are ya? What-what do ya want?”
“Damn door closed.” Once again, Damon didn’t understand. What did this maybe-a-man want? Was keeping the wrong light out that much to ask?
“Well, okay, I-I’ll close the door behind me.” The man stumbled forward. A worried cringe over his shoulder, and his gaze locked on the wet girl now at Damon’s side—the man’s fear went away!
What was his problem? Jaylynn had screamed when Damon showed his demon eyes, but this man liked wrong ones? His dull eyes trailed from the girl’s ugly hair, up and down her thin girl-body. The man-annoyance wanted something. Wanted it so bad, he shook. The girl didn’t understand either. Damon could feel her waves of frustration.
“Aren’t ya a pretty thing? Sweet Jesus, any price ya want. What’s your name, sweetie? Creamsicle?” The man’s eyes bulged, and his tones vibrated with a strange longing.
Damon’s head began to throb as the loud pounding of the man’s airflow increased. To his rising fury, it got worse. A leering smile crossed the man’s face. He glanced at Damon and forced more throaty words out.
“Some sorta drug, a weird steroid or somethin’?” The man couldn’t control his stare. His attention roved, mesmerized by the ugly light from the girl’s eyes. Even more annoying, he gawked at the girl, but talked to Damon. “Pretty kinky stuff, Red. What’d ya say we talk a deal? Give me a taste of Creamsicle, and I’ll forget the damage.”
“Creamsicle? Deal? Damon doesn’t understand.”
“Yes, ya do, ya frickin’ freak. Give me an hour alone with Cream and all’s forgiven. What’d ya say? She’s wild. Gorgeous. How’d her eyes get like that? Jesus. Ya have ta share.”
“Her name’s Cream?” Damon softened his voice to Demon tones. “Want Cream in hospital?” One more answer. The wrong one meant he’d end this.
“Caream or Cream—she’s creamy, orange delicious. What hospital?” He moved around Damon. “What’s with her eyes? Some sorta laser contacts? How’d ya dye her skin so smooth? Even a half hour. Name your price. Anything!”
The strange creature didn’t seem to want the girl back in the psych unit, but he needed something. Why didn’t he ask her? Damon hoped to learn, not be questioned about things that didn’t make sense.
He lunged and took the man’s throat. “Why want Caream? Price? Damon doesn’t understand.”
Too stupid to remember Damon could rip his head off, the man tried to escape. Finally, he gave up, stared at Caream, but croaked at Damon, “Don’t strangle me. I have ta spell it out? Ya some sorta moron? What da ya expect with her standin’ there naked. Let go. I won’t take no for an answer. Tell me what ya want.”
Tighten Damon’s fingers, and the ugly head would break off. Pretty drops like on Jaylynn’s lip might escape. This—Ya-man—was afraid. Didn’t want to die. Wanted Caream. Damon released the man. He’d give a long minute to say why, or Damon would do what Damon wanted. “Teach naked. Or Damon break arm. Damon doesn’t like Ya-man.”
“Teach naked? Ya psycho or what? If she had clothes, I wouldn’t have expected ya would share. I assumed…I mean—she doesn’t even have a frickin’ towel on.”
Ya-man backed away from Damon. He turned to Caream. “Why don’t ya talk? Forget Red. I’ll show ya a real good time. Whatever ya want.”
Damon growled. He seized the man. Before Ya-man could scream, Damon threw him into the table. Man and wood crashed into the wall. Finally, the pounding noise of the man’s airflow lowered. Damon looked at the girl and rubbed his hands clean on his lower—important—clothes.
“Want Caream name?” Damon asked.
The girl shrugged. She shook her head at the crumpled man, stepped to him, and poked him with her tiny foot. Ya-man didn’t move.
“Forget him.” Damon pushed Caream aside. “Damon wants teacher. Wants Jaylynn. This man no good.” He gathered Ya-man up from the shards of the broken table. A food source for fire. Was a man fire-food also? Ya-man smelled bad. He wouldn’t burn clean. Damon headed for the closet and paused as his brain worked. He pivoted and dumped Ya-man on top of the wall mess on the bed.
Not easy yanking the safe upper-clothes off, but they didn’t break. Damon danced his feet up and down, happy, and curled his lip at Caream’s tiny body. He pulled the shirt over his own head.
The stupid boot didn’t cooperate. It took forever and soon the man-foot would break.
Caream rolled her ugly eyes. She ignored Damon’s grunt and kicked at his foot for him to move. He threw the man’s leg down. He stepped back with his arms crossed. Within seconds, she had boots off, not a single scream over the death socks she didn’t touch, and opened the closet door for Damon. He dumped Ya-man, shoved his legs inside, and smashed the damn door closed.
He wiped his hands on the shirt he’d taken and sighed at the girl. “Need good help. Tired of mean-men afraid of Damon. Damon find Caream clothes.” He stalked to the bed. He grabbed a boot, cracking it, and his irritation exploded within him.
Caream skipped to annoy him. She forced the boots on. Too tight, they bothered his feet. Caream understood the thin laces. She understood the most difficult things. Where water was, how to tie boots, but she didn’t understand Damon. She leapt onto his lap. His head hit the broken wood mess, and she covered him like a blanket.
“Caream!” He snarled and flipped, pinning her beneath him. How many times did he show her invincible?
He stood. “Stay.” He pushed her chest hard. He knew she wouldn’t break. Striding backward, he barked, “Damon will be back. Damon won’t leave Caream. Ya-man opens damn door, hit head, put back.”
Her lower lip trembled. She looked as miserable as Damon felt. He opened the damn door enough to slip through and smashed it closed behind him.
Chapter Eleven
Armed with the black coffeemaker, Malcolm opened the door to the freshly painted room without glancing inside, and continued down the hallway. He’d taken a horrific risk with Evan, and now he faced an even greater one.
In the bathroom of the master bedroom, he didn’t hesitate. He plugged in the appliance and tossed it into the tub. Current flowed, causing the slender body to jerk. Teeth gritted, he pulled the cord fro
m the outlet. Not that it mattered. Permanently wiring the breaker closed had been successful. The one cycle of 60 hertz sine wave striking for sixteen milliseconds had zapped Jane Doe back online, hopefully somewhere close to 526 terahertz.
Her skin fluctuated between shades of white-green-yellow, but she stabilized jaundiced with a green tinge. Voltage had been too low. He must distract her from the mirror. She’d be appalled by her reflection. Impossible to achieve accurate frequency with an appliance. At least she hadn’t reached full power, therefore safer for him, although awful for her. He’d fix her as soon as he obtained a proper instrument. He forced his expression calm.
Jane’s eyes snapped opened. They flickered green-yellow, not the pure rays they should be, and flooded with confusion. Communication without violence. Not too much to ask, was it?
Oh my. Water splattered, striking his legs as she lunged from the tub. He flung his hands up, palms out. He needed to herd her from the bathroom, then bedroom, and into the hall. Most important, he had to reassure—
What? No. God. Damn. This. Can’t. Happen. Now he understood why one swore on a deity. The skip in the approaching truck engine rang familiar.
“Listen to my tones. I won’t harm you.” He scampered into the bedroom. “I can help you.”
She strode after him, scanning him and her environment with such rage, ignoring his gesture for the doorway. Disbelief and dread churned within him as the engine quieted. His confidence and potency crumbled, while the truck’s door opened and closed. What’s wrong with me? Who cared if the vehicle’s door hinges wanted lubrication?
Human survival odds plummeted below forty-two percent, well above his. How to stay the inevitable? He darted and bypassed her to block the entrance to the hallway.
The front door opened, and the sound of a young man’s deep inhale reached his ears. “Malcolm, I forgot the receipts, and I should have told you about work… Malcolm?”
She strode—the winner. He panicked—the loser.
I want to die. Lethal nails cut into his forearms as she seized him. Oh yes, yes, yes, he yearned for an end, but not like this. The probable aftermath would also be the demise of his hapless servant and worse, he’d let a homicidal monster loose upon this world.
Sharp pain shot all the way to his toes that were no longer grounded. Yet, based on her clutch as she raised him, he increased Evan’s survival odds to forty-eight percent. She used force nowhere near her full capacity. Thank improbable deities for coffeemakers.
She flung him, and he flew down the hallway. The relief of her hands no longer on him was offset by his shoulders slamming into the floor. Despite his despair, Malcolm remembered to hide his color. He bounded to his feet. “Evan, get out. Run!”
Stupid man turned his head toward a yellow demise, instead of the doorway to survival. Evan’s jaw dropped. He gawked at the naked woman with flickering eyes inching faster and faster down the hall toward him.
No. No. No. Survival odds imploded. Jane Doe didn’t turn for her sanctuary, though the small, deadly color moved at a speed Malcolm could match. He dodged her, blocked the man, and sealed his fate. “Leave, Evan, before you die. Please!”
The damned fool didn’t budge.
She clamped onto Malcolm’s arm and wrenched.
He stood his ground. The pain, the contamination, his body crushed further, how could he absorb such intensity of hurt? No choice. He had to protect until Evan understood to flee, and then the seventy-nine percent chance of Malcolm’s demise dictated he should give up. Death, a viable alternative. He’d attempt to injure her as much as possible first. Altruistic? No. He was the idiot responsible for her. The least he could do was aid police trying to stop further atrocities.
The snap of his broken arm echoed loud enough for human ears while his other arm rose and fell to slam, closed fisted, on her head. She didn’t collapse. No surprise, but he had to try.
Evan broke out of his paralysis—but his running steps went the wrong way. Oh my, such despair. Hurt pounded through Malcolm’s damaged arm. He raised it and stalled the break of his neck by clasping her wrist. Evan came from behind, and the muscular arms of a male close to prime encircled Jane’s neck and chest. Why didn’t Evan comprehend? This creature wasn’t a woman controllable by brute force.
Her slammed knee missed Malcolm’s groin, yet broke his hold. She twisted. One nasty blow to the ribs knocked Evan off his feet. He went down hard.
Malcolm straightened, held his pulverized stomach, and dropped his sunglasses to the floor. His sob blew through his clenched lips. Evan wasn’t yet dead. In a crumbled heap across the room, the man raised his gaze to Malcolm. Shock flooded his face as the injured human took in blue laser eyes, sapphire face and arms.
Please, oh please, let her allow my servant to flee.
At the sight of Malcolm’s light, Jane Doe gasped and stepped back. He held hands out in the universal gesture of no threat and forced confidence into his stride toward her. She slipped backward down the hallway, until she halted to dart a glance into the yellow room. He understood her glare locking back on him. There’d be no retreat, no surrender, only a regroup on her part.
Please. Behind him, Malcolm heard Evan scramble up. The lack of footsteps slapping the floor to escape out the front door echoed silently in his head.
She leapt, strode, and kicked Malcolm in the chest. He felt three ribs break. He hid his color, dimmed his eyes, and landed again at the end of the hall. Evan ran to hover over his pathetic protector.
Her physical superiority confirmed, Jane Doe’s cruel streak shone clear. She didn’t belong here, and for some insane reason she held Malcolm responsible.
Please. She let out an angry gasp, turned into her haven, and slammed the door closed behind her.
Thank you. He hurt. Everywhere.
Evan’s labored breathing left Malcolm in no doubt she’d fractured his rib cage. Despite witnessing luminous sapphire eyes and the brutality of the psychopath with unnatural flickering eyes, this fool cared that Malcolm was injured. His fingers trembled on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Take your wretched hand from me, and my misery can return to being tolerable. A thin stream of water-light, which had to be blue, trickled from his clenched lips. The panicked human must think Malcolm was dying. Maybe I am. The fact he now hid his color, would lead Evan to believe he’d hallucinated.
Tears spilled and Evan pulled his mobile out. “I’ll get help. The police.”
“No. Just give me a minute.” Time. 526 terahertz. Servant. How many more enemies did Malcolm have?
“But that woman’s dangerous. And God, no clothes? Yellow? You’re hurt bad. I have to get help.”
Malcolm forced himself to his feet. He must gain some space from the frightened man, but that label was an inaccuracy. A show of him rationalizing his guilt. Evan was more of a boy than a man. A youth he should comfort and help.
He crossed the room to collapse into the computer chair. Contaminated through to his bones, his skin crawled. He drew in a shuddering breath and faced Evan. “No calls. She won’t leave the room. I’m sorry. Could you please—oh my, you’re quite injured. How could I have allowed this?” He’d almost killed this innocent, and what concerned him most was her polluted touch?
Her rage was unfathomable. Malcolm slumped, his forehead smacked the keyboard, and his sob spilled out. There’d been no desire to communicate. She only wanted to destroy him. Soon she’d try again, sure to succeed. He must fix this, somehow. Nervous footsteps approached, and he yearned for the easy path, a young neck snapped, quick and painless. Malcolm shuddered.
Evan’s feet froze as his mouth opened. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on, I need to call the police, my mom, someone. I must be drugged, I mean—your eyes. Laser lights like in a movie. And hers, too. No one has eyes mutated or whatever to yellow.”
If Malcolm caused the death of this naive human, it’d be from his stupidity, not his angry hand. A bonded servant, how could he be so selfish?
He lifted his head, shifting his gaze aside as guilt threatened to choke him. “Evan. Trust that I won’t harm you. This day has been too dreadful for words, and I no longer care if I exist. I don’t have all the answers, and may never get the time needed to find them. I…please, a glass of water. Get me water?”
“I’m sure your arm’s broken. You have a crazy woman who’s strong enough to throw you—Jesus, must have been over fifteen feet—and you’re thirsty?”
Malcolm faced the screen and refused eye contact. The injured steps to the kitchen sounded so apprehensive, he ached with self-hatred.
Hands trembling, Evan set the glass down.
“Thank you.” Malcolm drank. He didn’t bother to wipe the drops that spilled and forced himself to raise his dulled eyes. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not human. I’m trapped in this body. I’m not sure what I am, but I won’t hurt you. And you must stop touching me.” What would it take to get rid of someone confronted with the inexplicable evil of color? He surged. Evan drew back, fear all over his stunned face. Malcolm sighed, returning to the shade he knew Evan could accept. “I’m not a threat, but be safe from her. Go home. Bye.”
“W-what are you? Where’d you come from? How do you know you can’t hurt me?”
“I repeat—I don’t know what I am or where I’m from. I can’t hurt you because I won’t. Leave. Know: if you tell anyone, they’ll come here. I resist harming a sentient being, but I’ll not allow authorities to take me anywhere.” Malcolm controlled his shudder and manipulated the keyboard. “Actually, do as you wish with regard to police. I’ve lost any will to survive. Close that door behind you. The light agitates me.”
Evan glanced at the late afternoon sun spilling into the front doorway. He drew a shallow, injured breath and closed the door. His long legs stepped steadily back to Malcolm’s side.
“What?” Malcolm groaned. His eyebrows raised, and his obvious irritation further frightened Evan. It seemed the self-absorbed callousness of color left little patience for bewildered young men. Malcolm had a day and a half to accept the infiltration of the human race. Evan had 6.2 minutes so far. Malcolm could let the panic spill, comfort, and then get rid of the liability that he and he alone had created.